Chapter Eighteen
ASH
Around seven that same night, I was pacing in the waiting room.
Oliver and Henry had stepped out to grab dinner for us, and Ethan had left a little while earlier to catch up on schoolwork.
The hospital was quieter now, the usual sounds softened into a low hum—machines beeping somewhere down the hall, footsteps passing, the muted squeak of a cart being pushed by.
Right now, it was just Vivian and me.
The doors swung open, and she stepped out, her eyes finding mine immediately.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
She smiled, small but genuine. “Better, I think.”
Vivian and I had never really had much of a relationship. Our father had remarried a while after our mother passed, but back then I hadn’t been able to see her as anything other than a replacement. I knew my coldness wasn’t necessary anymore. Still, some habits were hard to kill.
She took a couple of steps toward me. “He’s awake right now. I think he’s going to fall asleep soon, but… this might be the right time if you want to go in. Say hello.”
I froze, staring at her. I hadn’t been back in there since the first time. Back when he’d still been unconscious.
“I don’t want to upset him,” I said after a moment. “That can’t be good for him right now—”
“It won’t be a surprise,” she said. “He knows you’re here.”
My throat went dry. “I—”
“He was asking about you,” she added. “I told him. Hope that’s okay.”
I drew in a slow breath, curling my hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
She nodded, unoffended. “I think he’d really appreciate it if you went in. Not for long. Just hello.”
Her eyes weren’t unkind—just not the ones I knew. A dark shade of blue instead of the rich brown I’d grown up with—my mother’s.
I clicked my tongue, exhaling through my nose.
“Just think about it,” she said before she turned and walked away, leaving the waiting area behind her.
Then it was just me. Me and my pride.
Or maybe not pride at all.
Maybe it was just fear.
I ran a hand through my hair, noting absently how long it was getting. Before I could talk myself out of it again, I turned and pushed the doors open.
“For Mr. Langley?” a nurse asked as soon as she noticed me hovering.
I nodded once.
“This way.”
I followed her down the same path as last time, though I barely remembered it, until we stopped at his room.
His eyes were closed. The ventilator was gone, and a blue sheet rested over his chest, rising and falling slowly with each breath.
I suppose this would be easier if he wasn’t awake.
Stepping into the room quietly, I stopped at his bedside and looked down at him. He still seemed smaller—but less so without all the machines. Older, too. That realization hit me harder than I expected, settling heavily within me.
I was staring at his hand when I heard it.
“Sebastian.” His voice was rough. Hoarse.
I turned, and our eyes met. They softened in a way I had never seen before. Not once. And then they glimmered.
My heart kicked painfully against my ribs.
Something tugged at my hand, and I startled when I realized he’d grabbed it, his grip weak but insistent.
“I’m here, Dad,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Sebastian.” His face twisted into something like relief and pain all at once. “I’m sorry.”
For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. But then he said it again, clearer this time.
“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”
My eyes filled as his did. I tightened my grip on his hand, reaching over with my other to rest it on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “We’re good. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He nodded, holding on to me like he was afraid I’d disappear. His eyes closed, and a small, tired smile curved his lips.
I swallowed hard. “It’s okay.”
By the time I got back to the apartment, the adrenaline had burned itself out, leaving me feeling stripped raw and strangely weightless.
The place was dark and quiet when I stepped inside. No lights on. No movement. I toed off my shoes by the door and paused, listening, but the only sound was the low hum of the city filtering in through the glass. Ethan must’ve crashed—jet lag finally catching up with him.
I moved through the apartment slowly, my father’s voice still echoing in my head.
I’m sorry.
The words felt heavier now that everything else had gone silent. He’d never said them before. Not to me. And I didn’t know yet what I was supposed to do with an apology like that—offered so late, wrapped in tubes and weakness, and a hand clutching mine like a lifeline.
But it mattered.
It mattered that he’d said it. That he’d seen me. That, for once, he hadn’t looked at me like something that needed to be shaped or corrected or hardened.
I stepped out onto the terrace, leaving the door slightly ajar, and the cold hit immediately—cutting through my shirt, stealing the warmth from my skin in seconds. The city opened around me in a wash of distant sirens, traffic, and scattered light, my breath fogging faintly in the air.
