LikeIdidn’t mean anything.
He had no right to wipe me away like I was a stain.
So no, I don’t want to wear someone else’s clothes. Not ones that were worn, loved, or lived in. Not ones that still hold the shape of someone else’s shoulders or the faint scent of their life.
What I’d been hoping for, naively maybe, was something untouched. Something left behind by accident, maybe. A brand-new pair of pants a husband bought for his wife while she was recovering. Something that didn’t fit, so she left them behind.
Clearly, that was wishful thinking.
I bite my lip.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask Cassian quietly. “Just… have a little sympathy, okay?”
Cassian freezes.
Then he stares at me like I’m crossing the line here.
“Why do you think I agreed to this fucking errand in the first place?” he mutters, bitterly. “Sympathy’s all I’ve got.”
Before I can respond, he jams the dagger back between his teeth, grabs the box, and jerks his head toward the hallway. His mute version ofwe’re done here.
I follow, senses sharp, scanning the dark corridors for any sign of the wraith. A shadow. A whisper. A shift in the air. Nothing, thank god, but it still feels like we’re tiptoeing across a minefield.
I figure we’re heading for another room, maybe the nurses’ station or one of the locked cabinets we passed earlier, but then we reach the main staircase.
Cassian doesn’t stop. He starts climbing.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “We left at least a dozen rooms behind.”
No answer. Of course not, he’s got a dagger clenched between his teeth like some deranged pirate. But I shut up and follow anyway.
Eventually, we reach the psych ward. There’s the full package. The familiar steel doors, the muted lighting, the heaviness in the air.
Cassian sets the box down, punches a code into the padlock, and kicks the door open with the flat of his boot. The heavy metal creaks inward. He picks the box back up and steps aside, waiting for me to enter first.
Just like the first time I was here, I’m struck again by how different his room feels compared to the rest of the hospital. Most of the upper floors are corroded, walls and windows cracked, ceilings caved in, moisture leaking through every gap. Mold and rust cling to everything. But in here, it’s all gone. The room is strangely clean. No decay. No dark spots anywhere. No stink. It’s minimalist, just the essentials, yet it still smells like him. Musky and a little sweet, with a sharp undercurrent of metal and soap.
Cassian follows me in, closes the door, and drops the box with a thud. Finally, he pulls the dagger from his mouth and tosses it onto the bed.
“You’d rather the dagger lie on the bed than be in my hand?” I ask, raising a brow.
His jaw flexes as he stretches it, then he raises an eyebrow of his own.
“The room’s warded,” he says. “Nothing should be able to get in.”
Oh. That shuts me up.
He watches me for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching before he rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something off.
“Check the closet,” he says.
I blink.
“Huh?”
“My clothes,” he explains. “Check them out.”
“You’re offering meyourclothes?”
