Page 122 of I’m The Worst

Two checkpoints.

One blind spot near the loading corridor where the cameras overlap. AJ shifts beside me, glancing up with flushed cheeks and swollen lips that drag my attention for half a second longer than they should.

“What are you doing?”

I ignore the question, watching a pair of guards rotate positions near the south gate.

One limping slightly.

“Wolff—”

I cut her a look sharp enough to shut her up instantly.

I don’t have the patience. My head already feels overloaded, thoughts coming too fast—routes, exits, timing, the fact I haven’t slept properly in days, the ache ripping through my side every time I breathe too deeply.

And underneath all of it⁠—

Her.

The way she keeps looking at me. Like she thinks what happened in that closet meant something beyond survival and bad fucking decisions.

My molars grind together.

Focus.

The second the next shift rotation starts, I move.

My hand locks around her wrist, and I pull her back into the crowd, fast enough that she nearly stumbles trying to keep up. We cut through a service corridor flooded with dockworkers and truck drivers instead of tourists.

The officer at this checkpoint barely looks alive, let alone alert. His eyes flick lazily over the passports before scanning them through.

One second.

Two.

My muscles tighten⁠—

Stamp.

He gives us a bored wave forward.

I take the passports back without slowing and keep moving, dragging AJ with me toward the ticket counters while boarding announcements crackle overhead through blown speakers.

Everything smells of seawater, oil, rust, and cigarettes.

The woman behind the counter barely glances up while I buy passage on a cargo vessel heading north. Cargo ships have smaller crews and fewer passengers compared to overnight ferry liners.

The Nightshades don’t own Northern Europe the way they own Russia. Their reach weakens the farther north we go.

AJ presses closer beside me as people crowd tighter toward the boarding ramps, her fingers brushing against my coat every few steps. I ignore it. Ignore how easy it’s becoming not to recoil from her touch.

That realization sits in the back of my skull like a fucking migraine.

The cargo ship groans against the dock outside, with massive steel walls streaked with rust under the floodlights. My grip closes around AJ’s hand again as I pull her onto the loading ramp as cold, stinging wind cuts across the dock.

Almost there.

Almost fucking out.