She was just filling the space with her voice, filling the air with something I didn’t deserve to listen to anymore.

“I get it, okay? She smells good, her hair is shiny, but damn. Does he not have…hobbies? And then he had the nerve to say, ‘Bev, you think I have a shot?’ Well, I don’t know, Jamal. Maybe. Maybe if you stop talking about her like she’s a mythological creature and actually do something about it⁠—”

She stopped abruptly. Her eyes had finally landed on me.

I blinked at her, my brain moving in slow motion.

A mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to concern washed over Beverly’s face. “Jesus—” Her voice was lower now. Less sharp. “What happened to you?”

Before I could answer, she was already moving. The mattress dipped as she sat beside me, her fingers brushing against my cheek. “Blake.” Her voice broke on my name. “You’re bleeding.”

I exhaled slowly and let my eyes slip shut again.

I must’ve looked worse than I felt—blood dried on my split lip, bruises blooming across my cheekbone, my hands a mess of torn skin and raw knuckles.

“What happened?” she demanded, scanning every inch of me.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You look like you got thrown out of a moving car, Blake!”

“Shhh,” I hissed in a panic. “What if Dad⁠—”

“Blake.”

“Beverly.”

She muttered something under her breath before snapping, “Get up.”

I groaned in protest.

Her hand found my arm, fingers brushing over my wrist in a way that wasn’t gentle. She grabbed me, hauling me to my feet. “Bathroom,” she ordered.

I didn’t even try to fight it. Because she was touching me.

I let her pull me along, my legs unsteady as Beverly practically dragged me down the hallway and into her bathroom.

She flicked on the light. The brightness made me squint.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to the edge of the tub.

I sat and let my head fall back against the wall, eyes half-shut, listening to the rush of water as she filled the bathtub.

Steam curled into the air as she grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and pressed it against my lips. I hissed, my muscles tensing.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, staring at me. “You’re a mess.”

“You should see the other guy,” I tried to joke, but my voice came out too flat, too tired.

She pressed a little harder. “You’re not funny.”

I swallowed, but it didn’t do much to ease the tightness in my throat. The air felt thick, suffocating, like I was caught between the weight of her gaze and the emptiness of my own thoughts.

She whispered so quietly that it almost sounded like she was afraid of the answer, “Why did you do this?”

I didn’t have a good answer, so I didn’t give her one.

I just sat there, bleeding in ways she couldn’t see.