Page 21 of Overdose

Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to decide whether to roll them or kiss me. “Why?”

“Because you’re so cold you’re shaking,” I say simply.

Her gaze drops to her arms like she’s just now noticing. “Oh.”

That single syllable hits harder than it should. Soft. Uncertain. Like the pills in her system are so strong she’s not even aware of her own body.

She pulls the jacket tighter around herself, burying her fingers in the sleeves like she’s anchoring herself to the warmth I left behind. Her eyes drift toward the ocean, lashes fluttering, high still blooming in her cheeks.

And I fucking hate it.

Normally, I’d get off on this kind of thing. Watching the fall. The unraveling. That last hazy blink before someone tips over the edge.

But not her.

I don’t even know her. Haven’t known her for more than a breath. But something about seeing her like this—floaty, far away, drowning in whatever chemical cocktail she chased down—I hate it.

Hate how wrong it looks on her. Hate that I care.

She’s not just another comedown. She’s not supposed to crash. Not her.

She doesn’t thank me, but she doesn’t need to.

Because the way she holds onto that jacket like itmeanssomething?

That nearly undoes me.

No one wears it. No onetouchesit.

Not since my brother died three years ago in a gang hit that wasn’t meant for him. Wrong place. Wrong fuckin’ time. Just more blood on concrete, another name in the paper. Just gone.

That jacket is all I’ve got left of him.

And now it’s wrapped around her like itbelongsthere.

Fuck, what am I doing?

I should yank it back.

Should tell her she has no idea what she’s wearing. What she’s doing to me.

But instead, I just watch her. Burn the image into memory.

Because for the first time in three years, that jacket feels warm again, and I’m not ready to take it back.

“So, you and the DJ hate each other or something?” she asks, tone casual but I can feel the weight behind it.

I snort. “Noir’s the kind of asshole who acts like he’s above it all, like he’s got some tragic backstory that makes him better than the rest of us. But he’s worse. Everything he does, it’s for himself. Always a catch. Always some angle. Like the world’s just a stage for whatever twisted little performance he’s putting on. Guy thinks the world owes him for his daddy issues or some shit.”

She laughs, tipping her head back, the moonlight catching on the glitter dusted across her collarbone. “Damn. You’re both so dramatic. So do I like, get to vote on who wins, or…?”

“You already did.”

That catches her. Her brows lift, curious. “Did I?”

I tilt my head, eyes dragging down her mouth. “You kissed me.”

She snorts. “You kissed me first.”