Useless.
Embarrassing.
“Drew—”
He looks down at the boot, then at the backpack hanging crooked on my shoulder, then at my face—really looks at my face—and whatever he sees there wipes the last bit of rough humor out of him.
“Not a chance,” he mutters.
Then he bends and sweeps me up.
Just like that.
One arm under my knees—the good leg and the boot awkwardly angled.
One arm around my back.
My backpack sliding off my shoulder as the whole world lurches.
I gasp and instinctively grab at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of the damn rain.”
His voice is rough near my ear.
Warm.
Annoyed in that deeply male way that somehow makes panic feel smaller.
“I can walk.”
“With that boot? In this?” He looks down at me once, rain running off his jaw. “No, baby girl. You can be furious later.”
The sheer audacity of him would usually get a sharper response.
Right now, all I can do is cling.
Because he is huge and warm and solid and moving fast, and after the night I’ve had, being carried without having to ask feels so close to mercy I could sob over it.
So I do.
Not loudly.
Not with dignity.
Just one broken sound that leaves me the second I bury my wet face against the soaked front of his hoodie.
Drew doesn’t react.
Doesn’t comment.
He just adjusts his hold and keeps walking through the storm.
I don’t know where we’re going until I hear the chirp of a remote unlock and he kicks open the passenger door of a massive black GMC truck polished enough that even in the rain the chrome catches every stray campus light.
Leather interior.
