It had been going on for months now, far too many for you to even think about. You should have done something more, something to stop it.

But you couldn't. No matter how hard you tried.

She wouldn't let you. She would die before she let anything happen to you.

All you could do was be there for her at 3am. Clean her wounds and hold her as she cried. Watch over her protectively as she slept. Make her feel safe and loved, even if only for a few hours.

You loved her and she loved you. It should have been pretty simple, right? Wrong.

Most of the time you spent with her you were either cleaning her wounds or holding her. Her blood staining your own clothes more often than not.

You watched the woman you love become a beaten and broken shell of herself. Each time she would turn up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, a black eye or a bloody nose, you would patch her up again. But it was like putting a band aid on a bullet wound.

With each slap and punch, a part of her died. A part of yourself too.

How could you let the woman you love go through that every day?

She would tell you it wasn't your fault and there was nothing you could do, but you didn't believe her. Of course there was something you could have done. There always is.

But its all over now.

You step aside to let her in. The thunderstorm outside seems pretty fitting.

Her eye is swollen and there is an angry black and purple bruise forming. Her lip is busted and there is blood all down her chin.

You swallow hard as you take in the rest of her appearance. There is a giant red blood stain on her white tank top, but there is too much of it to be from her lip.

You spot the red trickling from behind her ear, sticky and warm and matting to her mess of blonde locks.

Her whole body is trembling and there is a look in her eyes you've never seen before. Something you cannot decipher.

You peel her red leather jacket from her and grimace as you see her flesh. Her whole body is covered in scars and bruises. Some new and some old.

As you remove the jacket from her blood stained hands, something metal falls from the sleeve and clinks against your hard marble floor.

You look down to find a bloodied knife and a horrified expression on her face.

You start to piece it all together. The blood on her shirt. The bloodied knife on your floor. The odd look in her eyes. The fact she told you it was over when you opened the door.

She did it. She was finally free.

You want to be happy for her. But you're not. It shouldn't have gone this far. You shouldn't have let it. You shouldn't have let it get to the point where her life hung on by a thread... Where she had to take his in order to save her own.

Like always, you lead her to the bathroom. She sits on the edge of the tub as you remove her clothes. First her boots. Then her jeans. Then her tank top.

Its a good day when she's actually wearing underwear. It means he didn't violate her that time.

Today seems to be a good day. You feel slightly relieved at that.

She is strong. A physical beating she can stomach.

She sits in the tub, the warm water and bubbles soothing her aching muscles and bones. Easing the pain of her bruises. You gingerly clean her whole body with a sponge, making sure you're as delicate as can be.

You touch her as though you were washing the soft spot of a newborn's head.

Because you know that's what she is at these3am visits.

She used to wince or grimace at the pain, but now she just sits there as you wash her. Stoic and emotionless.

You pour the jug of water over her hair, the water surrounding her now a mixture of her sweat and their blood.

Once she is clean, you get her out as quickly as possible, not letting her stew in the filth. Especially not tonight. Not in his filth.

She remains silent as you redress her in sweat pants and a baggy tee. She remains stoic as you blow dry her hair.

You hand her two vicodin as she sits in your bed. She throws them back, not needing the water anymore.

You climb into the bed next to her and you feel her relax. Some nights she wants to be held. Others she just wants you near her.Tonight though, she wants to be held. Something of which you're glad for.

As she scootches closer, you wrap your arms around her tiny waist, lacing your fingers through hers.

She let's out a deep breath and you know she is happy and content. That she feels safe and protected in your arms.

You press your lips to the back of her neck as your embrace around her tightens.

She is silent. She always is. A bold contrast to the woman you fell in love with. The woman she was before him.

You press your lips to her neck once again, relishing in the way it feels like home.

Her fingertips start to ghost across the back of your hand, a sign that she wants to say something but is plucking up the courage to do so.

"I love you, Regina"

Her voice is horse and dry, but as broken as it is, it is still the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.

"You kept me going when I was ready to give in and give up. You made me feel beautiful when I felt ugly. You saw me when I wanted to hide. You saved me in every way possible. You stopped the bleeding and the pain and replaced it with love. You are the reason I kept holding on, Regina. You are my saviour. Every beating was worth it in the end, because it lead me right here. It led me to love and happiness. It led me to a safe refuge. It led me home"

You say noting. You know there are no words needed. Instead, you gingerly place your lips to hers as she turns in your embrace. One kiss says a million words. It says what words can't. It says that you're home too, and you're never going to let anything hurt her again.