“Do you love him?” Ares asks without turning around.
The question freezes me. My heart stutters against my ribs. He slowly pivots to face me, blue eyes sharpened by something raw and vulnerable.
“W-what?” My voice fractures.
“Do you love Harwood?” he asks again, more steady this time, though the steadiness only makes it worse. There’s an ache buried beneath the words, an ache he’s trying and failing to hide.
Sebastian’s face flashes through my mind like a fading portrait. His laughter. His warmth. His steadiness. But the image feels strange, distant, as if someone has drawn fog over the memory, softening its edges. The certainty I once had slips from my grasp before I can catch it.
“Yes,” I manage, but the word rings hollow. It feels borrowed, like a truth I was supposed to believe rather than one I still do. Ares hears the hesitation, how could he not?
Something in his expression caves inward.
He bows his head, pressing it to the wooden door asthough he needs the support. His eyes slip closed, lashes trembling, and he releases a slow breath that shakes just slightly.
“Then I will get you healed and trained,” he says, voice low but resolute. “We’ll get you two back together. And once this is over, I’ll take you both as far away from this mess as I can. I promise.”
The promise tastes like ash. He doesn’t look at me again before opening the door. The cool air of the hallway rushes in, brushing against my damp skin, and then he’s gone, his footsteps fading into silence.
I don't move. I sit perfectly still on the counter, staring at the doorway long after he’s disappeared, waiting for him to come back.
He never does.
My body lurches awake,a sharp inhale cutting into the stillness. For a disoriented second the room tilts, shadowed except for a single flickering candle guttering on the nightstand. The sound that woke me isn’t subtle, ragged breathing, strained and uneven, like someone drowning in their own sleep. My heart kicks up. Ares had insisted on taking the couch after our conversation in the bathroom, putting as much distance between us as the cottage allowed. But the shuddering breaths coming from the other side of the door tell me he isn’t getting rest either.
Carefully, I slide off the bed and grab the candle, its small flame trembling as I open the door into the darkened living space. The room is dim, the shadows long and soft around the furniture, but Ares is unmistakable even amidst the quiet chaos. His body twists in the blankets thrown carelessly over the couch, chest rising in frantic stutters, breath scraping likeeach inhale is a fight for survival. He isn’t awake, he’s trapped somewhere far deeper.
I kneel beside him and touch his face gently, my fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw.
“Ares,” I whisper, giving him a small shake.
Nothing.
“Ares?” My voice sharpens, urgency bleeding through as I shake him harder.
His eyes snap open, feral and unfocused, a beast cornered in its own mind. He jerks upright, breath ripping out of him before reality finally slips back into place. His expression softens at the sight of me, shame pulling at the lines of his face as he drags trembling hands over it.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice cracked. “It’s… a rough night.”
I sit back on my heels, recognizing that haunted tone too well. “I get nightmares too.” The admission feels bare in the quiet. “You’re not alone in that.”
His eyes flick up to mine, something raw flickering there. “I wake up from one and fall straight into another.” A confession, whispered like it costs him something.
Silence crackles between us. He shifts, trying to wave me off. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Really. Go back to sleep.”
I rise halfway, then stop. Something fractures inside my skull, a sharp, splitting pressure that forces me still, as if my own mind is elbowing into the conversation. I shut my eyes, pushing back against the strange resistance that keeps interfering with my thoughts.
The words leave me before I fully decide to say them.
“Will you stay with me?”
He freezes. Not dramatically, just still, like the air crystallizes around him. His surprise is adamant, and for a moment he simply stares, searching my face.
“We don’t have to share a bed,” I add quickly. “You can take the floor. I just…” My voice falters, softer than before. “Ithought maybe you wouldn’t want to be alone right now.”
He studies me as if each syllable is costing me something. “How much does it hurt you to say that?”
The truth slices too close, so I give the lie instead. “It doesn’t. Take it or leave it.”
