30. Persephone
Persephone
Rafe
The walk down the corridor feels absurdly long.
Every step echoes louder than it should, and my brain latches onto anything that isn’t her hand still in mine, an ice machine humming like white noise, the flicker of a vending machine light, a tray of half-eaten room service left outside someone’s door.
I focus on those things like they’re sacred, anything to stop myself from thinking don’t screw this up.
When we reach my door, I manage to unlock it on the first try, no fumbling, no dropped keycard, it’s such a simple victory but I still celebrate it internally like I’ve just won a Grammy. Inside, the lights are soft, the city beyond the balcony glass still pulsing faintly in reflection.
“Do you want another drink?” I ask, trying to sound casual, not like my pulse is beating in double time. “I, uh… have that peach soju I told you about. The one I swore by.”
She nods, smile small but easy. “Sounds good in lieu of Polish vodka.”
I pull it from the mini-fridge, rummage for something resembling cups, two flimsy hotel plastics, meant for toothbrushes or post hangover hydration, definitely not for ritual drinking, and pour us both a splash.
When we lift them, they crinkle in our hands, and the “clink” is so pitiful, we both dissolve into laughter.
“We should drink to health,” she says once we calm down, voice certain. “To the song tomorrow, to success. It’s tradition in Poland to keep eye contact to show your toast is sincere. So no looking away or everything goes wrong.”
Before I can process it, our cups are raised, and her eyes are locked on mine, we feel wrapped together in something that feels far too intimate to be a joke.
“You say Na zdrowie,” she tells me, never losing her focus on my gaze and the sound of it rolls through me like a chord change.
“Na—” I start, but she corrects me, laughing, patient.
“nah ZDROH-vyeh.”
She says it slower this time, and I swear I can feel the syllables on my skin. Her mouth shapes it like something I could fall into.
I blink hard, pull my gaze back to her eyes instead of her lips, not that either view is any easier on my system. “Na zdrowie,” I try again.
She grins. “Perfect. Now drink before my arm falls off.”
We tip the cups to the side, never breaking eye contact.
The soju burns sweet, mild, but the moment is anything but.
Everything feels intense, charged, singing under the surface.
Desperate for distraction, I grab my notebook from the table and drop onto the bed, leaning against the headboard like it’s armor.
She settles near the foot of the mattress, her attention already caught by the scattered pages of lyrics.
I hand her a few, the translations mixed between my scrawled drafts. She reads in silence, head tilted slightly. The curve of her hair catches the lamplight. She points at one verse and smiles faintly.
“This one,” she says. “It’s really good.”
I glance down, forgetting which page it even is.
If the night dares forget your name,
I’ll sing it till the stars remember why.
Constellations don’t ask permission—
just paint our burning along the sky.
“Really? You think so?” My voice sounds uncertain, which I hate. “I wasn’t sure about that one.”
She nods, eyes still on the words. “No. It’s just right. It’s the feeling.”
That lands somewhere deep. I grin before I can stop it, not the smirk I’ve trained into existence for work, but the real thing. The kind that warms my chest and makes me forget how to breathe properly.
“Yeah,” I murmur, watching her fingertips trace the edge of the page. “The feeling.”
But what I don’t say, what beats under my skin like that feeling she mentioned, is that it isn’t just in the words anymore. It’s sitting right here in this room, between us, impossible to write down without burning the paper.
The night is stitched together out of laughter and peach-soaked sentences.
We drain the soju, find a bottle of wine someone sent up, and the conversation just keeps unfurling.
She’s at the foot of the bed now, lying on her side, hair spilling everywhere, the light wrapping around her like it knows who it belongs to.
A whole painting of warmth, curves and seductive calm.
I’m stretched out at the head, propped against the pillows, notebook abandoned beside me, legs dangling over the side.
We talk about everything. Flights that nearly missed connections.
The worst hotels, a patient who thought she’d swallowed her contact lens when it was stuck to her forehead.
My mother’s horrified face the day I came home with my first tattoo.
Every story folds into the next, her laughter tangling with mine.
It feels like the phone calls that would leave me wide awake at 3 a.m., except tonight there’s no hang-up, no static, no distance.
She asks what my fondest memory of the band is, and for a second my brain blanks completely before the memory rises like a spark from the past.
“That’s easy,” I say, the grin already pulling at my mouth.
