The loud Sage I knew how to survive.
This one?
This one might be the one I can’t come back from.
I wake up thinking I’m still dreaming.
There’s weight on my chest. Heat. Pressure.
My first thought issleep paralysis. That my body hasn’t caught up with my brain yet.
Then my airway collapses.
Something hard digs into my throat—thumbs, palms, all wrong—and I suck in air that doesn’t come. My vision fractures at the edges, sparks firing behind my eyes.
I try to speak.
Nothing comes out.
My hands fly up on instinct, clawing at wrists that don’t budge. Whoever’s on top of me is solid, planted, knees braced into the mattress like they planned this.
Planned.
My brain finally clears enough to focus.
Sage.
Her hair is loose around her face, wild, her mouth slack in a way I’ve never seen before. Her eyes are wide and glassy—not crying. Not drunk.
Empty.
No.
Not empty.
Full of something sharp and absolute.
Rage so complete it looks calm.
I buck hard, twisting my hips, trying to roll. She leans forward and the pressure increases. My ears start ringing. There’s a roaring sound, like being underwater.
This is how people die,a detached part of my brain notes.
I slam my elbow sideways, catch her in the ribs. She grunts—not in pain, more in surprise—and that half-second is enough.
I roll.
The world tilts violently. We hit the floor in a tangle of sheets and limbs. I scramble backward on my hands, gasping, coughing, my throat burning like it’s been sandpapered raw.
She’s on her knees now, breathing hard, staring at me like she doesn’t recognize me.
Or like she does.
I get to my feet, unsteady, backing away until my calves hit the dresser.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I rasp.
She doesn’t answer.
