And I don’t know which one is going to win.
The infirmary is too quiet.
Not silent. Nothing in this clubhouse is ever silent. There’s always something bleeding through the walls, kids running, a door slamming, Blaze talking too much somewhere down the hall, but in here it’s controlled. Contained. The kind of quiet that makes every small sound matter more.
Her breathing. The slight shift of sheets when she moves. The faint pull of the IV line when her fingers twitch again.
I stand near the wall, not at the bed, not close enough to crowd her, but not far enough to lose sight of anything. Distance matters. Too close and she tenses. Too far and I miss something. I don’t miss things. Not when they matter.
Doc’s already done his pass. Checked her vitals, pushed something into the IV to counter whatever they gave her, muttered about dosage and timing and how I should’ve brought him the syringe faster like I had time to play fucking pharmacist in the street.
She’s stable. That’s what he said. Stable doesn’t mean safe. Not yet.
Olivia shifts again on the bed. Her eyes are open now, clearer than before, tracking the room instead of drifting through it. She’s not thrashing. Not panicking the way some do when they come out of something like that. But she’s not calm either. Her breathing is too fast. Her gaze moves too much.
Door. Window. Me. Brooke. Back to the door.
Exit tracking.
Good. Better than freezing.
Her hand twitches again near the IV, fingers curling like she wants to pull it out but hasn’t decided yet.
I watch the movement. Count the seconds between each twitch. Measure the pattern. I tell myself it’s for medical reasons. I tell myself I’m watching for reaction time, for motor control, for signs the drug is still heavy in her system. That’s not wrong. It’s just not the only reason.
Brooke sits in the chair near the bed, angled toward Olivia but not touching her. She’s good at that. Knows how to be there without closing in. Knows how to give space without making someone feel alone in it.
Olivia’s gaze flicks to her, then back to me again. There it is. Again. She keeps looking at me. Not long. Not staring. Just…checking.
I don’t move. Every time I did earlier, her breathing shifted. Too sharp. Too fast. Like her body expected something from me it wasn’t ready to deal with. So I stay still. Controlled. Contained. Like I’m not a problem in the room.
She swallows, her throat working like it’s still dry from whatever they gave her. Her voice comes out rough when she speaks. “Where am I?”
Brooke answers first, tone steady. “You’re at our clubhouse.”
Olivia’s brow furrows. “Your…what?”
“A place where you’re safe right now,” Brooke says. “That’s the part that matters.”
Olivia’s gaze slides back to me. “You’re not… police,” she says. Not a question. An observation.
“No,” I answer. My voice doesn’t soften. Doesn’t need to.
Her eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, in thought. She’s putting pieces together. The leather. The cuts. The men outside. The structure. “Then why am I here?” she asks.
“Because they were taking you,” I say.
Her breath catches. That lands.
Good. Better she remembers that part.
“Taking me where?” she presses.
“Don’t know yet.”
“Who were they?”
“Don’t know that either.”
