Page 86 of Ashen Souls

“Easily. Like it wasn't even a question.”

The heavy blackout in my head fractured.

The floor dropping away. The unyielding line of a shoulder catching my cheek. Cedar, clean linen, and cold night air abruptly cut through the stench of cheap beer and sweat. His voice vibrating right against my ear: “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

“He carried you upstairs,” Harper went on. “Didn’t make a scene. Didn’t say much. Just asked where my room was and followed me.”

I don’t need you treating my head like a battleground. Then go.

The memory of what I’d thrown at him earlier landed like a slap. I had told him to get out. Instead, he had planted himself by the wall, watching my back, waiting for the exact moment I couldn't hold myself up anymore.

“And then he set you on the bed,” Harper said. “Carefully. Like he was afraid you’d break.”

A new fragment sliced through the haze.

The mattress dipping. A rough thumb brushing the hair out of my face, lingering against my skin for half a second. A jagged intake of breath in the dark, right before he pulled his hands away.

I pressed the heels of my hands harder into my eyes, until colors sparked behind my eyelids.

“So I owe him,” I rasped.

Harper let out a dry sigh. “You owe yourself for surviving the night. He just… intervened.”

“I don’t remember half of that.”

“I know,” she replied. “And honestly? Better that way. I’ll keep track of the details for now. You just worry about surviving the morning.”

“Thank you. Seriously.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Part of the service. But next time you decide to rage-dance through your emotional baggage, we’re setting a strict two-drink limit. And no disappearing acts.”

“Fair.”

She pushed herself off the bed. “Now. Shower. Hydrate. Then we’ll track down your missing clothes and pretend last night was just aggressive character development.”

“Harper?”

She paused.

“I’m really glad it was you next to me.”

She smirked. “Obviously. Anyone else would’ve charged admission for that show.”

It was well past noon by the time we finally shuffled out of the room.

The shower helped. A little. Greasy food did less. Aspirin did the most.

Afterward, I sat on Harper’s bed, buried in one of her oversized hoodies.

“Thank God it’s Saturday,” I muttered.

“And thank spring break for starting Monday,” Harper added, tossing a damp towel onto her desk chair. “No classes. No responsibilities. Just you, your existential crisis, and possibly some strange magic.”

“Don’t romanticize it. I’m running purely on caffeine and denial.”

She sat cross-legged opposite me. “You’ll survive.”

I closed my eyes. And then a completely different kind of dread dropped like a stone, wiping out the alcohol-induced nausea.