Page 60 of Ashen Souls

The unvarnished truth in his voice sliced right through my careful defenses, drawing me back into his orbit before I could reach the door.

I imagined walking away. Pushing through the glass door, going back to my apartment, and waiting for the shadows to claim me again.

Instead, I let the strap of my bag slip off my shoulder and drop back against my hip.

“Coffee.”

A distinctly satisfied look settled over his features. “And then the walk.” It wasn't a question this time.

I should have said no.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good.”

We walked to the counter together. He ordered a black americano, and I asked for a tea I didn't need, mostly just for an excuse to hold something warm.

When the barista slid the paper cups across the counter, Ethan reached for mine before I could.

“For you,” he said, extending it toward me.

As I took the cup, his fingers brushed mine. There was nothing supernatural about it, just the warm skin of another person. And somehow, that made it worse.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“You’re welcome, Aveline.”

He stepped aside, pulling open the glass door. As I moved past him, the gap between us narrowed to a razor-thin margin. The crisp, biting scent of the street air mixed briefly with the warmth of his cologne.

The park was subdued, pale sunlight fracturing through the skeletal branches.

We fell into step side by side. He kept his free hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, his stride unhurried, leaving me to hyper-fixate on how often his arm brushed against mine.

“You look different outside the classroom,” he noted.

A small crease formed between my brows. “Different how?”

I could feel his eyes scanning my profile for a beat, as if he were reading between the lines of a difficult text. “Less defensive. Or maybe just guarded in an entirely different way.”

“That’s probably because you aren't currently grading me.”

The formality bled out of his expression, replaced by a flicker of real humor.

“When we discussed your essay yesterday,” he said after a while, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes, “you seemed conflicted about Selene's final choice.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Because the myth frames it as a mercy. She put Endymion to sleep to save him from mortality.”

“But you don't buy that.”

“No.” I hesitated. “She didn't do it for him. She did it to keep him. She wanted him entirely hers: unconscious, unchanging, bound to her in the dark.” I fought the sudden, suffocating pressure that threatened to stall my voice. “People call it eternal love, but it's not. It's ruthless. And completely selfish.”

A hard line tightened his jaw.

“Desire usually is,” he murmured.

The raw honesty in his voice hung in the air, too heavy to ignore. I wrapped both hands tightly around my paper cup, using the heat of the tea to ground myself before the conversation could pull me entirely under.

The wind rattled the bare branches above us before I found my voice. “Do you think passion always costs something?”