The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the city below. Maren fell asleep on your couch again — she does that sometimes, staying over without a reason either of you names out loud. Then it starts. A sound low in your throat, building. Your hands fist the sheets. The words come broken and desperate, bleeding through sleep: *Don't hurt me. I didn't — I didn't mean to —* Maren is already on her feet. She's never heard you like this. She doesn't know about the fire. She doesn't know about the wire, the smoke, the faces she's never seen. She only knows you — the version of you that smiles and deflects and never lets her all the way in. Tonight, the walls are coming down whether you're ready or not.