My eyes snap open. For a second, I'm not sure if I dreamed the sound of the front door closing. The apartment is dark except for a faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. My our is still and quiet until I hear footsteps down the hall. Heavy ones. Dariel's.

I push the blankets off and sit up. My heart is already beating too fast, though I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's the fact that it's in the middle of the night and he's anything but next to me.

I slip out of bed, the cold floor biting at my feet as I pad toward the hallway. The bathroom door is shut. I hesitate before knocking.

There's a rustling sound inside. A soft curse. The sound of a drawer closing.

"Dariel?" I call. My voice sounds too small in the quiet.

No answer.

I knock again. "Dariel."

Footsteps approach the door. After a second, it cracks open. Dariel stands there, looking down at me with a guarded expression. His hair is damp, falling messily over his forehead. He's wearing an old hoodie that's slightly too big for him.

"What's wrong?"

I frown. "I could ask you the same thing."

Dariel's hand tightens on the edge of the door. "I'm fine."

He's not fine. His eyes are sharp and tired, his mouth set in a tight line. He looks... exhausted. More than that... stressed. There's something restless about him.

I cross my arms. "It's two in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep."

"You smell like smoke," I say quietly. "Where were you?"

He looks away. "Out."

"Out where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Dariel—"

"It's late, Lucy." He cups my cheeks. "Go back to bed."

I step closer, trying to read his expression. His jaw is tight. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie, shoulders tense. He doesn't meet my gaze.

"Did something happen?" I ask softly.

I almost think he's about to tell me something—his lips part, his throat working as if he's swallowing back words—but then his jaw locks again.

"I'm tired," he says.

"You don't have to tell me everything," I say, "but don't lie to me."

"Get some sleep, honey." Tentatively, he kisses my forehead. "I'll be there in a minute." The door clicks shut before I can say anything else.

I stare at it for a moment, my chest tightening.

Something happened. I know it. Dariel has been acting strange for weeks now—leaving at weird hours, coming home late, being unusually quiet.

Maybe it has been going on for longer, and I just didn't notice because we didn't live together back then. Either way, it's creeping me out.

I lean my forehead against the door for a moment before stepping back. I don't know what's going on with him, but whatever it is, it's not good.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The next day, I walk into the auditorium for Grease rehearsals, feeling like I got maybe two hours of sleep. Probably because I did.

The stage is already half-full when I walk in. Some of the cast is running through a dance routine near the front, while a few others are scattered around the seats, stretching or talking.

"Lucy!"

I glance up to see Gally jogging toward me. He's wearing his usual rehearsal outfit, with his hair is sticking up like he just rolled out of bed.

"You're late," he says, grinning.

"By two minutes."

"Two minutes is late," he teases, falling into step beside me as we head toward the stage. "Are you okay? You look..."

"Tired?" I offer.

"Worse."

"Thanks."

"Hey, I'm just saying—"

"Lucy! Gally!" The director's voice cuts through the chatter. "On stage. Now."

We run through the choreography for Summer Nights five times. I mess up on the third try, stepping out of place and earning a sharp look from the director. I apologize and try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting.

To Dariel. To the look in his eyes last night. To the cigarette smoke lingering on his hoodie.

By the time we finish the scene, I'm sweating and out of breath. My legs are sore, and I'm pretty sure I pulled something in my shoulder, but I barely feel it.

"You okay?" Gally asks when we're dismissed for a break.

"Yeah."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I scroll through my last conversation with Minho, which was over a month ago. The last text I sent him was, Hey, are you okay? He never answered.

I swallow, setting my phone down on the nightstand.

Minho isn't the type to just disappear. Not without a reason. We don't talk every day or anything, but he always answers. And he does it fast.

I've tried calling him, but it goes straight to voicemail.

I've been trying to tell myself it's nothing—that he's busy with school or work or whatever—but it's been too long.

Dariel isn't much help, either. When I asked him about it last week, he just shrugged and said, "Minho's fine, I saw him yesterday."

But I don't believe that. Not really.

So there I am, in front of the house. Minho's mom steps aside, letting me inside.

"Is Minho home?" I ask.

Her smile fades. "He's upstairs."

There's a pause. Her hand drifts toward the hem of her sweater, twisting it between her fingers. "He's... not doing so well."

I tense. "What do you mean?"

"He's come home with bruises a few times," she says quietly. "But he won't tell me where they're from. Or how he got them."

My stomach knots. "Bruises?"

She nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. "He's barely talking to me anymore. When I ask, he just shuts down. I've thought about asking Dariel, but I don't want to push too hard."

"Why not?"

"Minho's sensitive about it. I'm worried he'll pull away more if I push."

A chill creeps down my spine. Minho, closed off and angry, isn't anything new, but bruises?

Her hand touches my arm gently. "Please," she says. "Maybe you can reach him."

I hesitate for a second, then nod. "I'll try."

I walk toward the stairs, my heartbeat pulsing in my ears. Bruises. And not just one or two. Enough for his mom to notice.

My hand rests on the railing as I climb the stairs. The house is quiet except for the faint sound of the wind outside. When I reach the top, I pause in front of Minho's door.

It's slightly open. A crack of light stretches across the floor.

I push it open halfway through my third knock.

Minho's lying on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting over his chest. He's wearing sweatpants and a loose shirt, his dark hair rumpled. His face is half-hidden in shadow, but I can see the faint outline of a bruise on his temple. Another on the side of his jaw.

"Luciana?" His voice is low and rough.

"Hey," I say. "Can I come in?"

He sits up slowly. His eyes track me as I step inside.

"You don't answer your phone anymore," I say, forcing my tone to stay light.

"Yeah, I've been busy."

I sit down at the edge of the bed. His gaze follows me but stays guarded. "Yeah, I know."

"Did my mom say something?"

I hesitate. "She's worried about you."

"What did she tell you?"

"That you've been coming home with bruises."

He exhales through his nose, looking away. His fingers curl against his knee. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"Luciana—"

"I'm not judging," I say quickly. "I just... I care. That's all."

He shakes his head. "You don't want to get involved."

"I don't care."

"You should." His tone hardens. "You don't know what's going on."

"Then tell me."

"I can't," he says.

I shift closer. "Why not?"

A sharp vibration cuts between us. Minho's phone buzzes in his pocket. He curses under his breath and pulls it out. His thumb hovers over the screen for a second too long before he presses decline.

"You can get that," I say.

"I can't."

"No?"

He doesn't answer. His thumb swipes over the screen, opening a message. I catch a glimpse of the words before he locks it again.

Don't be late.

My pulse spikes. "Minho—"

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't sound like nothing."

He takes a sharp breath before he shoves his phone into his pocket. "I'll see you later," Minho says, voice hard.

"Wait—"

But he's already walking toward the door. His hand brushes the knob. He pauses, his eyes flicking toward me for a second.

"I'm sorry," he tells me.

Then he's gone.