Chapter Nine
ASH
“Ash…”
The water was running hot in the shower, steam filling the entire room until everything blurred.
“Henny, what—” My heart stopped dead in my chest.
He was lying on his side in the shower, curled against the tile, clothes still on, completely drenched.
His dark eyes—so similar to mine—lifted to me, slow and unfocused. Red-rimmed. “A-Ash?” His voice shook, his whole body trembling, his teeth clenched around my name.
I dropped to my knees, jeans instantly soaking through, and I brushed his hair back, trying to get a good look at him. “What happened?”
My little brother’s gaze broke from mine, filling again with tears that vanished into the wetness on his face. “He—I…”
I waited.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
Nothing came.
“Henny?” I kept my voice soft, even though panic was crashing through me.
The water still roared in the background, and I reached up and turned it off. The sudden silence was almost deafening—broken only by the pitter-patter of water dripping off surfaces.
“Henny?”
He blinked—dazed—like he was waking up from a dream, and in an impossibly small voice, he whispered two words.
“I’m… hurt.”
The dull clatter of glass rolling across the stone floor snapped me back to the present.
“Babe?” Ethan was kneeling in front of Henry, cupping his face in his hands.
A sharp, unpleasant twitch hit deep in my gut, twisting my expression into a scowl. I shook it off. That—and the panic. The panic of finding him like this again. Hurt. I was never supposed to let him get hurt.
And it was always the same people doing the hurting.
I spun on my heel and got in Mateo’s face. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
Mateo lifted his hands, eyes widening. “Nothing. We were just talking, and he—” His gaze drifted back to Henry. “I don’t know what happened.”
Ethan was saying something to Henry, but the words blurred under the hard thrum in my ears.
I shoved Mateo’s shoulder.
The contact startled us both.
“And you expect me to believe that?” My voice sounded rough, unrecognizable. “He was fine outside.” I pushed him again—not hard, but enough to force a step back. “What did you do to him?”
Mateo steadied himself, confusion flashing across his face. “I didn’t touch him.”
Another shove, both hands on his chest now. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing!” He stepped back, a flash of anger breaking through his usual calm.
“Like fuck—”
“Sebastian!” Ethan’s voice cut across the room, loud and stern.
I turned.
“You’re not fucking helping.” He was glaring at me. “Cut it out.”
Behind him, Henry was struggling to pull air into his lungs, chest heaving, still trying to fold in on himself.
“If you want to be useful,” Ethan said, flicking his eyes toward the table beside us, “hand me the ice in that glass and shut the fuck up.”
I blinked.
Mateo moved first, grabbing the ice and placing it into Ethan’s outstretched palm, then stepping back quickly. Ethan lowered his forehead to Henry’s, speaking softly as he pressed the ice to his wrists, rubbing slow circles.
What…
“Panic attack,” Mateo said beside me. His voice was low, like he was trying to make sense of it too. “That’s clever—the ice…”
That familiar pang of uselessness hit me—hard. Tight. Suffocating. Like the room had shrunk without warning.
As Ethan kept talking, Henry slowly started to calm—bit by bit—while I stood there, doing nothing.
The air felt too thin. My pulse too loud. My grip on the moment slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I tried to lock it down.
You didn’t keep him safe.
“Ethan,” I said, a tremor in my voice I hadn’t expected slipping through.
He tilted his head toward me, anger gone—replaced by worry. “Can you get us a car?” Then to Mateo, “Is there a back exit or something?”
“Yes,” Mateo said immediately.
“I can’t leave. I have a date,” Henry tried, voice shaking.
That tone—fuck, that tone—made my hands unsteady.
“She’s a big girl, Henny,” Ethan murmured. “She’ll get back safe. Let’s go home, okay?”
Mateo stepped closer. “I’ll make sure she does.”
Henry still wouldn’t look at him. He just stared at Ethan’s chest and gave a stiff nod.
Like hell Mateo didn’t do anything—then why the fuck was Henry acting like this around him?
“Ash,” Ethan said. His eyes were bright and pleading. “Call the car.”
I nodded once and pulled out my phone, making sure the driver would be waiting right outside.
The seconds stretched longer than they should have.
Ethan helped Henry to his feet. He swayed a little, but he looked better already.
“They’re outside,” I told them.
Mateo walked us to the back door. Ethan and Henry huddled together behind me, and he held the door open for them.
“Henry,” Mateo said quietly.
Henry still wouldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry. Not right now.”
Ethan leaned into the Spaniard, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you know how he is in a little bit. Don’t worry too much—he’s okay.”
I frowned at that exchange.
