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Jett’s brow furrows. My silent plea is voiceless, yet screaming between us.

“Ya, of course, I’ll be right here,” I hear him say, but I’m already striding past him.

I catch myself staggering in my search for the restroom, probably looking like god knows what to the people enjoying their lunch.

Unsure how I make it, I lock the door to the single-stall ladies’ room, sliding down the inside of the door the moment it closes. My chest heaves frantically, my grip clutching the cotton material of my shirt.

It’s him. He’s here.

I tried everything I could to study a part of him, just in case, on the night of my abuse. A distinctive trait that would be easily identifiable, if only I had been brave enough to tell my story. As hard as I tried, the only thing I remember is the grim look in his eyes.

“Eyes on me,” his deep, demon-like voice echoes in my subconscious, while jumbling with angelic memories of the same words that healed me.

“Sofia baby, I need your eyes on me.”

Why is this happening?

Quivering through a deep breath, I peel myself from the floor, wiping the tears that won’t stop streaming. Pinning my hands to the edges of the sink, I hardly recognize the girl looking back at me.

She’s broken, battered, strong in places, yet stripped of a life she never thought anyone would take. I stare at myself as I feel my body regress right in front of me, back to the girl I thought for certain I had gotten rid of.

God, I miss who I was before that night.

A long moment passes when a light knock sounds through the singular stall. I quickly grab some towel from the dispenser, run it under water, and wipe the shock off my face as best I can.

“One moment,” I call out shakily to the other side.

“Baby, it’s me.”

My racing pulse settles. I hurry to reach for the handle of the door, and when it opens, I fall into Jett’s arms. Grabbing my face between his hands, his face scrunches within inches of mine.

“What just happened?” His voice is low, and so comforting. I shake my head, unable to form the sentence. We’re here for him; I can’t ruin this.

“You can tell me, Sofia baby. It’s just me.”

Feeling more tears pooling in my eyes, I tut sharply and full of resistance, until I feel his thumb run across my cheek, the soft pad wiping away my pain.

The same way he did the other night on the balcony. And in the shower. And the very first night we met.

“That’s him,” I finally whisper.

Watching his eyes widen as he decides how to respond, my head shakes along with his, the influx of tears and adrenaline not stopping any time soon.

“What do you mean? Sofia baby, please don’t tell me you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about?” he begs, pain making his voice rocky.

I bow my head, still being held up by his long fingers. My neck feels like putty in his hold. I can’t form an answer; it hurts too bad, but my sunken shoulders and fallen spirit are a dead giveaway.

“The older man or younger?”

I hadn’t gotten a good look at the table once I recognized who was sitting there. A small glance at both men was still enough to decipher their age difference, even under such distress.

His fear reaches new heights as he tries to gauge whether his father is the one behind my trauma.

When I confirm the latter, I watch as his body releases just slightly.

“That’s his client,” he mutters in disbelief to himself, confirming the unimaginable.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can⁠—”