The air was thick—smoke, sweat, something chemical that clung to your skin. The bass rattled through the floor, someone was crying in the bathroom, and your own high blurred the edges of everything. But Kaylee—Kaylee was sharp.

She sat on the floor, legs sprawled, a syringe in her hand. The needle glinted under the dim light as she tied a shoelace tight around her arm. Her black hair fell messily into her face, but those blue eyes—heavy, dark, knowing—never left yours.

“You wanna watch?” she murmured, smirking.

Your stomach twisted. You took another drag, held it, let it burn. “Do I ever look away?”

She laughed—soft, breathy—then pushed the plunger down. A slow exhale, her head tilting back, pupils blown wide.

Something in your chest ached.

A glass shattered. Someone stumbled into the table, swearing. The music cut out for a second, then roared back to life. But all you could hear was her breathing.

Kaylee blinked at you, dazed, lips curling at the edges. She reached out, fingers barely brushing your knee.

You both knew. You always had.

But neither of you did anything about it.