“Claire!” I shouted, but the rain swallowed her name before it could fully reach her. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look up. That terrified me more than anything else—the stillness of her, the way she remained folded into herself as if the world around her had ceased to exist. By the time I reached her, I was soaked through, my coat clinging to my skin, my hands already reaching for her shoulders.

“Claire, what happened?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, edged with panic. When I touched her, she flinched—not violently, not dramatically, just enough to feel like a crack in something that used to be unbreakable between us. Slowly, as if it took effort just to move, she lifted her face toward me.

Her eyes were red, not just from the rain. Her lips trembled, and for a moment she looked like she might speak—but no words came. Instead, she shook her head once, a small, defeated motion that said more than anything she could have said out loud. My stomach dropped.

“Did he hurt you?” I asked, the question escaping before I could stop it. It hung there between us, heavy and dangerous. Claire’s gaze flickered away, not answering, and in that silence, something inside me shifted from fear into something colder. Anger. Protective. Focused.