Nolan glances over at me over his shoulder. “Morning, rockstar.”
I groan and rub my face with my torn hand. “Fuck you.”
“Glad to see you’re alive. As always.”
Adriana snatches her bag. “He’s going to die, you know that.”
Nolan sighs. “Can’t replace him. You know that. Probablyeven more than me…” He winks. “Baby.”
The way he says it makes my jaw clench.
Adriana scoffs. “Just figure something out, okay? I have reporters up my ass. We need to do something, because this is the worst he’s ever been.” She storms out, the door slamming so loud that it makes me flinch.
Nolan lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and lights a cigarette. “She’ll be back.”
“Fucking lovely.”
He shrugs. “Reporters are everywhere after the stunt you pulled. It’s been a fuckingweek,you stupid shit. I have things to do, but I’ll pick you up in a bit to sort this out.”
“Sure.” The word scrapes my throat on the way out.
He flicks ash into a half-full whiskey glass, stands, and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him. Eventually, I drag myself out into the kitchen.
Micah’s on the couch, hair a mess, hoodie half unzipped, a coffee sitting on the table in front of him. His eyes track every limp, every wince I try to hide. He lets out a long breath.
“Dude,” he says, shaking his head. “You fucked upsobadly last night.”
I grunt something that might be a greeting and move toward the kitchen. Not surprised at myself one bit, honestly.
Micah watches me. “Do you even remember?” he asks.
“Not really,” I mutter, grabbing the coffee tin with scraped knuckles. The metal lip bites into an open cut. I hiss through my teeth.
Micah winces. “Dude, your hand looks like it lost a fight with a cheese grater.”
“Yeah? I’d feel better if I fucking killed the guy.”
He snorts. “That’s not funny.”
“Didn’t say it was. Still true.”
I dump grounds into the filter, hands shaking just enough to spill some across the counter. My ribs protest when I reach for the water. I pretend I don’t notice.
He sighs. “Jude...you need to shower. You smell like blood and sweat.”
“Let me have coffee first,” I grumble.
He nods at that. The coffee maker sputters to life, filling the quiet with a low hiss. He leans back on the couch, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “You might actually kill someone soon. Someone you’re not tasked to kill.”
I don’t answer. The coffee maker beeps.
Micah stands, grabs a mug, and sets it in front of me before I can reach for it. “Here. Sit. Before you fall.”
I sink onto the barstool, shoulders slumping. I take a sip. It burns like hell. Perfect. He hesitates, then pulls a small orange bottle from his hoodie pocket, tapping the lid with his thumb.
“You’re hurting,” he says quietly. He doesn’t sayI know what you need.He doesn’t have to.
I reach out, jaw tight. “Just one.”
