It’s nothing. I’m just not used to seeing her so... helpless.
Life would be easier if I were born a self-centered dick. It would be a handy quality tonight. Instead of fighting an internal battle over waking her, I’d just throw her out.
She probably wouldn’t be here because I wouldn’t have cared enough to check who was shouting earlier.
But I’m nota self-centered asshole, and I don’t shake her awake. No, I shoot myself in the foot, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over her small frame. It’s just for a few minutes. She can sleep while I cross the hall and open all the doors so I can easily carry her to bed.
Her doorhandle gives way, letting me into the kitchen where the lights are on. Glass litters the floor, stained by drops of blood marking the route to the sink. I can walk around it to get Blair into her bedroom, but... what if she wakes up, tiptoes over for a glass of water, and steps on the broken glass?
“I should’ve been an asshole,” I mutter as I grab the broom, sweeping the floor. “I bet it’s so much easier not to give a shit,” I add when I’m on my fucking knees with a wet rag, wiping the blood, then cleaning around the sink before triple-checking I’ve not missed anything. I open the door to her bedroom and go back to my place, ready to scoop Blair off the couch, but...
I haltagain.
She changed positions, no longer half-sitting. She’s curled right into the corner of the sofa, her head resting on the cushion, the blanket covering everything south of her nose.
For a moment, I stare at her, weighing my options, my temper flaring again. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t look so fucking vulnerable, chipping away the hatred I’ve felt for years.
With a long, defeated huff, I head back to her place, lock up, and then lock myself inside my condo with a girl who’s so toxic she’d put arsenic to shame.
I stand in the living room, my feet refusing to move because... I can’t go in my bedroom and leave her sleeping so close to the door.
If anyone breaks in, she’s alone.
I know she lives by herself, and I definitely know she can handle shit, but I physicallycan’tleave her sleeping on the couch unattended. It goes against my every instinct. No matter how insane she drives me, she’s undermyroof and undermycare.
“You stupid prick,” I whisper, squeezing my neck.
I strip my mattress off the bed, drag it to the living room, then move the coffee table to push the mattress flush with the couch, quiet as I can.
You’re going to heaven, for fucking sure.
I better be, or I’m going to be pissed.
For another ten minutes, I get ready for bed, silently walking back and forth between my bedroom, the living room, and the bathroom. I doubt I’ll get one minute of sleep with Blair under my roof, but it’s not like I have better things to do.
With nothing left to keep me stalling, I crawl under the comforter, crossing my hands under my head, and stare at the ceiling, mentally calling myself every name under the sun.
How did I get into this situation? Why was I born with this fucked-up moral compass? Why can’t I just kick her out?
I’ve got no answers, but the questions keep coming until my mind finally drifts off.
It feels like five minutes later, my eyes pop open, a heavy weight settling in my gut. A sense of unease washes over me, but I don’t immediately realize why my insides roil like a stormy sky. The room is dark and seemingly silent until a stifled sob pierces my ears. Sniffling breaths follow quickly, each punctuated by a shake and the sound of a sleeve wiping tears.
Blair’s back is to me, her body curled in a ball, one hand pressed to her head, fingers tangling her long locks, digging into her scalp as if trying to hold herself together.
I’ve not shut the blinds earlier. The glow of the streetlamps pours inside, illuminating the living room enough to make out how she trembles under the dusty-blue blanket.
She draws in a long, shaky breath, her other hand shifting. Even though I can’t see her face, the soft sounds she makes paint a vivid picture: she’s biting her fist to muffle her cries.
The effort she puts into staying quiet is fucking palpable, her body taut with tension as she fights to hold back sobs that threaten to break free.
I don’t give my rational thoughts a moment. I don’t stop to rememberwhothis girl crying on my couch is or what she’s done over the years to the girl I’ve considered family since the first day I spoke to her.
Regardless how much I hate Blair, I can’t lay here pretending I don’t hear how much she’s hurting.
I sit up, lean over her, and coil one arm around her middle. She jumps at my touch, her breathing hitching in surprise, cries temporarily halting while I slide her off the couch and onto the mattress beside me.
She’s flat on her back for a moment, staring at me with wide, tear-filled, fearful eyes, not one word out of her mouth.
