What Grows Dies Here

Not that I would admit that. Not that I would call him.

I poured some of the warm vodka into the cold bathwater as the clock struck midnight. My eyes followed the liquid as it splashed in.

I sighed, tipping the bottle back upright, taking a long swig. I sank farther down into my tub, soaking my hair, my neck, immersing everything but my face underwater.

If I could’ve sank into the porcelain, I would’ve. The prospect of the bath swallowing me up was enticing. More than enticing. I wanted to claw at it, breaking nails, soaking my hands with blood, crimson liquid spilling into the water, a sign of my desperation to escape. But I couldn’t do that. Couldn’t sink away into a hole somewhere, as much as I wanted to. Because it would hurt the people I loved. And though I didn’t care about much these days, certainly not myself, I cared about my friends, my family. I wouldn’t do that to them. Wouldn’t become some pitiful burden that they had to watch like a clock, that they constantly worried about.

The next best thing would be to keep all my curtains drawn, drink myself stupid and take an appropriate amount of prescription drugs—enough to knock me into oblivion for a worrying amount of time but not actually kill me—and let this dreadful day pass.

Once I was free of it, this wretched date haunting me like a ghost, then I could carry on. Then I could start my journey back to myself. Or do my best to resemble the person I was before.

Without Karson, of course.

He couldn’t be in my life now that the clock had run out.

I wouldn’t do that to him.

To myself.

Even though every second he was absent was like having my teeth pulled from the root, having my skin flayed from my bones. Pain was fine, though. I was used to that.

My miserable contemplation and half a bottle of vodka was the reason I didn’t hear him come in. Or maybe he was the reason I didn’t hear him come in.

I wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, staring at me. Probably not long. Though he considered himself the villain, he would always save me if he thought I was in danger. Even if I was the one endangering myself.

So he wasn’t going to stand and watch me drown myself in the bath. But he wasn’t going to announce himself immediately either.

As I discovered when I saw a black figure move out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t jump, didn’t shriek or even flinch. Hadn’t I half expected him to show up?

Hadn’t I been hoping, praying for him to show up and save me? Been drinking myself into a stupor because I hated how much I needed him?

My relief quickly turned into fury. At myself, of course, but it was much easier to direct it at him.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, sitting up in the bath, not bothering to try to cover my nakedness. He’d seen it all before.

I had intended to sound outraged, pissed, hostile, but I barely managed to sound annoyed. There was no fight in me. Not anymore.

“Get out.” It was not the command I wanted it to be. It was little more than a plea.

Karson did not move. Nor did his gaze move downward to my naked body. He kept my eyes for ten seconds. I counted.

Then he approached.

He was on me in three strides, snatching the towel beside the bath and scooping me up with one arm. The water sloshed as he lifted me from the tub and wrapped me in my fuzzy towel.

I didn’t bother to fight him. What was the point?

So I let him hold me like a child, bundle me up tightly, seep his warmth into my skin, into my bones.

We didn’t speak as he carefully dried me, working slowly, masterfully. Once he was done, he dropped the towel to the floor.

The cold air bit at my naked skin for less than a handful of seconds before he wrapped me in the plush robe that was hanging on my bathroom door. It was thick, outrageously expensive, and I adored it. Nothing was warmer. Cozier. Safer.

Except Karson’s arms.

I didn’t speak, didn’t ask for him to hold me. I refused to, no matter how desperately I wanted him to. Needed him to.

But it was Karson. I didn’t need to ask.