“I said nine minutes,” I sob. “I said nine minutes”
I scream.
It rips out of my chest, raw and animal, shattering against the walls. I pound my fist into the floor, into my thigh, anywhere,
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve,”
Liam’s head lolls against my shoulder.
The room tilts.
The walls bend inward. The light strobes faster and faster.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Khai.”
My name drags through the air.
“Khai.”
Something hooks into my spine and yanks,
I tear awake like I’ve been dragged out of water.
My chest heaves, lungs burning as I suck in air that feels too thick, too slow to fill me. For a second, I’m certain I’m still there, on the kitchen floor, Liam’s weight crushing my arms, the smell of vomit and death lodged in my throat.
The room is too dark.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Shadows pull themselves into shape. The ceiling. The walls. My bed. Reality seeps back in reluctantly, like it doesn’t want me here yet.
I lift my hands.
No blood.
No foam. No cold skin.
But my fingers still ache like they’ve been holding him. Like if I curl them tight enough, I’ll feel Liam there again, solid, lifeless, gone.
I love you.
His voice echoes through my head, quiet and final, splintering straight through my chest. The pain is sharp, intimate. The kind that knows exactly where to cut.
The room is silent.
No beeping. No alarms.
Just my ragged breathing and the sound of my own heart hammering like it’s trying to break out of my ribs.
I reach for my phone before I can think better of it. My thumb moves on instinct, muscle memory taking over while my head is still fogged with grief and fury and the lingering wrongness of the dream.
I type.
Khai
Warehouse. 30 minutes. Bring Keys.