The outdoor space was just as I’d left it—low couch, small table. The place I used to come when I needed air and a vice I could justify. Where we used to come out together.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the pack I’d bought earlier and sank into the couch, crossed my ankles on the table, lit the cigarette, and took the first drag slowly, letting the burn settle into my chest. The smoke curled upward, disappearing into the night, and for the first time all day, I let myself just sit there.
Breathing.
Feeling.
Letting it all land.
My father was alive, and he was going to be okay.
“Busted.” His voice startled me.
Ethan was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a familiar smirk in place. The low terrace light caught the sharp lines of his face, softened by the wear of the day.
I let out a quiet chuckle. “You caught me. Thought you were asleep.”
He shrugged, stepping out onto the terrace and moving to the railing. “I had a paper to turn in. Got wrapped up in it and didn’t bother turning on the lights.” He leaned back against the rail, propping his elbows on it. “And I wanted to make sure you got back okay. You need to rest.”
I took another drag, resisting the urge to close my eyes and sink too far into the familiar burn. “In a little while.” Pulling another cigarette from the pack, I held it out to him. “You want one?”
Ethan’s smile lost some of its edge, something like déjà vu flickering between us. “Yeah.”
He crossed the space and stopped in front of me.
I lifted a brow, uncrossed my legs, letting the invitation hang there without words.
He pressed his lips together in that shy, almost-boyish smile before nodding and stepping in, lowering himself between my thighs and settling back against me, his spine fitting easily to my chest.
This was already better than the cigarette.
I leaned forward and lit his for him, watching the way he inhaled, then exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night.
“Haven’t done this in a while,” he said, holding it out in front of him.
“Me neither.”
His hair brushed my cheek as he tipped his head back onto my shoulder. “Why now?”
I took another drag, my free hand lifting instinctively to his hair, fingers sliding through it, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. “I saw my dad earlier.”
“Yeah?” Ethan angled his head to look up at me.
I nodded. “He fell asleep a few minutes in. But he saw me.” My voice dropped. “Said my name. That he was sorry.”
Ethan pulled back slightly, just enough for me to see his eyes widen. “Wow.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh. “Tell me about it.”
A shiver ran through him, small but unmistakable, like the cold had finally slipped past his sweats. Without thinking, I tucked him into my side, my palm sliding up and down his arm to warm him.
He didn’t protest. If anything, he leaned in. “Are you doing okay?”
I shrugged, the movement lifting him with me. “Better than the last couple of days. It’s just been… a lot.”
His lips pressed together at that, but before I could decide what it meant, he slipped the cigarette back between them. “It has been…”
“Did you find anything?” I asked.
Ethan nodded. “A few irregularities in the projections. I flagged the areas that don’t track and sent everything back so they can reconcile the numbers.” He watched me for a moment. “Do you want to look it over?”
The old reflex kicked in. Review it. Confirm it.
I paused, taking a long drag. Then I shook my head on the exhale. “Tomorrow.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Thanks for helping. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
His chest rose and fell as he smoked, flicking the ash away before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth, and I watched every small movement up close. Entranced.
I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray as his knuckles brushed over my skin. I looked down to find his finger hooked around my necklace, his eyes fixed on it.
“You’d get another research assistant,” he said lightly, killing his smoke too.
A chuckle slipped out of me as I shook my head. “Impossible. There isn’t another you.”
“You’re good with words, Mr. Langley. I’ll give you that.”
I smiled. “You think I’m smooth-talking you?”
“I know you are,” he said. “That’s your thing.”
Amused, I let a low sound escape me. “Do you still think that? That I’m only saying what you want to hear?”
“Obviously.”
His hair slid between my fingers as I reached for him again, twisting it gently and tugging, drawing him closer until we were nose to nose, his breath warm against my mouth.
“My thing,” I said softly, “is meaning every ridiculously infatuated word I’ve ever said to you. I don’t do flattery. Not with you. You should know that by now—I’ve been hopeless where you’re concerned since the moment I saw you.”
His lashes fluttered, and for a second he didn’t say anything—just watched me, like he was deciding whether to believe me.
“See?” he murmured.
“What?”
His finger twirled around the chain. “That. That’s the smooth-talking.”