I climb behind him, press my forehead to his back, and hold on. Knox always reaches back and squeezes my knee. Always touches me. Always. Tonight, his hand stays on the handlebar.
We stop at the clubhouse first. Knox disappears inside for five minutes and comes back with a med bag and a grocery sack the girls threw together: clothes, toiletries, the essentials, all stuffed in with the frantic love of women who know what it's like to need a soft place to land.
East's house smells of cedar, detergent, and something distinctly him. Grease, leather, and engine heat baked into the walls.
He opens the guest room door with a quiet knock. "It's me. Sloane and Knox are here."
Darla steps out of the bathroom, careful and stiff, wrapped in one of East's long-sleeved shirts. Smaller than she was at the club. Somehow both more fragile and more dangerous.
Her hair is clean, but her face is bruised, and her eyes look hollow.
I step inside; Knox stays in the hall, a solid shadow at my back. When I pass him, our eyes catch. Neither of us holds it.
He gives Darla a polite nod, expression blanked on purpose, then shifts his attention down the hallway like a guard dog on silent duty.
I set the med bag on the nightstand and hand her the paper sack. "The girls put this together. Clothes, toiletries…the essentials." She peers inside. "Frankie threw in some, uh, 'spiritual protection,'" I add. Darla's fingers brush the little bundle of sage tied with twine. Her mouth trembles at the corner. "And Ruby added a bag of gummy bears that are probably ninety percent vodka."
That gets the faintest huff out of her as she sinks onto the edge of the bed. Half laugh, half exhale. I flip open my bag. No small talk. She doesn't need it, and I don't have the energy to fake it. What I can do is the job.
"Let's start at the top."
I step in front of her, tipping her chin up with two fingers. Her skin is cool under my touch, except where bruises bloom hot and purple. "Follow the light." She does, pupils tracking. The rest comes out on autopilot. "Pupils tracking well. No signs of concussion. But if you feel dizzy or throw up, you call me. Or Knox if East isn't around."
She nods, swallowing. I move lower, pressing carefully along her ribs. Her breath hitches at a tender spot; a sharp gasp slices out of her.
"Still hurts," she mutters through her teeth.
"Yeah. It's going to hurt like a bitch for a few weeks."
She lets me keep going. Every time she flinches, I feel it in my gut. Her wrist is next, swollen and tender.
"You must have landed on it or twisted it pulling away from Trent," I say, wrapping it in a snug compression bandage. "Mild sprain. You're lucky."
She huffs. It might be a laugh, might be disbelief. "Feels weird hearing that word tonight."
We sit in silence while I tape the end of the wrap. The quiet in the room feels heavy enough to sit on your chest.
"How do you know when it's safe to stop holding everything together?" she asks, staring at my hands instead of my face.
My fingers still for a heartbeat. I keep my gaze on the bandage because if I look at her, I might crack in two. "I guess it's when someone lets you fall apart without walking away." Softer than I intend, but solid. True in a way that scares me.
When I glance up, she's looking at me like she's seeing past the scrubs, poker face, and carefully curated competence. Seeing the same steel and loneliness in me that I see in her.
I look away first. I always do. I pull a small canvas pouch from my bag and set it on her nightstand. "Painkillers, tea, arnica, muscle rub," I say, zipping the bag and standing. "Use what works. The rest? Burn it."
She tries for a joke, because some of us survive that way. "Burning things seems a bit extreme, don't you think? With how often we all get hurt, I might as well open a pharmacy in here."
The corner of my mouth tugs. "You'd be busy, that's for sure. Girls' night is coming soon," I add. "Once you're healed enough to drink and insult men properly."
A small, rusty laugh escapes her. "Sounds like a plan."
I pause at the doorway, looking back. "You're not alone, Darla. Even if it feels that way."
Her eyes shine, but she doesn't look away.
I slip out into the hall, past Knox's warm, solid presence. Her pain sits on my shoulders now, stacked on top of my own until the weight of both makes it hard to breathe. When we leave, Knox brushes his hand against the small of my back as though he's afraid I might shatter if he holds too firmly. Knox says nothing. I say nothing. The engine fills the space where words should be.
At the house, he kills the engine. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then quietly, "I'll make tea."
