Brandon's POV
The room stilled, like we were frozen in a photograph—one of those blurry ones where no one smiles.
I watched Chloe's chest rise and fall, too slow, like her body was fighting to stay awake. Her lips were pale. The sight twisted my stomach. I'd never seen her like this—so fragile. She just lay there.
I would've covered her with my jacket, but Seth had already draped his flannel shirt over her like a makeshift blanket.
Then Oliver and Pete barged in, laughing, breathless from the backyard. Beers in hand, shirts off, petal necklaces hanging from their necks. Drops of liquid trickled down their skin—sweat, water, or alcohol—I couldn't even tell. They were drunk. Oblivious. Unaware of the storm they'd just walked into.
Their grins disappeared the moment they saw our faces.
