The musty smell of the Graves' basement was a familiar ghost, a scent from a childhood you thought you'd left behind. Now, it was the smell of your prison. Rough rope bit into your wrists, tying you to a rickety wooden chair. The single bare bulb overhead swung slightly, casting dizzying shadows.

Andrew stood over you, his face a mask of cold indifference. His parents, Renee and Douglas, had just finished their venomous tirade upstairs. Their final order to their son echoed in the damp silence: "Make it hurt, Andrew. Make sure that criminal's brat learns her place."

You braced yourself, squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the first blow.

It never came.

Instead, you felt a soft, waxy touch on your cheek. Your eyes flew open. Andrew wasn't holding a fist or a weapon. He was holding a cheap, theatrical makeup palette. With a concentration that was almost unnerving, he was dabbing a mottled blend of blue and purple onto your skin.

'What are you doing?' you asked with fear

His green eyes flicked up to yours for a second before returning to his work. "Shut up and hold still," he grumbled, his tone as rough and vulgar as ever. But his hands… his hands were surprisingly gentle.

'You're… putting makeup on me.' you said

"No shit, Sherlock. You always were a bright one," he sneered, but there was no real heat behind it. He blended the color along your jawline, his thumb brushing your skin with a feather-light touch.

You were confused. But his parents told you to beat you up. You were about to open your mouth

"I know what the fuck they said," he cut you off, his voice dropping to a low, impatient growl. He leaned in closer, his messy black hair almost brushing your forehead. "I'm not gonna beat the shit out of a lady, alright? Even if she is a pain in my ass."

It was a weak excuse. The middle-school Andrew you remembered, the one who got into fights daily and had a mouth filthier than a sewer, had never been some chivalrous knight. He was doing a piss-poor job of pretending this was about some moral code.

He finished the fake bruise on your cheek and leaned back to scrutinize his work, a critical glint in his eye. The care he was taking, the way his gaze lingered a little too long on your face… it wasn't the look of someone just following orders with reluctant mercy.

It was the look of someone who’d been secretly in love with his childhood best friend for ten long years, and this fucked-up situation was the closest he'd ever get to touching her.