Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
CALEB
I hit the switch, and light floods the room.
“Get off her!”
I checked thirty-nine rooms before this one. And now to find her like this, glassy-eyed and limp, with this asshole lurking over her—
“Hey, man,” he says, like I’m the one being weird. “She’s into it.”
She’s into it.
I see red. My brain short-circuits.
Her cheeks are streaked with tears. Her hands aren’t even moving. She’s not kissing him back. She’s just—still. Stiff. Like she’s frozen inside her own body.
“She’s into it,” he says again, like her passivity and silence are consent.
“Harper!” I snap, louder this time, desperate to drag her back from wherever she’s gone. “Hey, fucker, I said get off her.”
He turns, finally, and has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Get your own, man.”
Your own. Like she’s a product on a shelf. Or worse, just a hole to be fucked.
I don’t even think. My body acts before my brain can catch up.
No calculation. No risk assessment. No counting to four before acting.
Just—
I tackle him, driving all my weight into his chest and knocking him clean off the bed.
He scrambles and throws a punch.
I’ve never been in a single fight before, but I’m not about to fucking lose this one. I can’t afford to be the first one hit. It’s a millisecond of a thought, but I manage to duck and land the first punch.
Hard. All my fury at this bastard landing in the follow-through of my fist. There’s a satisfying crunch when my knuckles connect with his cheekbone.
He curses and tries to grab me again.
No rules. No mercy.
I’m already landing another punch. And another. And another.
And then he’s on the floor, groaning, not getting up.
Silence.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. My knuckles burn, but I don’t care.
I turn back to the bed.
Harper’s still there, curled in on herself like a broken-winged bird. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, blinking too slow. She looks small. Too small.
“Harper?” I drop to my knees beside the bed, hands hovering before I dare touch her. “Harper, can you hear me?”
She flinches when I brush her cheek. But she doesn’t pull away.
Check one: Skin temperature. Too cold. Could be from the pool. Check two: Breathing. Shallow but steady. Check three: Pulse at her wrist. Racing. Too fast. But better than sluggish.
My brain is coming back online and immediately starting to catalog everything wrong.
Her pupils: Dilated. Estimated 7mm. Possible drug indicators: MDMA, ketamine, GHB. Her skin: Clammy. Possible shock. Her breathing: 22 breaths per minute. Normal is 12-20. Elevated.
Stop. Just help her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t respond, but her body sags just a little. Like she knows she doesn’t have to fight anymore. Her hair is still wet from the pool. She’s only wearing her soaked jeans.
I gather her into my arms carefully, like she’s made of porcelain, wrapping a blanket folded at the bottom of the bed around her chest and shoulders. Her skin is clammy, and she’s shaking.
I hold her tighter.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
I don’t even know if she’s hearing me. If the words are reaching her through whatever she got drugged with. But I say them anyway. Over and over.
You’re safe.
I’ve got you.
She melts into me like she’s boneless.
And I feel… wrecked. Like I just watched something sacred almost get destroyed. Jesus, if I’d been even a minute later…
I tighten my grip and bury my face in her hair. My chest is shaking. Rage, relief—it’s all tangled up and burning behind my ribs.
I feel her fingers twitch against my shirt. Like she’s trying to hold on. Trying to say something.
I check her pulse at every red light. Three red lights. Three checks.
Odd number. Need one more.
I check again in the driveway. Four checks total. Even. Better.
Her breathing: Count it. In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. In-two-three-four.
Consistent. Good.
I count every breath for the entire twelve-minute drive home.
144 breaths.
She’s alive. She’s breathing. She’s here.
I unlock the front door as silently as possible when we get home, then slip inside. The house is dim and quiet. Perfect. No playing twenty questions with our parents.
I carry Harper upstairs, and she only stirs when we hit the landing, her face pressing into the side of my neck. It’s not deliberate—she’s too far gone—but it’s trusting. And that trust feels like both an honor and a weight.
I was almost too late.
Her room’s barricaded from earlier, so I take her through mine and across the bathroom that links our worlds.
I lay her down on her bed and tuck the blanket around her.
Smooth it once. Twice. Three times. Four times to even it out.
Check her breathing: Still steady. Check her pulse: Still there. Check her skin temperature: Still cold.
I swallow hard, feeling too many emotions to name. I check her heartbeat at her throat, like I did several times in the car, and it’s still beating steady.
Count it: One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Sixty-eight beats per minute. Still elevated. Normal resting is 60-100. She’s within range but high.
