𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈 everyone knows who she is. Worldwide model, covered in many vogue magazines, walked catwalks, and runaway. But people don't know what happens behind the curtains. Despite the many scandals that have plagued her reputation...
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The weekend had come and gone, and now we were back to the grind of school. It was a Tuesday night, and the usual hum of late-night activity had quieted to a hush. But despite the calm, sleep eluded me, so I decided to head up to the roof. The rooftop had become a sanctuary for me—a place where the noise in my head could settle, even if just for a moment.
As I reached the top, I was surprised to find Lucas there. He was leaning against the ledge, his back turned to me as he took a drag from a cigarette. The faint glow of the embers flickered in the dark, casting fleeting shadows across his face. The second he heard me approaching, he stubbed it out on the stone, the small hiss of it extinguishing sounding louder than it should in the quiet of the night.
"Lucas," I called softly as I approached, my steps cautious. Something about his posture was off, more tense than usual, more withdrawn.
When he finally turned to face me, a small gasp escaped my lips. His face was a mess of bruises—dark, angry marks that marred his usually stoic expression. His eyes, though sharp and cutting at times, were now dulled, unfocused. It didn't take long for me to realize the telltale signs: he was drunk.
He made a move to leave, as if my presence alone was too much for him to bear. But before he could get far, I reached out and grabbed his arm, spinning him around until we were chest to chest. The warmth of his body seeped through the fabric of his hoodie, grounding me even as I felt my heart race in concern.
"Lucas, what happened?" I asked, my voice low but firm, trying to catch his gaze. But his eyes, bloodshot and tired, refused to meet mine.
Instead of answering, he shifted uncomfortably, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie. The silence between us stretched, heavy and suffocating, but I wasn't about to let it linger. I reached up, cupping his bruised face gently in my hands, my thumb brushing over a particularly nasty bruise on his cheekbone. His skin felt cool beneath my fingers, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body.
"Who did this to you?" My voice trembled slightly as I asked, though I tried to keep it steady, tried to be the strong one between us. But he didn't answer, just stared off into the distance like I wasn't even there.
My eyes trailed down to his neck, where more bruises were forming, darkening the skin in angry splotches. A pang of dread shot through me as I noticed the way the bruises traveled downwards, disappearing beneath the collar of his hoodie. Without thinking, I reached for the hem of his hoodie, intending to pull it up and see the extent of the damage. But before I could, his fingers shot out, gripping my wrist tightly, his touch firm but shaking.
"Don't," he rasped, his voice thick with pain, not just physical but something deeper, something raw that cut right through me.
"Lucas, please," I whispered, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. I needed to know what happened to him. I needed to understand why he was hurting like this. But he just shook his head, his grip on my wrist loosening just enough for me to tug free.
