Chapter 9: Asher

The front door clicks shut behind her with a finality that cuts through the house like a thin, cold blade.

I wait at the top of the stairs, arms folded across my chest, the banister cool against my knuckles, listening to the soft retreat of her footsteps on the sidewalk, the way they fade too fast into the night air.

It’s cold out there.

Colder than she’s dressed for.

I can still see it—the thin cardigan pulled tight across her shoulders, the worn jeans, the ridiculous little flats that offer nothing against the cold seeping into the ground.

For a moment, I stay there, unmoving, breathing in the thick warmth of the house, the remnants of dinner and laughter hanging in the air like smoke, trying to convince myself it’s not my business.

But the thing is—

It is.

I move down the stairs quietly, my boots making almost no sound against the worn wood, and find my parents still in the kitchen, half-cleaned plates scattered across the table, my dad pouring the last of the wine into two mismatched glasses.

"She’s walking home by herself?" I ask, keeping my voice even, casual.

My mom looks up, her smile still warm from the evening. "Don’t worry, honey. She lives just a few blocks away. Barely a ten-minute walk."

I glance toward the door again, jaw tight.

"It’s dark," I say. "And cold. And she’s—"

I cut myself off, swallowing the rest.

Small.

Fragile.

Dressed in scraps of fabric better suited for a warm ballet studio than a cold night.

My dad waves a hand. "It’s a good neighborhood, Ash. Safe as you can get."

I don’t say anything.

Because I know better.

Safe doesn’t exist.

Not really.

Bad things happen everywhere.

In nice neighborhoods.

On quiet streets.

To girls who think a ten-minute walk home isn’t enough time for anything bad to happen.

I would know.

I grit my teeth and push the thought down.

"You let Tyler run off to parties like that often?" I ask instead, my voice harder than I mean it to be.

My mom frowns slightly, but she’s still smiling when she answers. "He’s nineteen, sweetheart. He’s old enough to make his own decisions."

"And he usually doesn’t overdo it," my dad adds, reaching for the remote and turning off the TV with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Good kid. A little wild sometimes, but nothing serious."

I nod, not trusting myself to say more.

The idea of him leaving that girl—

Leaving her like she was nothing—

It sits wrong in my chest, a bitter stone pressing into my ribs.

I shove it down, where it belongs, and lean in to kiss my mom on the cheek, muttering a quiet, "Thanks for letting me crash here."

She hugs me tighter than I expect, her arms warm around my shoulders, her voice soft in my ear.

"This will always be your home, baby."

I nod again, swallowing around the tightness in my throat.

But the truth is, it’s not my home.

Not really.

I step back, letting her go, and turn toward the stairs, my boots heavy against the wood as I climb them two at a time.

The guest room waits for me at the end of the hall.

Or at least, that’s what they call it.

But the second I push the door open, I know it’s more than that.

The walls are painted the same deep navy blue as the house I left behind three years ago. The bed is made up with the same dark comforter I used to throw myself onto after long shifts at the docks, back when the worst thing I had to worry about was paying for gas and passing calculus.

There’s even a few of my old things scattered around—books I barely remember reading, a framed photo of the four of us on some long-forgotten beach trip, the battered baseball glove I refused to throw away.

They tried to make this home they moved into feel like the one they left behind a year ago.

Because no matter how hard they tried to make it feel the same, it’s not.

I’m not.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and drag a hand through my hair, staring at the floor.

I didn’t want to come back.

If it had been up to me, I’d still be out there—working, fighting, doing something that made sense, something that mattered, something where the rules were clear and survival was simple.

But it wasn’t up to me.

It never really is.

My superior had ordered it—a mandatory leave, signed and stamped and delivered with a look that said you don’t have a choice, Hayes.

And so here I am.

Sitting in a house that isn’t mine, wearing a skin that doesn’t quite fit, trying to pretend like the walls aren’t closing in.

I lean back, one arm folded behind my head, and stare up at the ceiling, the dark shadows of the fan blades slicing slow circles above me.

And against my will, my mind drifts back to her.

Penny.

That’s what they called her.

Penny with the too-bright smile and the soft blonde hair twisted into a tight bun, strands falling loose around her ears.

Penny with the tiny body wrapped in thin pink fabric and fragile stockings that showed the faint outlines of bruises against her ankles if you looked closely enough.

Penny who looked like she didn’t belong in this world at all.

Like she’d been plucked from some storybook where bad things didn’t happen to good girls.

I hate girls like her.

Entitled.

Delicate.

Sheltered from everything real, everything brutal, everything that makes the world spin the way it does.

The kind of girl who’s never had to worry about cold nights and cruel hands and the way your stomach knots when you turn a corner and realize you’re not alone.

The kind of girl who doesn’t understand that safety is a myth.

That there’s no such thing as walking home alone and being untouchable.

And still—

Still.

The image of her standing in the doorway, clutching her cardigan tighter around her narrow shoulders, trying to smile through the awkwardness, won’t leave me.

Neither does the memory of Tyler.

Grinning. Laughing. Shrugging off the responsibility like it meant nothing.

Leaving her here without a second thought.

Without a text.

Without a warning.

I roll onto my side, pressing my fist against the mattress, squeezing until my knuckles pop.

It’s not about her.

It’s about him.

It’s about the carelessness, the arrogance, the assumption that everything would work out because it always does.

Because when you’ve never seen it go wrong—

You think it never will.

I stare at the wall, jaw tight, breathing slow and even.

I shouldn’t care.

I don’t care.

It’s not my problem if Tyler’s an idiot.

It’s not my business if some spoiled little princess has to walk home in the dark.

I’m here to sleep, to recover, to serve out my damn mandatory leave without losing my mind.

I’m not here to rescue anyone.

Especially not her.

Especially not someone like her.

Especially not someone who looks at the world like it’s soft and safe and waiting to catch her if she falls.

I close my eyes.

She’s not my problem.

And I’ll make damn sure she never becomes one.