I glance down and clip my heels together, making the pompoms bounce. “Thanks,”
When I glance back, the smirk is gone. He’s studying me. Searching. And then he nods toward the chair beside him. “You going to sit down?”
The other wingback looks ridiculously comfortable. There’s even a thick knit blanket draped over the arm, like fate’s tempting me. I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head.
“You look like you didn’t want to be disturbed,”
I turn, meaning to leave. But I don’t get far before his hand circles my wrist. His skin is warm against my cold fingers, grounding me in place.
“Stay,” he says. One word, soft enough to disarm me.
I meet his eyes again. They’re open now. No mask, no performance. Only a man sitting in the wreckage of whatever storm he's caught in.
I nod.
He lets go, and I move to the chair beside him. I sit carefully, tug the blanket over my legs, and take the bottle when he hands it back. For a long time, we say nothing. We just pass the whiskey between us, the fire crackling in front of us and my music low in the background. The warmth from the alcohol spreads slowly through my chest, chasing off the heaviness one slow sip at a time.
By the time we’re halfway through the bottle, my brain starts to buzz. My heart is still bruised, but I no longer feel on the edge of tears. I turn slightly, watching Asher.
The firelight softens him, outlines the harsh lines of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the mess of his dark hair. He resembles something out of a painting, tragic, beautiful, haunting. I don’t know anything about art, but if I could paint, I’d try to capture this moment. This feeling. The waysome people are masterpieces not because they’re perfect, but because they’re real. Because they bleed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask finally, my voice low. But it slices through the silence like a whip crack.
He stiffens. His jaw clenches. I see him battle with himself, fighting between vulnerability and instinct. He hates being seen. I’ve figured that out by now. For Asher, weakness is a wound he refuses to let anyone touch.
So, I do what I can. I offer him a sliver of truth. Just enough.
“My father all but told me he hates me tonight,”
He blinks at me, startled.
I laugh, bitter and dry. “It’s nothing new, honestly. I’ve known for years. I was a mistake, an inconvenience he never forgave. But tonight… he confirmed it. And suddenly it felt like everything I feared was true. That I’m not only unlovable to him. I’m unlovable to everyone. A stain,”
My eyes stay fixed on the fire, away from him. “My mother is the same, and…” I cut myself off. This version of Ruella doesn’t have a sister. I swallow hard, clear my throat, and drown the ache with another gulp of whiskey.
Silence settles between us again. It doesn’t feel heavy this time. Just honest.
“I’m exhausted,” he says, barely more than a whisper.
I glance at him; not sure I heard him right.
He’s still staring at me. But his whole posture has shifted. He’s softer, somehow. Unfolding.
“I have so many responsibilities,” he murmurs. “There’s the business. Classes. lacrosse. My sister. It’s all just… crushing. I feel like I can’t breathe most days,”
I nod. I know that feeling too well.
He looks away, shame flickering across his face. “My mother’s an addict. I clean up after her, lie for her. I pretend everything’s fine because someone has to. My siblings need me to be the strong one. And my father… he’s the reason for everyone’s misery. He cheats, lies, and drags our name through the mud, and then he blames me when I can’t fix it fast enough,” His jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “Sometimes I wish he was dead,”
I don’t flinch. I don’t react at all. He notices.
His confused glare searches mine. “You’re not shocked?”
I shake my head, voice quiet. “I’ve wished the same,”
He watches me for a long moment.
“Who are you?” he asks, not like it’s a joke. Like he genuinely needs to know.
