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Before I could even protest, Josh’s arm wrapped around my waist, his suit jacket draped over my shoulders, and he steered me away.

I lobbed a broken, pained glance at Liam, before I allowed him to lead me out of there. I thought he’d snap out of it, shuffle after me, and tell me it had all been a joke—one of his signature, stupid ones I didn’t quite get.

Nothing but silence trailed us out.

The chill over my skin lingered despite the warmth of his jacket and of his arm banded around me.

I could barely see.

The hallway warped and twisted, blurring around us, from tears or vertigo, I wasn’t sure. His arm stayed solid around me, and sometimes I wasn’t walking so much as he was carrying me forward.

Memories crept over my mind, tendrils of things I’d rather forget, belonging to another universe: Liam giving me his precious notes when I had the flu. The small care package underneath: medicine, a heat pack, and warm tea in a thermos. His silly doodle on a stray piece of paper, along with a note that had made me laugh.

How could they be the same person?

Bile crept up my throat as nausea churned in my stomach, and my grip on Josh’s hand tightened until my fingers bit into his palm, but I couldn’t let go.

More things flashed through my mind, jagged and poisonous, and I feared my knees might buckle, and I’d find myself on all fours, spilling my dinner. I clutched at him tighter and forced myself to breathe: in through my nose, out through my mouth.

The nausea loosened its grip around my throat, but my thoughts spiralled still.

Cruel things I’d dismissed as mere jokes—about how much of a prick Josh was—replayed in my mind, revealing a more venomous core. His warnings, which had started mild, kicked up over the last two weeks, growing more pointed. Even the strange insistence we’d go together as friends tonight…

He didn’t speak or wince at my iron grip on his hand, only led me to one of the student lounges, his solid arm wrapped around my shoulders the only thing keeping me together where I might have shattered.

The light was muted here, as if the room itself knew I needed shelter. Muttered words and scuffling footsteps barely made it through the roar in my ears, before silence fell and it was just us and the twisted, bleeding something inside me.

The plush couch sank under my weight, cushioning me in an embrace I very much needed, and my hands landed limp in my lap as I stared down at my dress and saw nothing, blinking back tears.

A glass was nudged into my grasp as a warm hand closed my own around it.

Limbs leaden, I lifted it to my face, until the sharp sting of whiskey settled in my nose, short-circuiting my spiral. The large gulp burned my tongue and throat, but the sensation was welcome.

Anything but this murky, foggy feeling.

I chanced a peek at him through damp lashes.

When had I even cried?

I felt as though I was still underwater, middle tied to a heavy anvil dragging me deeper and deeper.

I pinched myself until I bruised my arm, but the sting barely registered, until Josh’s impossibly gentle fingers pried mine off as he murmured something I didn’t catch.

For a while—I didn’t know how long—I stared down into the glass, unseeing, numb and battered from the inside, vision blurring with what must have been tears.

Then, he nudged me to drink, and the alcohol singed my throat, before coiling in my belly, hot and restless. The shock bled out of me, replaced by sharp anger kicking up behind my ribs.

That little shit.

I whirled around, but the words froze on the tip of my tongue.

If I was angry, he was murderous: clutching the glass as if it had done him a personal wrong, knuckles white, jaw clenched to the point of pain.

In his eyes lay only bottomless rage.

It should’ve scared me, except the sheer absence of pity or reprimand eased the thorns that had knotted around my ribcage, until breathing came easier.

“How much did you hear?”