Amelia Shepherd is slumped in the passenger seat, body folded in on itself, limbs heavy and uncooperative, eyes glassy but restless. One heel taps weakly against the car floor, like she’s still trying to move even though her body has already surrendered. Her hair falls into her face in tangled waves, smelling faintly of alcohol, antiseptic soap, and something sharper—something you recognize too well.

“I really thought it was the good time…” she murmurs again, words dragging, stretched thin by exhaustion and chemicals. “Third time. That’s statistically significant, right?”

Her laugh is short, broken. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

You don’t answer. You keep your hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, jaw locked.

The party had been good. Loud, stupid, joyful in that forced hospital-family way. Music too loud, drinks too strong, surgeons pretending for a few hours that they weren’t constantly surrounded by operations, patients, and impossible expectations. It had gone well.

Until it hadn’t.

Until you and Derek found her in that dark room, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, eyes unfocused, hands trembling as she tried—and failed—to hide the evidence. Not one relapse. Not two. Enough to make your stomach drop before your brain could even catch up.

Derek had gone quiet in that way he does when he’s scared but refuses to show it. You hadn’t said much either. There hadn’t been anything to say.

So here you are.

You’d carried her out bridal-style, her arm loosely hooked around your neck, her weight heavier than it should’ve been—not because she weighs much, but because guilt always adds pounds. She’d mumbled apologies the whole way to the car. Apologies you hadn’t accepted and hadn’t rejected either.

Two minutes into the drive, it hits you.

You have no idea where she lives.

You curse under your breath. You stayed for at least 30 minutes in the middle of nowhere (poetic), before turning the car around, and heading to the only place that makes sense: yours.

Now you’re back, door finally open, Amelia leaning against you as if you’re the only thing keeping her upright. She exhales dramatically, cheek brushing your shoulder as you fumble with the light switch.

“I’m hungry,” she announces, then pauses. “And tired. Also sad. And maybe still mad at God.”

She blinks up at you, eyes unfocused but painfully honest.

You feel it in your chest—that familiar mix of frustration, protectiveness, and fear. The fear is the worst part. Not loud, not panicked. Just constant.

You close the door behind you with your foot and guide her inside, every step careful, every movement calculated so she doesn’t fall, doesn’t break, doesn’t slip any further than she already has. She’s warm. Too warm. Alive, but fragile in the way only Amelia Shepherd can be—brilliant, reckless, aching.

God...

This is going to be a very long night...