Page 123 of Relapse

Weird.

I barely process it though because I’m too busy dragging Dagger toward the bathroom while he tries insisting he’s fine every six fucking seconds.

“You are literally leaking blood everywhere.”

“It went right through, I’ll be fine.”

“It’s still a fucking bullet!”

His mouth twitches faintly despite himself while I shove him down onto the closed toilet seat hard enough he grunts.

The drugs still swimming through my bloodstream make everything feel oddly distant and hyperfocused at the same time.

Like the only thing my brain can fully process right now is him.

Alive.

Here and breathing.

My hands shake while I start peeling his soaked shirt upward carefully.

Dagger watches me the entire time.

Not speaking.

Just watching.

The second the shirt comes off, my stomach twists hard.

Blood streaks across his side and shoulder where the bullet tore through his arm while bruises spread dark beneath his ribs already.

“Oh my god.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not fucking comforting.”

I toss the bloody shirt into the sink before turning the shower on hot enough that steam starts crawling up the mirror almost immediately.

Dagger watches me carefully from where I shoved him down onto the closed toilet seat, one arm held stiffly at his side while blood keeps slipping down his skin in thin, dark lines.

“You okay?”

The question hits wrong.

Almost pisses me off.

Not because he asked.

Because of course he asked.

Because Dagger’s sitting here bleeding all over his own bathroom after getting shot, bruised, soaked, and half-dead, and somehow his first instinct is still to look at me like I’m the thing that needs tending to.

I turn on him, throat tightening instantly.

“Why the fuck are you asking if I’m okay?” My voice cracks around the edge, and I hate that. “You got shot.”

His eyes soften just a little.