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And then he’s on the floor, groaning, not getting up.

Silence.

My breath comes in ragged gasps. My knuckles burn, but I don’t care.

I turn back to the bed.

Harper’s still there, curled in on herself like a broken-winged bird. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, blinking too slow. She looks small. Too small.

“Harper?” I drop to my knees beside the bed, hands hovering before I dare touch her. “Harper, can you hear me?”

She flinches when I brush her cheek. But she doesn’t pull away.

Check one: Skin temperature. Too cold. Could be from the pool. Check two: Breathing. Shallow but steady. Check three: Pulse at her wrist. Racing. Too fast. But better than sluggish.

My brain is coming back online and immediately starting to catalog everything wrong.

Her pupils: Dilated. Estimated 7mm. Possible drug indicators: MDMA, ketamine, GHB. Her skin: Clammy. Possible shock. Her breathing: 22 breaths per minute. Normal is 12-20. Elevated.

Stop. Just help her.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t respond, but her body sags just a little. Like she knows she doesn’t have to fight anymore. Her hair is still wet from the pool. She’s only wearing her soaked jeans.

I gather her into my arms carefully, like she’s made of porcelain, wrapping a blanket folded at the bottom of the bed around her chest and shoulders. Her skin is clammy, and she’s shaking.

I hold her tighter.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

I don’t even know if she’s hearing me. If the words are reaching her through whatever she gotdrugged with. But I say them anyway. Over and over.

You’re safe.

I’ve got you.

She melts into me like she’s boneless.

And I feel… wrecked. Like I just watched something sacred almost get destroyed. Jesus, if I’d been even a minute later…

I tighten my grip and bury my face in her hair. My chest is shaking. Rage, relief—it’s all tangled up and burning behind my ribs.

I feel her fingers twitch against my shirt. Like she’s trying to hold on. Trying to say something.

I check her pulse at every red light. Three red lights. Three checks.

Odd number. Need one more.

I check again in the driveway. Four checks total. Even.Better.

Her breathing: Count it. In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. In-two-three-four.

Consistent. Good.

I count every breath for the entire twelve-minute drive home.

144 breaths.