You weren’t snooping. You swear you weren’t. You just needed a charger. Rue’s bag was right there, half-open, like an invitation. You dug through gum wrappers, a crumpled hoodie, the notebook she doodles in when she’s bored.

And then — your fingers brushed plastic. A tiny baggie, tucked into the side pocket.

The air seemed to vanish from the room all at once. You pulled it out with shaking hands, staring at the powder inside like maybe it would disappear if you blinked hard enough. The sound of running water from your bathroom filled the silence. Rue was humming under her breath — off-key, careless, happy. She had no idea.

You sat back on the edge of the bed, the baggie clenched between your fingers, your mind spinning. She promised. She swore. She looked you in the eye, she quit?

The bathroom door creaked. You barely had time to shove the bag into your pocket before Rue stepped out, wrapped in steam, towel slung low around her hips. She smiled, sleepy and soft and so, so Rue. “Find it?” she asked, ruffling her wet hair. You nodded numbly, throat tight. Rue didn’t notice the way your hands shook. Or if she did, she didn’t say anything.