"You're not going anywhere."
Beth crossed her arms, standing square in the middle of the room like some goth-glam gargoyle guarding her nest. Brandon, sitting on the edge of her bed shirtless and still pale from blood loss, tried to push himself to his feet for the second time that morning.
"I'm fine," he said, voice tight with that stubborn edge. "I've been worse."
"You are worse. You got shot, Brandon. And stitched up with a half-used sewing kit from my emergency stash. You're staying put."
He winced—not from her words, but from the act of standing—and immediately sat back down. That little jolt of pain didn't stop him from shooting her an annoyed look.
"I can't stay here. People are going to start asking questions."
Beth scoffed. "Right, because the idea of you staying over at your 'girlfriend's' place is so scandalous."
She said the word with an exaggerated lilt, watching him carefully, seeing if she could get a reaction out of him like she had at the club. But Brandon just sighed.
"I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not."
She surprised herself with how quickly she said it.
Brandon blinked, caught off guard.
Beth rolled her eyes before he could say anything. "Look, I'm not about to let you stumble out of here and pass out in the middle of campus. You might be some kind of murder Batman or whatever, but you're still human. You bleed. You get dizzy. You make stupid decisions like getting shot."
She moved past him toward her mini fridge and pulled out one of the microwavable meal packs she usually saved for nights when she was too deep in a slasher movie binge to cook. It wasn't gourmet, but it was something. She popped it in the microwave, the low hum filling the silence between them.
Behind her, she heard the creak of the mattress as Brandon leaned back against her headboard again. He didn't argue this time.
Good.
Small victories.
When the microwave dinged, she grabbed the steaming container and a fork, turned, and walked it over to him. He raised an eyebrow.
"What's this?"
Beth gave him a flat look. "It's food. People need it. Especially when they've been bleeding from a hole in their side for twelve hours."
Brandon accepted it without a word, looking down at the container like it was a bomb about to go off. He poked at it with the fork, then looked up at her, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"If I didn't know any better," he said, "I'd think you were actually my girlfriend, with how well you're taking care of me."
Beth immediately felt the heat rise in her chest—not panic, not embarrassment, she was definitely not flustered—just caught off-guard.
That was it.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said dryly, turning away a little too quickly. "I just don't want your corpse messing up my sheets."
"Of course."
The teasing in his voice made something tighten in her stomach. She hated it. She liked it.
She grabbed a hoodie from her chair and pretended to be deeply invested in refolding it.
"Besides, I owe you. For… you know."
"For saving you?"
She shot him a glance. "For being dumb enough to save me."
He didn't argue. Just kept eating, slow and quiet, like it was something sacred. Ashes hopped up onto the bed and curled around his leg, purring contentedly. Traitor.
Beth leaned against the wall, watching them both in that casual, detached way she'd perfected over the years. But beneath the stillness, her thoughts ran wild.
He was here. In her space. Injured, but alive.
She could kill him.
Now, more than ever. His guard was down. His movements were sluggish. His weapons—if he had any on him—were out of reach. If she wanted to end it, end him, it would be so easy.
And yet…
She didn't move.
Instead, she asked, "You're gonna stay, right?"
Brandon glanced up, mid-chew. "I thought you just wanted me out of your sheets."
Beth rolled her eyes again, but this time it felt more like muscle memory than genuine irritation.
"Just answer the fucking question."
He looked at her for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'll stay."
Beth exhaled. A small breath, but a real one.