The way she said it, soft and slurred, like it wasn’t something she meant to say— it’s got me twisted.

I watch her, just lying there. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parted as she sleeps. My hands are on my knees, clenched into fists because I’m trying to hold myself together, and I don’t know what the hell to do with what’s unraveling inside me.

This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t sit around playing nursemaid or overthink shit.

But she’s Remy. I’ve been fucking obsessed from the second I laid eyes on her. And now I’m wrecked.

She stirs, groaning, and then it starts.

“Oh, fuck,” she mutters, bolting upright, a hand to her mouth.

“Bathroom,” I say, already on my feet, pulling her with me.

She stumbles, her face pale, and I scoop her up before she can hit the floor.

She doesn’t argue, just clings to me as I carry her to the bathroom.

“Zane—”

“I’ve got you, baby.”

She barely makes it to the toilet before she’s throwing up. I crouch behind her, holding her hair back, my free hand rubbing her back.

“Jesus,” she gasps between heaves. “Kill me.”

“Not on my watch.”

She groans, leaning her forehead against her arm on the toilet. “You’re supposed to be my fun drunk night, not my babysitter.”

“Guess I’m multi-talented.”

She glares at me, or tries to. It’s half-hearted at best. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re done puking. Sit back.”

She doesn’t argue, letting me help her up and guide her to the sink. She rinses her mouth and splashes water on her face while I grab Tylenol from her nightstand.

“Take these.”

She stares at the pills in my hand like I’ve offered her cyanide.

“Remy,” I warn.

“Fine,” she grumbles, taking them with the glass of water I hand her.

“Good girl,” I mutter, earning myself a half-hearted swat.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Don’t be a brat.”

Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but she’s too exhausted.

I steer her back to bed, tucking her in.

“You’re staying,” she mumbles, her eyes already closing.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, brushing her hair back. “Sleep.”