Page 13 of Relapse

Fuck.

She looks like trouble designed specifically for me.

Blair immediately runs her fingers through it, glaring up at me. “You know, I feel like by now someone would’ve invented a cure for helmet hair. I mean, when you look this good, it’s basically a hate crime.”

“Pretty sure the drugs are the bigger concern.”

“Agree to disagree.”

I huff out a laugh despite myself and hook the helmet onto the handlebars before turning toward the stairwell.

She takes exactly three steps before her platform boot catches slightly against the concrete.

The stumble’s small.

Barely noticeable.

Except I notice every fucking thing she does now.

Her hand shoots out toward the wall to steady herself, muttering, “Okay, feet. That was just rude,” under her breath like gravity personally offended her.

I stare at her for a second.

Then at the stairs.

Then back at her swaying slightly where she stands trying very hard to pretend she isn’t one blink away from eating shit directly onto the concrete floor.

“Absolutely not,” I mutter.

Her brows pull together immediately. “Excuse you?”

Before she can argue, I step forward, hook an arm around her waist, and throw her over my shoulder.

Instantly.

A surprised yelp breaks out of her before she starts squirming against me, glitter-covered legs kicking slightly.

“Dagger!”

“You’re fucked up.”

“I’m functioning!”

“You almost just died walking.”

“I tripped,” she argues dramatically. “There’s a difference.”

“You lost a fight with the floor.”

“That floor came at me aggressively.”

I shake my head and start up the stairs anyway, one hand locked around the backs of her thighs while she continues complaining over my shoulder.

“This is kidnapping,” she announces.

“Still so fucking dramatic, little relapse. More like damage control.”

“Oh my god, put me down. I can walk.”