Asher lay on the dusty sofa, the old springs creaking under his weight like they were complaining about his presence. The cabin smelled of damp wood and faint rot, even after Harlan's half-hearted cleaning. He stared at the cracked ceiling, arms folded tight across his chest, replaying the way he had shut Harlan down. Again. The guy had only been trying to reach out, and Asher had slammed the door in his face like always. Stupid. So fucking stupid.
He could hear Harlan moving quietly on the floor, probably trying to get comfortable on whatever makeshift bedding he'd scraped together. Asher wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in his throat. Apologies never came easy. Not for him.
Instead, exhaustion pulled at his limbs like heavy chains. His stomach was full from the berries, but his chest felt hollow. The image of Xavier kept flickering behind his eyes, that lazy smirk, the way his voice could cut through noise and silence alike.
