As I make my way down the halls, bass thumps through the walls, a heartbeat of its own. I can picture the chaos: glittering lights, spilled drinks, Corden’s grin in the middle of it all. The thought of him softens something in me. I slide my phone from my pocket and shoot him a quick text.
We haven’t spent much time together this week. And… I miss him. More than I thought I would.
I smirk before climbing the stairs to the second floor, though my mood seems to drop with every creaking step along the polished hardwood. A chill licks at the back of my neck, slipping beneath the cardigan, and I pull it tighter around my shoulders like it might shield me from the weight pressing down on this place.
The large mahogany door to the billiards room looms ahead, its ornate carvings darkened with age. I pause, pressing my ear against the wood. Silence. Thick and absolute. Good. I’m in no mood for company. Just me, a bottle, and the ghosts of my own thoughts.
With a soft push, the door creaks open and shuts behind me with a muted click. Warmth greets me immediately, the soft hum of the fireplace, the low golden glow from a few table lamps, and the faint scent of tobacco and leather lingering in the air. The room is cavernous, but still manages to feel close and comforting.
The walls are a deep green panelled in walnut, adorned with oil portraits whose eyes seem to follow as I move. There are two full-sized billiards tables stretched out beneath iron chandeliers that hang heavy with unlit candles, and along the edges of the room are groupings ofantique chairs and tufted leather couches, all sagging in the way only old money furniture can, comfortable, worn, expensive.
At the far end of the room, a stone fireplace taller than I am crackles softly, the flames casting shifting shadows across the hearth. Two tall wingback chairs sit angled toward it, a plush rug beneath them looking perfectly rumpled, like someone had once fallen asleep there mid-drink and never returned.
My eyes trail to the back wall, where the liquor cabinet isn’t even pretending to be hidden. Bottles sit proudly on open glass shelves, amber, emerald, obsidian, a quiet rebellion against any rules that might once have existed here.
I make my way over, fingers brushing the edge of a polished credenza as I pass. When I reach the cabinet, I glance toward the trio of arched windows that overlook the grounds. They’re massive, cathedral-sized, and framed by heavy velvet drapes. I step closer, peering out through the slightly warped glass.
Below, a group of boys loiter beneath one of the estate’s old outdoor lamps, their shadows stretching long on the frost-bitten lawn. One claps another on the back, laughter curling into the air like smoke. They look like they belong here, laughing, untouchable, part of something. I feel a sudden pinch of envy before I drag my gaze away.
With a sigh, I select a bottle filled with deep gold liquid and pour a generous measure into a crystal glass. It burns going down, a fire in my chest that feels almost holy. I reach for a second pour but change my mind and take the bottle instead. No one’s here to judge.
The fire murmurs behind me as I take another swig, already feeling the sting in my stomach unwinding into something looser. Softer. Easier to breathe.
To the right of the hearth sits an antique speaker system, brass knobs, leather casing, the kind of luxury no one makes anymore, but with modern fixtures. I plug in my phone, scroll through my playlists until I find one that suits the flicker of firelight and the ache in my chest. A soft thrum of music fills the room, just enough to cover the distant echo of Deveroux House’s party across the grounds.
My lips tilt in a quiet smile as Paramore’s opening notes begin to play. I close my eyes, letting the beat roll over me, and take another drink. Then, without bothering to check, I step back toward the fireplace and sink into one of the high-backed chairs.
“If you wanted to sit in my lap, all you had to do was ask,” A familiar voice breaks my haven and I scream as I jolt back to my feet and spin around.
With wide eyes and my hand to my racing heart, it takes a second to process what I’m looking at.
Asher Vander.
Still in the same outfit he left me in this afternoon. He's sitting there like a ghost tethered to the room, lit only by the flickering glow of the fireplace. It throws dancing shadows across his features, and for a second, he looks like some brooding god of the underworld. Hades watching his kingdom burn. There's an empty glass hanging lazily from his fingers and a flush in his cheeks that tells me this isn’t his first drink of the night.
“Wha...what the hell, Asher,” I stammer, my voice too loud in the heavy quiet.
His attention drifts from my face down my body, slow and bold. A shiver travels across my skin at the manner of his gaze, dark, unreadable, and far too intense. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, and I feel my pulse skip.
“Why didn’t you say something when I came in?” I snap, more defensive than I mean to be.
He shrugs. “I was... preoccupied,” The words come out lazy, soaked in alcohol and exhaustion. He raises the glass, realises it’s empty, and sets it down with a hollow clink. The same tightness in his jaw from earlier is still there, but there’s something softer in his shoulders now. The edge has dulled. Maybe the whiskey's doing its job.
I hesitate, staring at him.
His attention flicks to the fire behind me, the glow painting the brown iris molten gold. Something inside them is empty, drained, maybe broken, and before I even think about it, I’m holding out my bottle to him.
His gaze finds the bottle first, then shifts back to me. The moment our eyes lock, it’s like gravity shifts. That strange pull again. It keeps happening, and I don’t understand why. He’s a stranger. A cruel one, half the time. But there’s something in him, something raw, unguarded, that makes me feel like I’ve known him longer than I should.
It’s probably nothing. A trick of the mind. A trauma bond forming in real time. Maybe I’m grasping at anything that resembles warmth, just like with Silas. Still, I can’t pull away.
He takes the bottle from me by the neck, and without breaking eye contact, tips it back.
It’s such a small thing, his lips on the glass, the tilt of his head, but it makes my breath catch. My nipples harden instantly. And I realise too late that I’m only in a vest top. No bra. Great. He’ll definitely notice.
I tug the cardigan closed around my chest, crossing my arms to hide the reaction. The shorts don’t help either, bare legs stretched out under the firelight like an open invitation. I usually don’t care, but no one else makes my body betray me like Asher does. I hate that he knows it.
“Cute slippers,” he says, and the smirk that tugs at his lips is annoyingly charming.
