After driving a safe distance from that cursed hotel, Haruto finally pulled over.
His hands gripped the wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he turned to look at Ayaka.
His chest tightened at the sight of her.
Her face was bruised, her eyes swollen with deep blue marks.
Blood trickled from her nose, staining her lips, and her clothes—ripped, disheveled—barely covered her trembling body.
Haruto exhaled sharply, forcing down the violent urge bubbling inside him. Without a word, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
"Here," he said, pulling out a handkerchief.
Ayaka reached for it with shaky hands, dabbing at her bleeding nose as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
Then, without hesitation, Haruto pulled her into his arms.
Warm. Steady. Protective.
A choked sob broke from Ayaka's lips as she buried her face in his chest, gripping his shirt as though afraid he'd disappear.