He let himself out of her room at night, ran the shower until the hot water was long gone and he could have drawn hearts in the steam. If he had been softer. If his hands had been steadier. But you knew better. You saw the bruises when he slipped.

On his way to the door he looked over his shoulder, caught you watching from the couch with stained cushions. And since he'd seen you anyway, it slipped from clenched teeth, "Why you?" and it was the first time you'd seen him frown. Like you mattered, like you were more than fragile, forced pride.

"She needs someone," he said.

You dug your fingers into your thigh. "You'll never fly with her."

He juggled his keys. Shook his head. "Maybe not," he said. "But I'll never hold her down."

Her door sighed open. "Baby?" she said.

Your heads turned.

(After you slept with him, you felt redeemed.)