It’s the only reason we aren’t at the ER right now.
She looks like a pale, dark-haired angel. Her eyes open again, slow and unfocused, but they find mine.
“Hey,” I whisper, and I swear she hears me.
Her fingers twitch against my hand. I squeeze, and this time, she squeezes back. Weak, but real.
I swallow hard, feeling too many emotions to name.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, though leaving her for even a minute feels wrong. I force myself downstairs to grab the first aid kit, including the Narcan Mom’s always kept up to date ever since the days my bio dad used to come around, along with some water and crackers.
By the time I get back upstairs, Harper’s eyes are open—really open—tracking me like she’s been waiting.
“You came,” she says, voice thick and slow from whatever poison’s still in her system. The way she says it makes my heart hitch. Like coming to her rescue isn’t something people usually do for her.
How many times has she been abandoned? How many times did she need someone, and no one showed?
“Do you need anything?” I keep my voice low and easy. Like you might with a spooked animal.
“Thirsty.”
I help her ease upright against the pillows, my arm bracing her as she tilts toward me, unsteady.
She’s warmed up warm, almost fever-warm now, and the instinct to just hold her there—not let her go at all—nearly overrides my brain.
I hand her the water. She drinks, but some spills at the corner of her mouth, running down her chin.
Before I can think, I’m wiping it away with my sleeve. Her eyes lift to mine, wide and soft, and I swear I feel that look all the way down to my bones.
A strand of damp hair falls across her face. I reach for it, then stop halfway. “Can I…?” My hand hovers just shy of her skin. “Is this okay?”
She nods.
I brush her hair back, fingertips grazing her temple. She blinks, and her eyes shine in a way that makes me ache—like she’s not used to gentleness. Like it’s something she has to learn to accept.
Her eyes close, and she lets her head rest against my palm when I smooth her hair back again. That tiny, instinctive lean toward me feels like trust I don’t deserve.
“Just rest.”
She does, her breathing evening out. I sit there, one hand on hers, the other scrolling through my phone to look up every drug interaction and overdose symptom I can find.
Her pulse stays steady under my fingers.
Her pupils are blown wide as opposed to Rudy’s pinpricks.
I keep count of every breath until the hours blur.
At some point, I drift forward, my head resting on the mattress.
“Caleb?”
I’m upright instantly. “Hey. How do you feel?”
She grimaces, one hand pressing her temple. “Like I got hit by a truck. I need… bathroom.”
Only then do I see her realize she’s in nothing but wet jeans under the blanket. Color floods her cheeks. “Um. Clothes?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” I stand too fast, almost tripping.
I grab a soft nightshirt and shorts, then turn back to find her watching me with an unreadable expression.
“I can help you,” I say carefully. “Only if you want me to. Or I can get Mom—”
“No!” Panic spikes in her voice. “Don’t wake them up. Please.”
“Okay.” I keep my tone even. “Then I’ll just help you get your arms through. I won’t look. Swear.”
Rule #904: Ask permission before touching. Always.
Rule #905: Eyes on the wall. No exceptions.
Rule #906: Minimal contact. Only what’s necessary
I create new rules in real-time because I need them. Need structure for this.
She lets me guide her arms into the shirt, the blanket still wrapped around her chest.
Left arm: Guide through sleeve. Don’t look. Eyes on wall. Right arm: Guide through sleeve. Don’t look. Eyes on wall. Pull shirt down: Only touch fabric, not skin. Step back: Four steps. Even number. Safe distance.
My eyes stay fixed on the wall, but I’m aware of every shallow breath she takes and every tremor in her muscles.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I walk her to the bathroom, steadying her with a hand at her back. “I’ll be right outside.”
Eight steps from bed to bathroom. I count them.
When the door closes, I count seconds.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.
At 47 seconds, I check: “You okay in there?”
“Yeah,” comes her weak voice.
Resume counting.
She’s in there for four minutes and 23 seconds total.
263 seconds.
Is that normal? Is that too long? Is she—
The door opens.
She’s fine. Of course, she’s fine.
Now.
But if I hadn’t gotten there when I did—
I cut the thought off because I have to as I help her back to bed. She changed into the shorts while she was in the bathroom. She sinks back into the pillows, muttering, “Feel like shit.”
I’ve already got crackers and Tylenol ready. “Here. Try these.”
She manages a few bites and sips of water before her gaze flicks to mine.
“Do you remember anything?” I ask gently.