It hurt to breathe.
That was the first thing Brandon noticed.
The second was the softness beneath him—the strange, floral detergent scent that clung to the pillow—and the distant hum of campus traffic outside the window.
His eyes cracked open slowly, like the lids were made of stone. Pale morning light filtered through the cheap blinds. His body felt like it had been dragged through a wood chipper and then reassembled with duct tape and trash bags.
He recognized the room before he recognized the pain.
Beth's.
He shifted slightly and a lance of agony shot through his side. His hand flew instinctively to the wound, fingers brushing a tight bandage wrapped carefully around him. Not his handiwork.
He remembered the night before in pieces.
The target—just another pusher with blood on his hands and needles in his pockets. It should've been a clean job. In and out. A reminder to the underbelly that someone was still out there with a red line and no patience for excuses.
But it hadn't gone clean.
He'd hesitated.
His mind had wandered—to her.
To Beth.
A second's distraction.
That was all it took.
The gangbanger had gotten a shot off. A lucky one. Brandon had still finished the job, made sure the bastard wasn't getting up again. But by the time he'd staggered away from the alley, bleeding and half-delirious, he knew he couldn't make it back to his dorm. Too visible.
Too risky. Too much of a trail.
So he'd gone to her, her dorm was closer.
And now…
He turned his head.
There she was.
Beth sat curled in a chair next to the bed, arms folded across her chest, her head tilted slightly like she'd fallen asleep watching him. Her legs were tucked up under her, a blanket thrown haphazardly over her lap. Hair messily pulled to one side. She looked like she hadn't moved in hours.
He stared at her for a long time, not moving, not speaking.
Why hadn't she killed him?
It would've been easy. He'd been unconscious. Vulnerable. Bleeding all over her sheets.
Instead… she patched him up. Let him bleed on her bed. Cleaned up the blood trail—because he knew she must've. If there had been a trail to her door, campus security would've been banging on it by now.
She covered for him.
Why?
He closed his eyes again, letting the pounding in his head slow to a dull roar.
He hadn't wanted to go to her.
He should've just gone off-grid. Found a place to ride it out, then stitched himself up like usual.
He didn't need help.
But when it happened—when he was too lightheaded to think, too weak to hide—he hadn't gone to Manny, or Kym, or even Liv.
He went to her.
To Beth.
The girl he was supposed to be monitoring.
Maybe even putting down, eventually.
He didn't know what that meant.
Didn't want to know.
He opened his eyes again just as she stirred.
Beth's lashes fluttered, her head lifting slowly. A second later, her eyes landed on him.
She didn't say anything at first.
Just stared.
Then her mouth curled into that familiar, sharp-edged smirk.
"Well, look who didn't die," she said, her voice low and husky from sleep. "Guess I'll have to wait a little longer to collect your record collection."
Brandon didn't smile, but something behind his eyes softened. "You cleaned the trail."
"Someone had to." She stretched her arms overhead, joints popping, then let them fall back down. "Didn't want the hall monitors dragging your half-dead body out of my dorm. Would've made it really hard to keep our 'relationship' cover story going."
Brandon exhaled a slow breath through his nose. "You could've killed me."
She shrugged. "So could you."
He didn't respond.
The room felt heavy with silence again. Tense, but not hostile. Fragile.
Beth stood and moved closer to the bed, her eyes scanning him like she was cataloging every bandage, every bruise. He didn't flinch under her gaze.
"Was it worth it?" she asked finally. "Getting shot over some piece of street trash?"
Brandon met her eyes. "He sold laced product to a bunch of kids. One of them's still in a coma."
Beth said nothing for a long time. Then, softly: "You're gonna get yourself killed playing savior."
He looked away. "Maybe."
She reached for something on the nightstand
—Ashes, who had been curled into a ball, blinked sleepily at her but didn't move as she scratched behind her ears. The cat purred, content, unfazed by the blood and trauma and tension in the room.
"Just so we're clear," Beth said, her voice quieter now, "I didn't do this because I care. I did it because it would've been annoying to explain why my fake boyfriend bled out in my bed."
Brandon raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
She paused. Then added, almost too quickly, "Besides… if anyone's gonna kill you, it's gonna be me."
Brandon smirked faintly, despite the pain.
"Noted."
Beth turned, walking toward the mini-fridge. She pulled out a bottled water and tossed it to him. He caught it with a wince, the motion tugging at his stitches.
"I'll keep an eye on Ashes while you're here," she said casually. "She likes me."
"Traitor," Brandon muttered, glancing at the cat now fully stretched out across his ankles like she owned the place.
Beth leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. But her eyes never left his face.
Neither of them said what they were really thinking.
That she'd saved him.
That he'd gone to her.
That things were changing. Shifting in ways they weren't sure how to control.
Brandon took a sip of water, then lay back against the pillows.
She could've killed him.
But she didn't.
And he couldn't decide if that made him feel safer…
…or even more afraid.