"It's okay, T," I murmur, my voice low as I rub steady circles across her trembling back.
Her whole body's shaking in my arms, shoulders jerking with sobs she can't hold in. I tighten my hold, pulling her closer, trying to shield her from everything outside this moment.
"I've got you. We'll go to campus safety, file the report, push for a restraining order."
She only shakes harder, clutching the front of my hoodie like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
An hour ago, she showed up at the rink—disheveled, pale, her whole body rattling with fear. One look at her and I already knew. My chest had dropped straight to the floor.
I didn't even have to explain to Coach Hopper why I needed to leave practice. He and the guys saw the way she staggered in. No one asked questions when I led her straight into the locker room, away from the stares.
That's when she told me.
Taylor had been in the darkroom, developing film from her trip to the Everglades. Photography's her thing—wildlife, mountains, rivers, even a patch of sunlight on the grass. Stuff most people scroll past without a thought, she'll hike three miles just to catch it on film.
Everyone else her age is all about digital, but not Taylor.
She loves the old-school process—the hum of the enlarger, the smell of the chemicals, the patience it takes. Says there's something sacred about watching an image slowly appear on paper, like magic you made with your own hands.
I don't really get it the way she does—never will, probably. But then again, I don't have that kind of passion for photography. Not like she does.
Most days, she practically lives in the darkroom tucked away in the Fine Arts department building. It's like her second home. She's in there developing roll after roll—dozens of shots, sometimes hundreds—chasing that one perfect frame like it's oxygen.
But anyway, Taylor said that when she walked out of the darkroom, he was there. Her ex-boyfriend, Kirk. Waiting for her.
Her voice cracked when she said his name, and I swear my blood ran ice cold.
He didn't just corner her. He lunged at her.
Grabbed her by the arm, tried dragging her toward an empty classroom. She fought, but he's twice her size. He wrapped anarm around her throat so tight she couldn't breathe, slapped a hand over her mouth when she tried to scream.
He threatened her and thought she was done for.
The only reason she got away was because a group of students passed down the hall, their voices carrying close enough to spook him.
In that split second, she slammed her elbow into his ribs, and she bolted when his grip loosened—ran faster than she ever had in her life. Straight to me.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts just remembering her voice breaking as she told me.
And when I caught sight of the red marks around her neck—his fingerprints burned into her skin—something inside me snapped. My fists are itching, blood pounding in my ears.
If I'd had him in front of me then, I swear I would've put him through a wall.
But right now, she doesn't need my rage. She needs me calm and steady.
Her body jerks against mine, and she leans back just enough for me to see her face. Tears streak down her cheeks, her eyes red and swollen, shame carved deep into every line of her expression.
"Zach..." Her voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "You know what happened last time. They didn't believe me. They never do. What if they throw it out again? What if they laugh in my face?" She bites down on her lip hard, shaking her head as fresh tears spill.
"Nobody believes a girl like me. To them, I'm just... a slut crying wolf."
The words hang there, thick with pain and humiliation.
Her voice is shaking, but it's her eyes that pains me. The look of someone who's been screaming for help and keeps gettingbrushed off, written off, and judged just because she has a reputation.
Taylor's got a reputation — everyone knows it. She sleeps around, she doesn't hide it, and for some reason that's treated like a damn scarlet letter.
God forbid a woman actually enjoys sex, enjoys meeting her own needs, has a higher libido than most — suddenly that's the worst thing in the world.
