By the time I catch up, she's leaning against the car, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she's holding something broken together. The streetlamp casts harsh shadows across her face, making her look fragile. She won't look at me, but her trembling makes my heart ache like someone's carved out something vital.

"Nora," I say again, softer now, trying to steady my breath. Adrenaline still courses through me making my bloodied hands shake, but I force myself to move slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded bird.

When I reach for her wrist, she flinches away sharply like my touch burns. It stops me cold, her reaction cutting deeper than any punch tonight, deeper than glass or bone could reach.

"Don't—" she starts, voice trembling like leaves in a storm. She finally turns, and the light illuminates her tear-streaked face like rain on glass. The sight guts me worse than any hit I've taken. Her eyes look to my face, expression twisting with something complex and painful.

Fear? Guilt? Pain? All of them tangled together like thorny vines.

"You're hurt," she whispers, the words falling between us like broken pieces of something we can't put back together.

"It's nothing," I say quickly, even as my jaw throbs like a second heartbeat and my knuckles sting. Blood dries on my skin like war paint, but none of that matters.

"Are you okay?" The question feels inadequate for what I see raging behind her eyes.

She shakes her head, tears falling faster now like stars breaking free.

"I can't do this, Nate," she says, voice breaking like glass under pressure. "I can't⁠⁠—"

Her words dissolve into a choked sob that sounds torn from somewhere deep and wounded. I step closer, hands hovering in the space between us.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, "I didn't want you to see that, but he—" I stop, running a hand through my hair, frustration and guilt clashing inside me. "I couldn't watch him touch you like that."

Her eyes glisten in the dim light, full of emotions I can't unravel, like looking into a kaleidoscope of pain.

"Why do you always have to fix everything?" she asks, tone raw and accusing, but there's no anger—just bone-deep exhaustion.

I step closer, careful as if approaching the edge of a cliff.

"Because even though you don't need anyone saving you, where I can, I'll always try," I say simply, words rough but honest as an open wound.

Her breath hitches and I watch her defenses crumble like a castle made of sand. Her face collapses as she lets out a shaky breath that sounds like surrender, arms still hugging herself.

"Hey," I whisper, reaching for her again. This time, she doesn't pull away when my hands cradle her face, touch gentle despite split knuckles. My thumbs brush away her tears as I lean down to catch her eyes, trying to keep her in this moment with me.

"Don't cry. Please. I'm here."