Wrong-different. Wrong in a way that takes my brain several seconds to categorize, because the usual soundtrack of static and self-loathing is... quieter. Muffled. Like someone threw a blanket over the noise machine in my skull.
There's warmth against my cheek. A heartbeat that isn't mine, steady and slow. Fingers threaded through my hair, not moving anymore but still there, still touching.
For one perfect, terrible moment, the world is quiet.
Then consciousness crashes back like a semi through a guardrail.
The photos. The leak. My face splashed across every screen in the fucking world, every comment section a monument to exactly how monstrous I am?—
I jerk upright so fast the handcuff chain snaps taut between us.
"Ow," Bells says mildly. "Good morning to you too."
I'm already putting distance between us. As much as the chain allows, which isn't much. My shoulder presses against the armrest, spine rigid, every muscle locked down tight.
She doesn't try to close the gap. Just watches me with those honey-gold eyes, her expression unreadable.
"You slept," she observes.
I don't respond. Don't know how to respond. Don't know what to do with the fact that I fell asleep against her like some kind of pathetic, needy?—
"Phoenix and Raf went to grab coffee," she continues, like I'm not currently having a minor crisis. "We've got about an hour before we need to leave for Carmine's meeting."
Right. The photos. Of course there’s a meeting about the photos. About my face. About the fact that my entire carefully constructed existence just collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane.
Great. Fantastic. Can't fucking wait.
"We should probably get dressed," Bells says. "Unless you want to meet with our new manager in yesterday's wrinkled clothes while handcuffed to me."
I look down at myself. Rumpled shirt. Sweats that have seen better days. Still barefoot because I never got around to finding shoes after the cemetery.
Bells is still wearing my hoodie. The sleeves hang past her fingertips. The hem hits her mid-thigh. She looks small and softand nothing like the sharp-tongued force of nature who tracked me down through a rainstorm.
"I need clothes from my room," I say flatly. "Your room. Whatever."
"Then let's go get them."
She stands, and the chain forces me to follow. Inside the fortress—her room now, I have to keep reminding myself—she heads for the closet where her things are stored. I turn my back, keeping my gaze fixed on the wall.
"You know," Bells says from behind me, the sound of fabric rustling, "I could always just attach the cuff to the bed for now."
"What? The fuckingbed, Bells?"
"I mean, I could lock you in the bathroom…"
"No."
She snorts.
More rustling. The clink of the chain as she navigates around it.
"Arms up," she says.
I comply automatically, lifting my cuffed hand so she has enough slack to pull her shirt over her head. The motion is awkward, requiring careful choreography of lifted arms and ducked heads. At one point her elbow connects with my ribs.
"Sorry."
"Just hurry up."