Page 11 of Relapse

Because this?

This is exactly what we were trying to avoid.

The night we left her at the hospital still lives under my skin like a fucking infection. Noir standing beside me in that hallway covered in blood, sweat, and guilt, both of us staring through the glass while nurses swarmed around her bed trying to stabilize her.

Neither of us saying what we were both thinking.

Not her too.

Not another fucking girl we care about getting swallowed whole by our world.

Because that’s what this place fucking does. It takes and takes until there’s nothing left but bodies, addiction, grief, and ghosts that follow you around like a goddamn curse no matter how far you run. Brynne learned that the hard way long before Blair ever crashed into our lives, and watching Blair spiral down the exact same fucking road felt like standing on train tracks with headlights coming straight for us while being too goddamn late to stop it.

We couldn’t save Brynne from this world.

But Blair?

No fucking way were we losing her too.

That's why we erased everything.

Wiped the motel. Cleared the warehouse. Killed every path leading back to us. I took my hoodie back off her floor while she was unconscious in a hospital bed because if she remembered us, she’d come looking.

And the worst fucking part?

I knew she would anyway.

We both said if she remembered even half of what happened between us, she’d burn herself alive trying to get back to it.

The pressure of her fingers flexing lightly against my stomach drags me back to the present.

“Do you always drive like you’ve got a death wish?” she calls over the engine, tightening her arms around my waist every time I take a corner even remotely fast despite all the shit she talks.

I huff out a quiet laugh.

“You always run your mouth this much when you’re hungover?”

“Probably,” she says easily. “Hard to know for sure. Most mornings start with me trying to figure out where I am and whether I committed any felonies the night before.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Before I can answer, she taps her fingers lightly against my stomach and adds, “Honestly? If I wake up with both kidneys and my eyelashes still on, I consider that personal growth.”

I shake my head.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Oh, we don’t have enough time for that conversation,” she calls back immediately. “You’d need, like, a whiteboard. Maybe a licensed professional.”

Despite myself, another laugh almost slips out.

Almost.

Then she says, way too casually—

“But hey, at least this morning I remembered your name, so technically we’re improving.”

That one lands harder than it should.