Her body sinks into the mattress as I lower her down—slow enough that her hair fans across the pillow in a spill of dark gold and chaos. Her hand still clutches my shirt for a second before sliding off, weak fingers catching on the fabric like she’s begging me not to leave.
I sit beside her, elbows on my knees, watching her chest rise and fall in shallow, drug-heavy breaths. She’s fighting the chemicals—her muscles twitching, her eyelids fluttering, her jaw tightening like she’s trying to drag herself to the surface.
Good girl.
Fight.
I brush my knuckles along her cheek, relishing the way she leans into the touch even while unconscious. Her lips part on a shaky breath, her lashes trembling.
“You should never look this helpless,” I whisper. “Not because of him. Never because of him.”
Her breath hitches.
I feel it like a pulse under my skin.
“You hear me?” My fingers slide down the line of her jaw, slow, reverent. “Only I get to see you like this.”
Her eyes crack open.
Barely.
Just a sliver.
Just enough.
Blue drowning in black, unfocused but locked on me like her instincts are pulling her toward something her body can’t hold upright.
Her lips move.
No sound.
Then a whisper, paper-thin:
“…Kai…”
Every muscle in my body pulls tight.
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning closer until my breath brushes her mouth, “I’m right here.”
She tries to lift a hand toward my face.
It shakes.
Falls halfway.
But I catch it.
Her palm is warm, too warm, drug-warm.
Her fingers curl weakly around mine.
I fold her hand between both of mine, slow, deliberate.
“Do you know what you do to me, little sister?” My voice is low, steady, threaded with something dangerous. “Even half gone, you look straight at me. You reach for me. You say my name like it’s the only word you remember.”
Her brows pinch in confusion or effort or pain—I don’t know.
I don’t care.
