I look down at my hands.
Lucky.
That word feels wrong. Too thin. Too bright. “I don’t feel lucky,” I admit.
Doc’s voice softens slightly. “Most people don’t right after they survive something.”
I swallow.
He packs up slower than he needs to.
“Cobra’s mad,” I say, because somehow saying it to Doc feels easier than saying it to myself.
Doc snorts. “Cobra was born mad.”
I look up.
He gives me a look over the top of his bag. “But if you’re asking whether he’s mad at you, I’d say that boy doesn’t know what to do with fear when it has nowhere to go.” That lands.
Hard.
I don’t answer.
Doc straightens. “Rest. I’ll send someone to check on you.”
“Is Cobra—” I stop before I finish.
Doc’s expression shifts just enough. “He’ll come back,” he says.
I nod. Like that’s what I needed. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not listening for his footsteps before Doc even leaves the room.
The door closes again. Silence returns. This time it feels heavier.
I sit there for a while, not moving, not sleeping, just staring at the floor while the night replays in pieces. The club. The fight. The crowd. The door. The cold. The hand. The knife. Eli’s voice screaming Cobra’s name. Cobra’s face when he reached me. Fear.
I saw fear.
I don’t think anyone sees that from him often. Maybe no one.
A soft knock comes again. I expect Doc. Or Brooke. Maybe Emma. The door opens, and Blaze steps in. That alone makes me sit a little straighter. Because he isn’t smiling. No grin. No dramatic entrance. No sarcastic comment about how the clubhouse is starting to resemble a hospital with worse décor.
Just Blaze. Quiet. Serious. It makes the room feel different. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
He stays near the door for a second, like he’s giving me the option to tell him to leave. I don’t. He steps inside and shuts it behind him, but he doesn’t come too close. “You good?” The question is casual. His voice isn’t.
“I’m okay,” I say.
His eyebrows lift.
“Doc said I’m lucky,” I amend.
“That sounds more accurate.”
I manage a small smile.
He studies me for a second, eyes flicking to my head, my throat, the way I’m holding myself too still. Then he nods toward the chair near the wall. “Can I?”
