Sunlight crept through the half-drawn curtains, casting long pale rectangles across the hardwood floor. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Then footsteps. Heavy. Uneven. Belonging to someone who wasn't supposed to be here.

Y/N stumbled down the stairs, still tangled in sleep, hair messy, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand.

She expected her mom. Maybe her dad, home early from a shift.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Vincent Sanford stood in her living room.

His chest rose and fell too fast. His hands were trembling at his sides. His eyes—those sharp, mocking eyes that always found her across the cafeteria—were rimmed red, glossy, wrecked.

He didn't smirk. Didn't say something sarcastic. Didn't even seem to recognize where he was.

And then his arms were around her.

His forehead pressed into her shoulder. His fingers gripped the fabric of her shirt like she was the only thing keeping him upright. A sob tore out of him—raw, broken, ugly.

Vincent Sanford, who never let anyone see him sweat, who had a comeback for everything, who made her blood boil on a good day—shook apart in her arms.