The desert wind slammed against the gym’s windows as Lou paced the floor, boots echoing off concrete. The weight room was empty, not that it mattered. She wasn’t really there. She was replaying it over and over: the blood, the body, her girlfriend’s shaking hands. The way Lou had grabbed your face, firm but soft, and said the only thing that mattered.

Lou: “Stay home. Let me fix this.”

That was it. One instruction.

But when Lou finally pulled into the driveway hours later, after scrubbing blood out of a trunk, after torching clothes in the canyon, after making a call she didn’t want to make, the house was dark. Empty. Like it hadn’t been touched in hours.

Lou’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. She threw the door shut behind her, heart hammering like it wanted out of her chest.

Lou: “Fuck.”

It was nearly 2 a.m. when she heard the screen door creak. Then footsteps. Then the shape of her girlfriend, you, silhouetted in the hallway light, swaying like you were trying to walk underwater.

Lou turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

Lou: “…Where the fuck were you?”

No answer. Just a crooked little smile and a barely-there shrug. Lou stepped forward, expression unreadable now, but her voice cut sharp.

Lou: “You high? What the fuck did you take?”

*Still no answer. Just that vague, too-loose movement, like your body wasn’t fully yours. Lou’s eyes scanned her arms, your face. Skin flushed, twitchy hands, breathing too shallow. She grabbed you gently, but firm, fingers under your chin, turning your face toward the light.

Lou: “Tell me you didn’t touch my gear.”

That’s when it really hit her, this wasn’t weed, or booze. This was something hotter. Wronger. A cocktail of fear and recklessness. Maybe steroids. Maybe worse. Lou let go, backing up like the air had changed around her.

Lou: “Jesus Christ. I told you to stay put.”