I shut off the water with more force than necessary, the pipes groaning in protest, and step out onto the bath mat.
My feet leave wet prints on the tile as I grab a towel and drag it over my face, feeling the rough cotton scrape against my stubble.
I dry my hair roughly, not caring that it’s sticking up in every direction, then move to my chest, my arms, watching water droplets race down my skin.
The mirror is fogged, condensation thick and impenetrable, which is a mercy—I don’t want to see my own reflection right now.
Don’t want to see the hollow-eyed bastard staring back at me, the one who let his best friend get shot.
I wrap the towel around my waist, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against my skin, and push open the bathroom door.
Steam billows out around me, dissipating into the cooler air of my bedroom.
The contrast is immediate—the air here is less suffocating, easier to breathe, but it doesn’t help the tightness in my chest, the invisible band that keeps constricting tighter and tighter.
And then I see her.
Valentina.
She’s sitting in the middle of my bed like some kind of ghost, cross-legged on top of the charcoal comforter I never bother to make properly.
She’s wearing one of Xavier’s oversized shirts—I recognize it immediately, black with faded white lettering from some band he saw in high school.
It hangs off her shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the pale skin of her neck, stopping mid-thigh and making her look smaller than she actually is.
Her hair is a mess, blonde waves tangled around her face like she’s been running her hands through it obsessively, and hereyes—Christ, her eyes—are red-rimmed and exhausted, the skin beneath them bruised purple with fatigue.
She looks like she’s been crying and fighting sleep in equal measure, her body hunched in on itself like she’s trying to make herself disappear.
She looks up when I walk in, and for a second, neither of us says anything.
The silence stretches, heavy and loaded, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning.
“Val,” I say finally, my voice rougher than I intended, scraped raw from disuse and emotion. “What are you doing here?”
She wraps her arms around herself, hugging Xavier’s shirt tighter, and I can see the tremble in her hands, the way her fingers dig into the fabric like she’s holding on for dear life.
“I can’t sleep alone in his bed tonight,” she says quietly, her voice small and fractured, each word seeming to cost her something.
“I tried. I really did. But every time I close my eyes, I just?—”
Her voice breaks, actually cracks in the middle like glass shattering, and she looks away, blinking hard against tears that are already threatening to spill.
“I can’t do it, Asher. I can’t be in that room without him. Everything smells like him. The sheets, the pillows. It’s like he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and I feel like I’m suffocating.”
Fuck.
I run a hand through my damp hair, and try to think past the exhaustion clawing at my brain.
This is a bad idea. A terrible idea.
The optics alone—Valentina in my bed, Xavier in the hospital, the two of us alone in the early morning hours—it’s ammunition for anyone looking to undermine her, to twist the narrative into something ugly.
Johnson would have a field day. George would demand her fucking head. I should tell her to get out. But then I look at her again. Really look at her.
And I see the cracks running through her, visible fault lines that threaten to split her open completely.
She’s not asking for much. Just someone to be there.