Page 15 of Overdose

It’s packed with girls—smudged eyeliner, lashes half hanging off, lipstick dragged halfway down their necks. Glitter in places glitter shouldn’t be. The whole place smells like perfume, vodka, and regret.

Noir doesn’t even blink.

Doesn’t need to.

Because the second he steps inside, theyseehim. And holy shit, do they react.

Every head turns. One girl actually gasps. Deadass gasps like we just walked in mid-rom-com. Then her eyes flick to me, to his hand still gripping my wrist, and her brows shoot up likewell, this is new.

There’s a beat of silence, confusion hanging thick.

He doesn’t wait.

“Out,” he says, voice low but final. Not yelling or begging.

Justcommanding.

They scatter like roaches under a light.

Some with wide eyes. Some whispering. A few casting one last glance over their shoulders like maybe they’re waiting for a punchline. Because Noir doesn’t do this. Noir doesn’t drag random girls into bathrooms.

Yeah, well… guess I’m the fucking exception tonight.

Lucky me.

He shuts the door behind us, flicks the lock, and turns to me. It hasn’t even been three seconds and his shirt’s already coming off.

Whoa. Okay.

Abs like that should come with a fucking warning label.

Tattooed. Sculpted. Veins in all the right places.

Okay Blair, don’t say thank you by licking him.

He turns on the tap, wets his shirt, and then presses it to my face. Cold water, and rough cotton.

He starts at my cheeks, then trails down the column of my throat until he’s dabbing the cool fabric along my cleavage.

“You shouldn’t take the shit he gives you,” he mutters, voice low, steady.

I scoff. “Didn’t realize you were the drug morality police.”

His eyes meet mine. “Just don’t like watching girls destroy themselves for sport.”

“Well,” I grin, “some of us like a little danger with our dopamine.”

He doesn’t reply. Just keeps wiping me down. Gently.

It’s stupid how good it feels.

Even more stupid how safehefeels.

Considering he’s a complete fucking stranger who just dragged me into a bathroom, locked the door, and didn’t even ask if I was cool with it.

I mean, I was. But that’s not the point.

Noir’s a walking contradiction.