“I wasn’t even looking at him!”

“Yeah, well, he was looking at you.”

“That’s not my fault,” Dawn says, yanking the brush through her hair in jerky motions.

“Maybe if you didn’t dress like that,” Connor argues, and God, not this again.

“It’s late, and I’m tired,” she says. “Can we not do this now?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever *you* want, Dawn.” He shakes his head, and she sets the brush down carefully on the dresser. “I’m going out,” he says brusquely, already halfway through the door.

“Are you coming back?” she asks, half-serious.

He pauses. Says, quietly, “I don’t know.”

She curls up alone in their bed, tears choking her, and tries to sleep.