I close the book slowly. “You think something’s eating me?”
“Iknowit is.” He moves closer, not abruptly, not aggressively—careful, like he’s learned I’ll vanish if someone reaches too fast.
He’s right. I might. I don't do emotions well—at all.
Ash sits in the chair across from me, elbows on his knees, posture loose but coiled, gaze unwavering. My stomach twists, uncomfortably knotting up until I’m nothing but a ball of stress.
“You don’t sleep,” he says.
I bristle. “You watching me now?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You make a lot of noise when you pace.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Maybe I like the company of my ghosts.”
“Maybe they’re getting crowded,” he counters.
The quiet hums between us, thick and electric. There’s no pity in his voice—just recognition. Shared insomnia, different reasons.
“What do you do instead?” I ask.
“I build things. Break them. Fix them again.”
“Sounds healthy.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Better than remembering.”
The rain deepens outside, heavier now, as if London itself is leaning in to listen. My heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears.
Then he says, almost to himself, “You shouldn’t have to feel responsible for what they do to each other.”
I blink, understanding slowly sliding into place. “You agreeing with me or testing me?”
“Maybe both.” He leans back, restless energy rippling through him, before pinning me with a gaze that almost brings me to my knees. “You’re not their fault, Ember. You know that, right?”
“Feels like it sometimes,” I mutter.
His gaze sharpens. “Rook’s trying to keep you alive. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And Wraith was trying to keep me warm. Look how that turned out.”
A flicker crosses his face—something dark, indistinguishable. Possessive, maybe. Or protective. Both? “That wasn’t about you,” he says quietly.
“Wasn’t it, though?”
His jaw tightens, expression muddying into something I can’t quite put a name to. He doesn’t answer, but the silence does it for him.
I study him, really study him, the way his fingers twitch against his knee, the way his shoulders are just a fraction too tight. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be,” I say softly.
His eyes lift to mine, and hold. “Neither are you.”
The air shifts. Thickens. He takes a step closer, close enough that the edge of the couch brushes his knee, that I can feel his heat, the gravity of him. For a heartbeat, I think he might reach for me.
He doesn’t. He just looks at me like I’m something he shouldn’t touch but already has.
Then he exhales, slow and controlled, pulling back. “You should finish your book.”
“I wasn’t reading it.”