Henry got into the back seat. Ethan was about to climb in after him but stopped when I reached for the passenger door.
“Ash, don’t,” Ethan said. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m not leaving him alone right now.”
“He’s not alone. I’m with him—”
“Ethan.” My voice dropped. “I’m not leaving my brother alone. Get in the car.”
He looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it, and he slid inside.
I shut the door after him.
Taking a breath, I turned to Mateo, still standing by the curb. “If I find out you did anything to hurt him,” I said, voice low and cold, “I’m coming back for blood. I’m not fucking kidding.”
His hazel eyes went wide.
I shut the door with a sharp snap, and the car sped away.
When I looked back, Henry was staring out the window, face still ashen—his hand clasped tightly in Ethan’s, their fingers intertwined.
I faced forward again and watched the city blur past, trying to swallow down the doubt creeping up my throat.
Back at the apartment, Henry looked much better and kept repeating that Mateo hadn’t done anything. He didn’t say much else, though—not to me. He went straight into his room, and Ethan followed, closing the door behind them.
I probably should’ve left. Instead, I sat there for over an hour, whiskey in hand, scowling at the goddamn door.
If Mateo didn’t do anything, then what the hell did they have to talk about? What was taking them so long? What were they doing in there?
Questions and resentment circled my brain like vultures.
If I’d never left them alone, would they even be this close? What did I miss? What was happening between them?
The thoughts sat wrong in my chest. And at the same time, Henry needed this.
He deserved someone he trusted. Someone he could open up to.
I should be relieved he’d found that. I should be proud of Ethan for breaking through walls none of us ever could.
Instead, bitterness settled in, stubborn and unwelcome.
The creak of the door jolted me out of my spiral.
Ethan stepped out, eyes tired, giving me a small smile as he shut it carefully.
“I thought you’d left.” He walked to the bar, his back to me. The soft pour of liquid into a glass followed.
“Without saying goodbye?”
Ethan’s brows lifted as he turned and came to sit beside me. He sank into the couch, legs spreading lazily, still somehow managing to look inviting even in exhaustion. “Why are you mad?” His voice was rough, worn thin around the edges.
“I’m not mad, darling. I’m worried.”
He pressed the rim of his glass to his mouth and took a slow sip. “Mateo didn’t do anything to him, Ash. Henny had a panic attack.”
“Why?”
His lips pulled down. “He got triggered.”
“Why?” I pushed.
“Why do you think?”
“Don’t be fucking coy with me, Ethan. If Henry wants to protect that guy—”
“Do you honestly think I’d let someone hurt him and walk away?”
I scoffed. “You’re the one who pointed out I don’t know you anymore, remember?”
He cocked his head. “Are you sure you’re not mad?”
“I’m not.” I placed the glass on the coffee table and leaned forward.
The couch creaked as Ethan moved in closer. My gaze stayed on the table until I felt the tip of his finger at the corner of my mouth. Then I caught the amusement in his eyes, lingering on my lips.
“You get a little line here,” he said. “It dips when you’re mad.” He finally pulled his hand away, along with that quiet curiosity.
“Why can’t you tell me what happened?” The question came out in a whisper.
“Because he’ll tell you when he’s calmed down. Reach out tomorrow,” he said. “You were the one who taught me people have to voice their own stories, remember?”
His soft tone loosened something in my shoulders.
“I have to say, watching you get all macho is kind of hot,” Ethan teased, though there was seriousness beneath it. “But misguided. And unnecessary.” His eyes drifted over my face, then to my hair. “Are you doing okay?”
“I’m not the one who got hurt today—”
“Henry didn’t get hurt, Ash,” Ethan cut in gently. “He’s okay. Are you?”
No.
Yes.
No.
Everything was going to be fine. I just needed to get everything back in order.
I blew a breath out through my nose. “Why do you call each other that?”
Ethan stretched out, arm over the back of the couch, head resting on his palm, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “Babe?”
I leaned back into the leather, relieved he wasn’t pushing anymore. “Yes.”
His grin widened. “That was your fault.”
I arched a brow. “How could that have possibly been my fault?”
“Do you remember that guy you used to fuck? Chris?”
My lips curved at the bitterness lacing his tone. “Yes.”
“One night, we ran into him at a club opening. Henry and I had done way too many shots. Chris kept calling everyone babe—you know how he is.”
“I do,” I said with a huff. “It’s so fucking annoying.”
“It is. But drunk us thought it was hilarious, so we started saying it to each other. And then it stuck.” He shrugged. “See? Your fault.”
We held each other’s stares, trying not to smile.
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”