I try to slow my breathing while also trying to sit upright, but it’s all useless. Dots blur my vision, and I don’t notice the hands on me until something is shoved in my mouth. My brain picks up on what’s happening—just barely—and I close my mouth around the plastic and push down on the medication.

The puff of medicine doesn’t reach my lungs on the first try, but thankfully it does on the second. I try a third time for good measure.

My body is weightless, crumbled on the floor with a hard mass at my back while I focus on breathing.

One measured breath, then two.

Heaving is the better word. Or gasping. Rasping. All the above.

It gets easier as the seconds pass, with the help of the circles Mickey is rubbing against my back. Though his touch does nothing to take away the ache in my ribs or the claws ripping down my throat.

Leaning my head against Mickey’s shoulder, he shifts so his arms are wrapped around my waist, rocking us from side to side, murmuring something I can’t make out over the rush of adrenaline.

Minutes pass as my breathing evens out, and oxygen slowly seeps back into my brain. I almost wish it didn’t so I can escape Mickey’s questioning.

“Where’s your inhaler?”

Silence follows.

He knows the answer, and I don’t have the energy to think of an elaborate excuse for why it isn’t in my pocket or my bag like it should be.

“Where’s your inhaler, Isabella?” His voice is darker this time, and the tension returns to my tired body.

“At…”

“The next words out of your mouth better not be ‘at home,’” he warns, and his arms stop giving me the comfort they did moments ago. “Jesus Christ, Bella. You can’t keep forgetting.”

I shuffle away from him so we face each other, but my attention trains on my intertwined hands. “I’m fine. It’s only mild.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath before he all but yells, “Do you realize how serious this is? What if you have an asthma attack and I’m not there, huh?” Roman moves closer, so I can’t avoid seeing his anger. “What if no one around you has an inhaler? What then? You could die.”

We’ve had this talk more times than I can count, but he’s never outright said those words. He’s always skirted around the subject so he doesn’t upset me. I can’t call this an innocent mistake anymore. I can’t call it an accident.

Mickey got me more than one inhaler. He got me a goddamn case for it so I can leave it in my bag. He even sends me text reminders to take it. I just… don’t. I have no idea why. Maybe for some semblance of control.

My eyes start to water. I’m not trying to be difficult. I want to be able to breathe. To live. I swear I do.

I think I do.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

God, I’m so pathetic. So this is how it is? I’m going to need a babysitter for the rest of my life? I can’t go anywhere without Mickey, just in case I accidentally kill myself, because I can’t seem to do something as basic as breathing. How could he want that? Why should he want that? He’s trying to help me, and I won’t even help myself.

He rushes to me, holding my face in the palm of his hands. “No, hey. No, I’m sorry. Breathe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you; it’s just—I—" He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, they’re softer than I’ve ever seen, yet lined with guilt, grief, and fear. “I can’t lose you. You know those cliché sayings that you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and my last thought when I fall asleep? It’s true. You’re always on my mind. Constantly. There isn’t a minute that goes by when I’m not wondering what you’re doing, or if you’re okay, or thinking about me as much as I think about you. If you were to—" Mickey squeezes his eyes shut again like the words physically pain him. “I need you to take care of yourself. Bring your inhaler with you. I’m sorry for raising my voice; I’m mad because I’m worried.”

Sniffling, I shake my head. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. You’re right. It was stupid and reckless and idiotic and—”

“No.” His voice is stern, and he lowers himself so he’s at my eye level. “Listen to me, Bella, and listen to me well. Here’s what you’re going to do: You won’t apologize. You’re not going to cry or say shit like that about yourself. Do you know why? Because you are intelligent and brave and beautiful and kind and fucking perfect, and I don’t deserve you one bit. And I want you to see that in yourself every day, too.”

My body feels entirely too heavy for me. Too tight.

How many times has he quite literally saved me? Pulling me back when we cross the street, carrying an inhaler wherever we go, or beating up bullies for me. I can’t even count how many times he’s called the doctor’s office for me, taken me to my appointment, then picked up my prescription after.

He feathers his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a fallen tear. Leaning into his touch, I savor the feel of his rough hands.

He’ll get sick of me, eventually. It’s just a matter of when. He drops his head, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t take medication or eat breakfast or lunch for me or for Jeremy; you do it for you. Got it?”

All I can do is nod. It isn’t fair of me to expect Roman to slide into the role of caregiver. And it isn’t right for me to rely on him to keep me alive, fed, medicated, and financed while I sift through my paralyzing thoughts. Any money I make is from working at Greg’s store a few hours a week, but even then, he usually keeps my wage.

I have to start taking my life into my own hands and stop blaming my leaking heart for everything. I will never have a mother or father. I’ve known that for a long time, but I need to learn to accept that.

Mickey shifts his hand down my face, and I forget to stop myself from flinching when he puts pressure on my bruise.

His lips curl back into a snarl. “What did those two shitheads say to you?”

At least we aren’t talking about my asthma anymore, but this isn’t much better.

I pull back from his hold, drying my face with my sleeve. “Just leave it, Roman.” I try not to sound as exhausted as I feel, but I know he sees through my faux resolve. “I don’t want to talk about it, because it will mess up our night when you’ve put in all this effort for me.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

I raise my head in defiance. We played this game earlier this afternoon, and I lost. In all fairness, I can put on as much bravado as I want, but Roman is worse than a dog with a bone. He won’t stop unless he finds the whole carcass.

He narrows his eyes. “Tell me.”

“It’s stupid high school stuff. Nothing I haven’t heard before.” I try to feign being unconcerned, but I am very much concerned.

“I don’t give a shit if you hear it every day. They made you cry—they hurt you. They’re lucky they’re not dead yet.”

“Don’t, okay? It’s my birthday, Mickey. Aren’t you meant to do what I say?”

He leans back and eyes me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “I do whatever you ask every day of the year. I don’t need an excuse for it.”

I sigh. I’m definitely not going to win this. “And I’m asking you to forget about it.”

“Forget about it?” His thick brows drop, and the chilly air around us turns venomous. “They left a fucking mark on your face, Isabella.”

As if noticing the attention, pain radiates from my chin. I cringe back at the use of my full name in that tone. In that very, very angry, pissed-off tone.

This isn’t going to be good.

“It wasn’t really their fault.” I try to defend the twins, but the instant I see his face twist, I know I’ve just made it worse. “He was holding me up by my hair, and when he let go, I fell onto the concrete.”

I should have shut up when I could.

He says nothing for a beat.

Oh no.

The atmosphere thickens.

The muscles of his jaw flutter.