The room is quiet now—too quiet.

You’re both in his place. The door’s locked, the curtains drawn, the only light coming from the Medusa lamp standing in the corner of the room. Your heart’s still racing, your palms still a little sweaty. It all happened so fast—sirens, flashing lights, people asking questions, your voice jumping in before you even had time to think.

You lied for him. Clean. Quick. No hesitation.

Now he’s just... sitting there. Curls draped over his shoulders, elbows resting on his knees, a blunt halfway smoked between his fingers. He hasn’t said much since y’all walked in.

You glance over at him from the other end of the couch, the silence growing heavier by the second. He’s staring at the floor, jaw tight, something unreadable in his face.

“Why’d you do that?” His voice is low. Calm. But there’s something clipped in it, like he’s holding back.

He exhales through his nose, doesn’t look at you. Just shakes his head slowly like he can’t believe this.

He finally looks up at you. “If they find out you lied—if somethin’ happens to you over this... that’s on me.”

His words hang in the air. You can tell he’s not mad because you lied—he’s mad because you risked yourself. And that hits harder than if he were yelling.