Page 11 of May's Bad Boy: Kody

Later that night, the house is quiet. I have a hard time falling asleep, it's so quiet. I guess I doze off at some point because a thud wakes me up.

Not loud. Not violent. But off. Enough that I'm sitting upright, trying to get my bearings. My first thought is Sadie.

I'm on my feet in seconds, checking Sadie's room first. She's curled in bed, Bear-Bear clutched to her chest, one foot poking out from under the unicorn blanket, her tiny snores filling the room.

The sound didn't come from her room.

I move through the hallway, each step heavier than the last. There's a faint light coming from the kitchen. The low yellow glow of the stove bulb shines dimly.

Then I see her.

Paige is on the floor.

She’s crumpled in a heap beside the fridge, her arm half-stretched like she was trying to catch herself. Her skin is ghostly pale, and her breathing is shallow and rapid.

"Paige!"

I drop to my knees beside her. Her eyes are fluttering, her forehead damp with sweat, and her lips are moving, but I can't make out the words.

Panic claws at my chest.

What the hell is happening?

Then, like lightning through my brain—it hits me.

Her diabetes.

Where's her bag? I rack my brain and my gaze darts around until it lands on the counter. Scrambling up, I dig through the bag with trembling hands until I find the glucose gel. I tear it open and rush back to her.

"Hey, hey. Paige. Come on, baby. You need to take this. Stay with me."

Her eyes don't track me, but when I press the gel to her lips and gently squeeze it into her mouth, she swallows. Not much, but enough. Her breathing hitches, then starts to steady. Not perfect, but better.

Sliding to the floor, I cradle her head in my lap, brushing the hair away from her face with shaking fingers.

"You're okay," I whisper. Over and over. Maybe if I say it enough, it'll be true. "You're safe. I've got you. You're okay."

I lose count of how long I sit there. By the time I come to my senses and remember my phone is on my nightstand in the bedroom and I should go get it to call 911, her skin loses that waxy sheen. Her lips move again, and this time, I think she says my name.

But I don't leave her side. Instead, I carry her to bed, gently as if she might shatter. I pile pillows behind her, tuck a blanket around her, and sit against the headboard. She leans into me without saying anything, her head resting lightly against my chest. Her breathing evens out, slow and steady.

But it's more than that. The way she tucks into me, instinctively, like she trusts me to be the place she can rest. It undoes something in me. Her hand, small and cool, finds mine in the dark, and I close my fingers around hers without thinking. It's not just about making sure she's okay anymore.

It's about the quiet ache in my chest that won't stop tightening. About how her presence beside me fills a space I didn't realize was empty until now. How the scent of her hair, faint and floral against my shoulder, somehow steadies my racing heart.

She dozes off and on. I don't sleep at all. I keep my hand wrapped around hers, not because she asked, but because I need that contact. Need to know she's still here and still okay.

When the first streaks of dawn touch the sky through the window, she stirs again.

She blinks up at me, face pale and drawn. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Her voice is so soft it's almost not there. She tries to sit up, but I stop her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't," I murmur. "Don't pretend this doesn't matter."

Her lips tremble. Her eyes go glassy.

"I ran out of insulin last month," she says, voice thick with shame. "The clinic gave me some. It wasn't enough. I thought I could stretch it, just a few more days..."

God. My throat tightens. Not with anger. With helpless fury. At the world. At the system. At whoever let her fall through the cracks like this.

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