Page 35 of Ashen Souls

Matt leaned across the table. “So how’s Mr. Philosophy Major? Still blaming Mercury for ghosting you?”

I kicked him under the table.

He yelped. “See? Concussion made her violent.”

Mom sighed. “And if you get dizzy…”

“I’ll call,” I cut in quickly, leaning over to kiss her cheek before she could continue the speech.

Dad lowered the newspaper. His gaze was heavy, searching my face with the same unnerving intensity he’d had in his study a week ago. “Are you absolutely sure you're ready to be on your own?” he asked, his tone careful. “Is everything alright? No more of those dreams? And what about that... itchy wrist of yours?”

My heart gave a hard thump, but I kept my expression blank. I pressed my arm closer to my side, ensuring the cuff of my sweater was pulled down tight over my skin.

“No dreams. And my wrist doesn't itch anymore.”

It was technically the truth. It didn't itch. It just held a permanently branded mark that I had no intention of telling him about.

He studied me for a tense second, searching for a lie in my eyes. When he didn't find one, he gave a tight nod. “Alright. Drive safe.”

Matt snorted. “Or invest in bubble wrap.”

“TikTok would love that,” Chloe said. “#BubbleWrapAesthetic.”

“You’re all impossible,” I said, though I was smiling.

This was their usual chaos: loud, familiar, and relentlessly normal. Leaving them was like pulling a stitch before the skin had fully healed. Necessary. But not painless.

By the time I reached the other side of Vesbridge and climbed the stairwell, the bakery’s signature scent of yeast, flour, and the bitter edge of burnt sugar greeted me like a familiar, warm embrace.

Harper was already sprawled across my couch wearing ripped leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, holding a bottle of prosecco like a trophy.

“Welcome back to civilization,” she announced. “Your bed missed you. I missed you. And your radiator missed me.”

“You broke in.” I dropped my bags to the floor with a tired exhale.

“I have a key.” She dangled it from her finger.

Harper technically lived in the dorms across campus, but she had spent more nights at my apartment than in her own bed. She had a drawer in my bedroom, a toothbrush by my sink, and a key on a chipped silver ring that hadn’t belonged to me since move-in day.

“Now sit down. We’re having a girl night with face masks, Netflix, and gossip. I brought snacks. And yes, before you ask, there are Doritos.”

“We have class tomorrow.”

“Class can wait. Trauma bonding comes first.”

I sank onto the cushions beside her. “Fine. But only because my body still feels like a crash-test dummy.”

She poured prosecco into two mismatched mugs. “A toast. To your miraculous survival.”

We clinked them together. The prosecco tasted cheap and sweet.

“You sure you’re ready to be back?” she asked.

“I think so. I can’t hide forever.”

She took a long sip, studying me. “So, how’s married life with Satan?”

I nearly choked on my drink. “Excuse me?”