“Berlin. First European tour. We were still sharing a van back then. Someone, probably Ronan, decided to celebrate with absinthe and a box of pastries. Rithy was reading Baudelaire out loud like some deranged poetry slam, and halfway through he announced he could feel color.”
I start laughing before I can even finish.
“He started painting everyone’s faces with green frosting because he swore we’d ‘glow better onstage.’ I looked like a radioactive frog. Kiri fell asleep in the hallway with a baguette for a pillow, I still have the photos.”
She sits up, eyes bright. “Oh, now I demand to see these photos.”
I groan. “You don’t, trust me. I looked like a cursed children’s show host. Rithy wrote obscene poet on my forehead in eyeliner. If you ever make it to my place in Seattle, I’ll show you one picture. Educational purposes only.”
Her laugh softens, and I can feel the warmth crawl through me. I take a breath, trying to hide the way it catches.
“Even when they drive me insane,” I say fondly, “they’re the only people who’ve ever seen all the versions of me and still stuck around.” I take in a breath, and on the exhale, it comes out, “I bet… you’ll make it on that list, too. If you want to.”
I shouldn’t have said that. The wine’s loosened my tongue; the words slip out before I can build a wall around them.
But they’re hanging there now, impossible to take back.
She doesn’t look away. Her chest rises a little faster, and I have to remind myself not to move.
I don’t want to be reckless, not with her, not anymore.
I’ve burned too many good things that way but the truth is, I want to kiss her so badly it physically hurts.
She rescues us both with a laugh. “Obscene poet, huh? Obscene in what way, Mr. Ashton?”
“He said it was because I kept scribbling lyrics on napkins all night and talking about the texture of loneliness. Which, in hindsight, sounds pretentious as hell. But I was tipsy and sincere, and he was drunk and vengeful with frosting.”
Her eyes glint as she lays down, her arm curling beneath her head, hair haloed across the comforter. Her fingers find her lips. “So what's the texture of loneliness, poet?”
I stare at the ceiling for a moment, let the words find me.
“It’s… slick at first,” I say slowly. “Like glass, smooth enough you don’t notice you’re sliding. Then when you reach for something to stop yourself, it cuts. Tiny shards everywhere. It seems almost elegant until you touch it. Then it hurts.”
The air feels heavy now, thick with something unsaid. I can barely hear my own voice when I finish. I look at her, the words still vibrating between us.
“If you ever repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
She doesn’t laugh this time. She’s watching me like the rest of the world has gone silent. The space between us dissolves. I can feel the confession clawing its way out of my chest before I can stop it.
“Looking at you actually hurts. You’re a fucking goddess come to life on my bed right now.
" The words scrape out. “Persephone breathing.” I pause before I keep going, then fill the silence quickly with something sensible to pull this madness back.
“I think if you want to save us both from those eternal bonds... you might need to leave soon.”
She sits up slowly, and for a second I think she’s going to stand, say something polite, make it easy, pump the brakes. But instead, she moves towards me and leans in, close enough that I can feel her breath fan against my jaw.
“Does that make you Hades?”
My throat goes dry. I try to swallow and manage a nod, my voice gone. “I wouldn’t steal you,” I murmur, playing at composure. “Just lure you to the underworld with stories and soju.” I grin and raise an eyebrow.
She laughs softly, like she doesn’t want to break the spell and I feel it against my cheek.
The scent of her skin, the sweetness of peach and wine, the faint trace of lip gloss.
It’s everything all at once. I can’t move.
I can’t breathe. Because I know if I do, even slightly, I’ll destroy the careful distance we’ve kept balanced between us all night.
I tell myself I’m not that man anymore, the one who reaches without thinking, who ruins good things in a blaze of want and guilt.
I promised myself that, to be respectful, take things slow.
But when I look at her, she feels like mine.
Every molecule of her, here in this room, is answering something I didn’t even know I was asking. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
“What do you want from me, Kasia?”
It comes out rough, more exhale than voice.
She looks at me like she’s searching for the safest version of the truth.
Finally, she exhales, slow and hesitant.
Her hand moves, first to my chest, then to my face, fingers tracing along my jaw, the faint stubble there.
The gentlest thing I’ve ever felt. I lean into it before I can stop myself.
I’ve been waiting for this kind of stillness my entire life. For her.
I can feel my pulse accelerating, the seconds stretching thinner, our mouths almost touching. Her breath trembles against mine, hesitation mirrored in me, everything about to break and then, heavy pounding at the door. We both jump.
It’s not a knock, it’s a demand.