“A ride?” Blake’s voice rose. He turned to me, his expression filled with sheer horror. “Beverly, I—” He suddenly stopped mid-sentence, blinking rapidly, as though trying to shake off some invisible fog that had settled over him.

His usually sharp, analytical gaze went unfocused.

My heart dropped into my feet.

Blake didn’t do drugs. He didn’t drink. He didn’t even like taking NyQuil. The one time we had talked about it, he’d said the idea of losing control made him physically sick, that he couldn’t handle the thought of his own brain betraying him.

And now, he’d just unknowingly eaten weed brownies.

A wave of panic crashed over me as I watched his wide eyes dart around the kitchen. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast. A mix of confusion and fear spilled from his lips as he realized what was happening.

“I’m losing control,” he kept repeating, the words coming out in broken fragments, laced with a kind of desperation I had never heard from him before.

I couldn’t let him spiral into the darkness he feared so much. Without a second thought, I snapped into action and dragged Blake out of the kitchen.

“Come on,” I urged. “Just breathe.”

Blake barely responded, his feet shuffling slowly as if the simple act of moving was becoming too much for him to handle. His words were still coming in fragments, muttering under his breath about how he was losing it.

“Blake,” I said, shaking him lightly, trying to bring him back from whatever haze was pulling him under. “You’re not losing control, okay? You’re fine. I’m here.”

Behind us, the sound of Tiffany and Jamal bickering started to rise. “Why are you acting like you’re better than me?” Tiffany snapped. “You literally eat gas station sushi.”

“And it’s delicious,” Jamal shot back. “But at least I don’t befriend people out of desperation.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you?”

I yanked Blake into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, cutting off whatever drama was brewing out there.

He began to pace the small space, running his hands through his hair. “I’m losing control, B,” he repeated over and over, his voice growing more frantic with each passing second, as if the very idea were suffocating him.

“You’re not losing control, Blake,” I assured him, trying to be the voice of reason despite being high myself. “You’re⁠—”

“How do you know that?” he demanded, turning to face me with eyes wild enough to feel like daggers piercing my skin. It was such a fierce look, one that made me feel as if I’d crossed some invisible line and betrayed him in a way I never intended.

I fell silent, my mouth clamping shut.