Sunlight leaked through the cracked blinds, cutting pale stripes across the ceiling.
Brandon blinked awake slowly, the dull ache in his side reminding him that yes—he had, in fact, been shot. But the pain was distant now, numbed by sleep, gauze, and possibly Beth's over-the-counter cocktail of painkillers and sheer stubbornness.
He shifted slightly, trying not to pull at the stitches… and that's when he noticed it.
Beth.
Pressed against him.
Draped up against him, to be specific.
Her arm was thrown lazily over his midsection, head resting lightly against his shoulder. One leg—how had that even gotten there—was tangled around his. Her breath was warm against his chest, and for a terrifying moment, Brandon was more aware of her body than the bullet hole still healing in his side.
The bed was small. Narrow. Definitely not meant for two people.
Especially not them.
He stared up at the ceiling, face blank.
Was she dreaming? Had she moved in her sleep? Or was this just her usual brand of chaos?
Still, she looked—peaceful. Calmer than he'd ever seen her. Like she didn't have knives stashed under her pillows or murderous tendencies instead of a heart.
He wasn't used to that.
He wasn't used to her, this version of her.
She was really starting to act like a— his girlfriend.
The thought made something twist in his chest.
Not unpleasantly.
He was about to close his eyes again when she shifted, muttered something under her breath, and blinked awake. Her eyes met his.
And then she froze.
There was a full two seconds of complete stillness—her brain, clearly catching up to what her body had done—before she bolted upright like she'd touched a live wire.
"I—uh—I wasn't gonna sleep on the floor in my own room," she said quickly, too quickly, not meeting his eyes. "It's my bed."
Brandon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You sure? Because you made yourself real comfortable."
Beth scoffed and turned away from him, heading to the sink with exaggerated indifference. "It's a small bed."
He sat up, wincing slightly but not letting it show too much. "You were practically using me as a weighted blanket."
"It's not like I was spooning you," she muttered, a little too defensively.
"You kinda were."
"Shut up."
He chuckled under his breath, watching as she busied herself rinsing out a plastic cup that didn't need rinsing. She was flustered.
Genuinely flustered.
And that—he was sure—was a rare sight.
"I mean, if we're gonna keep the whole 'couple' act going," he said casually, "you might wanna tone it down. You're starting to sell it a little too well."
Beth turned, slowly. Her face was carefully blank… except for the faintest blush at the tips of her ears.
"I will stab you."
"Not with me still healing, you won't."
Her eyes narrowed, but there was no real bite behind it. "Keep talking and I'll be the one shooting you next time."
Brandon just smiled, leaning back on her pillows. "So you are planning something."
Beth threw the cup at him, and for the first time since the screw up, he laughed—really laughed.
Maybe this thing between them was still twisted, half a lie wrapped in some makeshift truth. Maybe it wasn't safe. Probably wasn't smart. But as far as fake relationships with killer goth girls went… it could've been worse.
He watched her quietly for a moment longer, memorizing how the sunlight caught the edge of her smirk, how she pretended not to care even when she clearly did.
Something in him stirred again.
Damn it.
He really was in trouble.