He'd been perfect.

Too perfect.

She'd been anything but perfect.

Too imperfect.

Unexpectedly, he'd loved her imperfections and he had made it clear that she didn't need to be perfect.

But, he hadn't been perfect.

He'd been cold.

Calculated.

Deliberate.

Her hands clung instinctively to her sides, the torn edges of her shirt inconsiderably obscuring the rapidly appearing bruises that camouflaged her lower torso.

She was dirty.

Broken.

Lost.

She didn't remember just how she got there. It was late. The room numbers were blurring together as she attempted to keep her jeans from parting from her waist.

The button had snapped, the force of his hands…

She paused then, hands trembling as she found the desired apartment.

There wasn't a sound, the hallway deserted as she stood in silence for several minutes contemplating her potential retreat.

Who would believe her anyway?

He'd been perfect.

She hadn't been perfect.

A knock.

"Beca?"