Page 12 of Relapse

Because she sounds relaxed about it.

Too relaxed.

Like waking up blacked out on random bathroom floors became routine while we were gone. Like chemical comedowns and memory loss turned into normal fucking mornings instead of warning signs.

My jaw tightens hard enough to ache, and behind me, completely oblivious to the damage she’s doing, Blair just keeps talking.

“Actually,” she says thoughtfully, “there was one time I woke up in a kiddie pool outside a vape shop? Still unclear on that sequence of events.”

By the time we pull into the underground garage beneath my building, she’s gone quieter behind me.

Not silent.

Blair’s never fucking silent.

But the constant smartass commentary slows a little once the bike stops rumbling beneath us, her arms lingering around my waist half a second longer than necessary before she climbs off. One hand stays hooked on my shoulder for balance while she steadies herself, rolling her eyes immediately after like she’s personally offended her body betrayed her in front of me.

Cute.

Most people probably wouldn’t notice the difference.

I do.

I notice every fucking thing about her now.

The exhaustion sitting behind her eyes underneath all the glitter and attitude. The slight shake in her hands every now and then when she thinks nobody’s paying attention. The way her pupils are still blown slightly from whatever the hell she took last night. Smudged makeup. Barely-there outfit. Sparkles clinging stubbornly to her skin like she walked straight out of the rave and never fully came back down.

She looks worse than before.

And somehow hotter for it.

More reckless.

More unhinged.

Like instead of getting scared after the hospital, she leaned all the way into the chaos just to see if we’d come crawling back for her.

Which—

Fuck.

Maybe we did.

Because standing there watching her sway slightly in my garage with that cocky mouth and half-lidded eyes, all I can think about is how hard it was staying away from her in the first place.

My favorite fucking fix standing right in front of me looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted twice.

Guilt twists sharp in my stomach anyway.

Because beneath the attitude and flirting and all the glittering wreckage she hides herself behind, there’s something emptier in her now than there was before we let her go.

And I can’t shake the feeling that part of that is on me.

I lead her toward the stairwell without saying much, the sound of our footsteps echoing through the underground garage while she trails behind me in tiny glitter-covered shorts and attitude like she owns the fucking place already.

The bike ticks quietly as it cools behind us, engine heat still curling through the air while I pull the helmet off her head.

Her split pink and purple hair spills free immediately, messy from the ride, glitter catching through the strands beneath the fluorescent garage lights.