Page 126 of Relapse

He just gets me out of it piece by piece, jaw tight, eyes dark and focused like he needs the proof that I’m whole.

That I’m here. That there’s no bullet hole hidden beneath mesh and chains.

By the time he unhooks the skirt from my hips and lets it fall to the tile, my skin is covered in goosebumps despite the heat crawling through the bathroom.

His fingers pause at my waist.

“You’re shaking.”

“So are you.”

His mouth twitches faintly, but it doesn’t turn into a smile.

Nothing about this feels funny anymore.

I step closer and reach for the button of his jeans. My hands are still unsteady, clumsy from drugs and fear and the sheer fucking absurdity of trying to undress a man who got shot because I couldn’t stay where I was supposed to.

Dagger watches me struggle for half a second before covering my fingers with his.

“Easy.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

That almost breaks me again.

Together, we get his jeans open. I help him shove the soaked denim down carefully, trying not to jostle his injured arm, trying not to look too long at all the blood streaked across his skin because every time I do, guilt claws up my throat again.

He steps out of them slowly, one hand braced against the sink.

For a second, we just stand there in the steam.

Bare.

Bruised.

Alive.

The shower runs beside us, hot water beating steadily against the tile, waiting.

I take his good hand and pull him carefully beneath the spray with me.

The water immediately turns pink around our feet.

The sight makes my stomach twist again.

Dagger notices.

“Blair.”

“I know.”

But I don’t know.

Not really.

Because tonight doesn’t feel real anymore.