I shake my head, but the laugh won’t die. It turns to something else, though, something sharper, almost tears but not quite. “We almost did.”
He sits up, serious now, voice low. “I’m sorry I believed it. Even for a second.”
“Me too,” I say, and I mean it.
We sit there, catching our breath, letting the echo of what might have been roll out to nothing.
“Next time,” he says, “let’s just talk, okay?”
“Okay.”
He leans in, rests his head on my shoulder, and for the first time since I can remember, I feel weightless.
The city keeps spinning outside, but in here, in this busted apartment with the lamp that doesn’t make sense and the couch that’s already too small for us, everything feels possible.
We survived. We chose each other.
That’s enough.
For tonight.
———
Asher
We pick the place.
Not because we want home ice, but because there’s only so many variables you can control when you’re going head-to-head with a guy who turned your whole life into a clickbait suicide note.
Darius picks it, actually. Neutral ground, daylight, some indie coffee shop in the heart of Capitol Hill, all white tile and reclaimed wood and people who look like they haven’t felt a feeling in years.
Vincent is already there, of course.
Ten minutes early, sipping from a glass that’s supposed to look like a mason jar but just looks like a test tube. His notebook is open, pen parked exactly parallel to the edge of the table.
He’s in a blazer, shirt so pressed it could double as an offensive weapon, and he’s texting with his left hand while scrolling his phone with the right, which should be physically impossible but, then, so is half the shit he’s pulled already.
He clocks us the second we walk in.
His face does this thing where it goes perfectly blank, like he’s shutting down every unnecessary process to focus all CPU cycles on the threat in front of him.
The barista says “Hey, Ash!” and I wave, like it’s a normal Tuesday and not the morning of my own public execution.
Darius puts a hand on my back as we walk up. It’s not for me; it’s a warning for Vincent. The second we hit the table, Vincent stands, offers a handshake. I ignore it.
Darius does too, just sits, arms crossed, jaw set, making the bench creak in protest.
Vincent sits. The silence is a third party at the table, hovering like a drone waiting for the signal to drop a payload.
He opens with, “I appreciate you coming.” His voice is softer than usual, almost intimate, like he’s about to read me my rights. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but…”
“Let’s not,” I say. My voice sounds tired even to me. “Let’s just do it.”
He looks at Darius, then at me. “You’re together.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. Darius’s hand is on my leg under the table, steady.
Vincent sighs. He closes his notebook, lines up the pen again. “Okay. You want to know why I did it.”
