"I love you too."
She pulls back and wipes at her eyes. Her mascara has smudged slightly. She's been crying. Because of me. Because I can't get my shit together long enough to convince her I'm fine. "Okay. Enough of that. You said you have a midterm?"
"Yeah. Wednesday."
"Then you should study. But eat something first. Please?"
"I will."
Another lie.
She knows it. But she lets it slide.
I stand, and the room tilts.
The floor shifts under my feet. The walls blur. I grab the arm of the sofa—leather warm and smooth under my palm—and hold on while the world rights itself.
Just slightly. Just enough that I have to grab the arm of the sofa to steady myself.
"Max?"
"I'm fine. Just stood up too fast."
My vision swims. Doubles. Two Margots staring at me with identical worried expressions. I blink hard and they merge back into one.
The headache sharpens into something vicious. White-hot. Blinding. Like someone's driving an ice pick through my temple. I blink through it.
"Go study," Margot says. "But if you need anything—"
"I'll let you know."
I head for the stairs.
Each step feels like wading through quicksand. My legs are heavy. Uncooperative.
The headache follows.
I make it halfway up before I hear footsteps behind me.
"Max."
I stop. Turn. The movement makes my head swim. I grip the railing harder.
Bane stands at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He's dressed casually—jeans and a fitted henley that shows off his build—but there's nothing casual about the tension in his shoulders. The way he's looking at me.
Like I'm a problem he needs to solve.
"Can we talk?"
No.
"About what?"
"Just—" He glances toward the living room where Margot is. "Come back down. Please."
The please sounds like it costs him.
I descend slowly. Each step makes my head pound harder.
