Liam woke at 3:47 AM to his father's voice screaming in his head.
Weak. You're weak, just like your mother. Emotions make you vulnerable. Love makes you a target.
The nightmare clung to him like oil—thick, suffocating, impossible to wash away. His father, standing over him at fifteen, after Liam had cried at his grandfather's funeral. The backhand across his face. The cold lesson that followed.
Black men don't cry. Black men don't feel. Black men don't break.
Liam sat up in Isabella's bed, his heart racing, his skin covered in cold sweat. She was curled beside him, deep in sleep, peaceful and soft in the dim light filtering through the curtains. Completely unaware of the demons clawing at his chest.
He should leave. Should retreat to his own room, his own space, where he could rebuild his walls in solitude. That's what he always did when the nightmares came.
But tonight, he couldn't move.
Tonight, he needed this—needed her—more than he needed the safety of his armor.
