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“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and the tears come again, choking me.

“Who is this?”

“I didn’t know who else to call. You said… if I needed anything…”

The line falls silent for a moment after my sobs.

“Sophia?” Connor’s voice is laced with confusion, the surprise unmistakable.

I open my mouth and words tumble out, broken and desperate. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, I know I shouldn’t⁠—”

“Sophia.” Whatever sleep had been weighing down his voice is now gone, replaced with a familiar steadiness, threaded through with worry. “It’s three in the morning. Are you okay?”

His question undoes me. I try to answer, but all that comes out is a raw and ugly cry. Gasping between sobs, I finally manage, “No.”

“Where are you?” I hear the bed frame creak and the rustle of sheets being thrown back on the other end of the line. His breathing has changed, wafting through the phone quicker and heavier. His voice deepens with concern. “I’ll come get you, Soph. Just tell me where you are.”

“I’m in a cab,” I share, looking out the window at the passing buildings, trying to find a landmark I recognize in the dark. “I-I don’t know where. I don’t know where I am.”

The driver loudly clears his throat. “Michigan and Goethe,” he says, his voice carrying into the phone.

“You’re just a few blocks from me,” Connor says, the echo of him traversing stairs coming through the phone. “Come to my place. 1494 North Astor. Tell the driver. I’m coming down to wait for you.”

I repeat the address to the driver, and he nods, turning down the next street. When the cab pulls toward the curb, I see Connor walking on the steps of the graystone, barefoot in nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, his hair mussed from sleep and chest exposed to the chill of the November air.

He crosses the sidewalk and, before the cab even stops fully, pulls open the door for me. “Oh, Sophia.” Reaching in, his hands gentle but firm, he helps me out of the cab before paying the driver and grabbing both of my bags off the seat. With the weekender in his hand and my purse slung over his shoulder, he guides me up the steps. “Let’s get you inside,” he says softly.

The moment we’re through the door and into the warmth of his home, he drops my bags by the door with a heavy thud before turning to help me out of my coat. It slides from my shoulders, and he tosses it across the back of a chair, leaving me in the silk nightgown.

Connor’s eyes drop, his concern growing as he takes in the teeth marks on my breasts, visible above the lace trim of the nightgown, and fingerprint-shaped bruises on my thighs. Anger washes over his face as his hands curl slowly into fists.

“Fuck, Soph,” Connor breathes, his voice rough as he looks back up at my face, his eyes searching mine. “Did he hurt you? Did he⁠—”

I shake my head, mute, unable to explain that while every mark he sees was left by Vance, not one of them was left in anger, nor with the intention of hurting me. Every mark came from something entirely different. They were consensual, born from passion rather than violence. But the words won’t come, and I watch him misread my silence, his mind filling in the blanks.

“I’m calling the police,” he says, reaching for his phone, his voice shaking with anger. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

“Connor”—I finally choke out, catching his wrist—“No. You don’t understand.”

He pauses, lowering the phone, and stares at me as though he’s waiting for me to lie, to cover for Vance the way victims so often do.

“Then tell me,” he insists. “Tell me he didn’t do this.”

“He did,” I mutter, and Connor’s expression darkens immediately. “But…” I swallow hard, my cheeks beginning to burn as I try to stammer through an explanation. “These aren’t… Vance… He would never…” The words feel impossible to say, especially to an old lover who was always so tender in that regard. “These aren’t from him hurting me,” I finally manage. “They’re from…”

“From what?”

Unable to look at him, my gaze drops to the floor as crimson washes over my entire face.

His lips part slightly before his eyes widen a fraction. “Oh.” His eyes fall from my face to the bites on my chest, and then very deliberately somewhere over my shoulder, as though he, too, can’t look me in the eyes right now. “Right.”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to hide the marks that tell the story of my sex life. “I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mista⁠—”

“Hey,” Connor interrupts, stepping closer, his hands gently gripping my shoulders. “Hey. Look at me.”

I force myself to meet his eyes.

“Stay.” His voice softens, losing the anger that had filled it only moments ago. “I won’t ask any questions. You don’t have to tell me anything, Soph. Just stay.”