“Okay,” she slurs, though I can tell she’s far from it. Her eyes are heavy and unfocused.
“Can I get you some water?” I offer, and she nods, shifting slightly to let me stand.
I move toward the fridge and just as I’m opening it, a sudden, awful sound cuts through the room. She retches. I spin, scanning for a trash can, heart hammering.
She leans over the couch arm, her body heaving, and I grab the nearest bin, but it’s not fast enough. She doubles over, and then over again, the sound raw and uncontrolled.
“Fuck,” I mutter, voice rough. “What the hell is this night?”
She groans, head dipping back against the couch, shivers running through her. I place the trash can as close as I can, but she keeps retching, splattering onto the floor.
The smell hits me, but I hold my ground, hands hovering near her back, guiding her as best I can.
“Almost done,” I mutter, more to myself than to her, fingers pressing lightly against her shoulder. She jerks slightly, groaning, hair clinging damply to her face. I wipe at her hair, trying to keep the mess contained.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the heaving slows. I grab her throw blanket and press it to the floor, cleaning what I can, then step back, trying to catch my own breath.
She’s curled slightly on the couch, jacket half-off, hair messy, face pale but slowly easing from panic to exhaustion.
“You okay?” I ask, voice softer, almost tender now.
“Mm… yeah,” she says, voice weak, still sounding drunk.
I pull her boots off fully, setting them aside, then kneel beside her again. She shifts slightly, thighs brushing the couch, and the sight makes a heat rise I try not to let show.
“Drink some water,” I say, offering the bottle.
She lifts it shakily and sips, almost spilling it down her front. I steady her hand. She hiccups, head leaning back against the couch cushions.
“Ryker,” she mutters again, voice thin.
“Yeah,” I answer. My eyes sweep the room. It’s quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. The flowers, the green couch, the snow sliding down outside the window—it’s a strange, peaceful chaos.
“I hate this,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed again. “I hate feeling like this. I hate him.”
“I know, Norah.”
She mumbles, leaning slightly into my side, almost as if seeking support. I let her, careful, not wanting to push her, not wanting to say too much. The water bottle is in her lap now, her hand wrapped around it like a lifeline.
“Tomorrow will be better,” I murmur, voice low, almost to myself. “Or at least… easier. A little.”
Her eyes drift shut again, head tipping slightly. I tuck my jacket around her shoulders, smoothing the folds, and just sit there for a moment, watching her breathe. Even drunk, even messy, even vulnerable, she’s devastating.
I let the quiet stretch, letting her regain a sense of calm, letting her sleep if she wants.
I think about dinner, about how hungry I am, but mostly I just think about her—how fragile and alive she is in my arms, even when she doesn’t realize it.
I lean back slightly, eyes on her, and I can feel the tension in my chest, the pull between wanting to do everything and nothing at all. She’s asleep again, finally, and I let myself exhale, knowing that for tonight, she’s safe.
Her sigh drifts up, faint, and I tuck my hands under my legs, just watching her. She’s mine to watch over in this moment, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything, even a steak, even warmth, even peace.
For now, this is enough.
I watch her sleep for another twenty minutes, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the occasional twitch of a hand against the couch.
Her snore drifts up, light, imperfect, and it makes me smile despite myself.
My stomach growls again, loud enough that I wince. Damn it. There’s no way any place around here is still open, not with the snow piling up outside.
