Page 46 of Endo
Everything around me fades. The bike’s rumble dies down, and it’s like the world starts spinning too fast. My hands are glued to the handlebars, but I can’t move them. My chest is tight, my breath shallow. I’m choking.
Fuck.
The panic swarms me like a tidal wave, swallowing everything in its path. The weight of it presses down on me—flooding my head with noise, drowning out everything else. My head feels like it’s going to explode. I can’t breathe. My hands are locked to the bike, but it feels like the only thing stopping me from falling apart.
Then I hear her.
“Reign!”
It cuts through the panic like a knife, and I turn to see her rushing toward me, all soft, worried lines on her face. Her expression is carved with concern, and for a second, I feel like I’m sinking all over again.
She’s fast. Too fast. Her hands are gentle but firm when she pulls me off the bike, like she’s afraid I’ll shatter if she’s not careful. And hell, maybe I will.
“You’re okay,” she says, her voice soft but steady, like she’s trying to make sure I hear her over the noise in my head. I can’t hear her though. The panic is still fucking loud, ringing in my ears like static.
She hits the kill switch on the bike before removing my helmet slowly, and I squeeze my eyes shut. The last thing I want is for her to see me like this. Weak. I fucking hate it. I’ve always been the one people depend on. I’ve always been the one who keeps it together.
But not now.
“Let me help you,” she says again, and this time, I don’t fight her. I don’t want to be alone. The words stick in my throat, but I can’t push her away. I can’t.
Her hands are steady as they help me remove the rest of my gear, and every movement feels like it’s unraveling something inside of me. I’m slipping. The pressure I’ve been holding together for so long is starting to crack.
“You’re okay,” she whispers, almost like she’s trying to convince both of us. Her words hit me in the chest, but all I can feel is that the panic is still there, still hanging on.
I feel like the weakest person in the world. I can’t even get back on my own bike without falling apart. I’ve failed her. I’ve failed myself.
“Let me get you out of here,” she says, the words soft but firm. There’s no arguing with her tone. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a demand.
“The turtles,” I murmur, the memory of her rushing out of here just minutes ago still fresh in my mind.
“There will always be more turtles to set free, Reign,” she says gently, her voice soft and full of sincerity. “But right now, you need me more than they do.”
I nod, feeling like a fucking mess. I don’t even know how I manage to stand up, but I do. We walk to her car in silence. It’s not awkward—just heavy. But there’s something in her presence, something in the way she doesn’t let go of me, that makes the weight a little lighter.
When we get to the garage, I leave my bike parked next to Cruz’s. The sight of it makes my gut twist. God, I miss him. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
But as much as I want to stay there, to keep drifting back into the past, I can’t. Not anymore. Not when I have to get through the next moment, the next hour. The next day.
And with her beside me, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I can.
18
LENA
Muscle Memory - Jared Benjamin, Natalia Taylar
The driveback to my place is suffocatingly quiet. Reign hasn’t said a word since the track. He’s been silent before, sure, but this is different. There’s a heaviness to it, like the panic attack drained something out of him that he can’t quite get back. He stares out the window, his jaw tight and his shoulders stiff, like he’s holding everything inside, refusing to let it show.
I steal glances at him when I can, searching for cracks in his armor. I want to ask him if this is new—if this is the first time this has happened—or if it’s been happening this whole time, if he’s been facing them all alone. The thought twists my stomach. Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he say anything?
Then again, why would he? I’ve been shutting them all out for months. It’s not like I’ve given him—or the rest of the Demons—much of a reason to think I’d listen. I know what it’s like to carry shit on your own, to feel like no one else would understand the pain you’re feeling, but it doesn’t stop the worry from clawing at me.
I pull into the driveway outside my apartment and put the car in park. The sound of the engine idling feels deafening in the silence. Reign doesn’t move at first. He just sits there, staring out the window, the faint moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. There’s something so painfully vulnerable about the way he’s sitting, like he’s bracing himself for something—or maybe just trying to keep it all together. Like he’s afraid to show his emotions in front of me.
I wish I knew what to say. I wish I could reach out and shake him, tell him he doesn’t have to go through this alone. But even I know the words won’t mean shit when I’ve been doing the same damn thing.
I care about him. I just wish he’d let me help.
