“Lucid coma food.”
“Talked to your friend.”
“Hallucination extension.”
He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. “Then why does your heartbeat spike every time I look at you like this?”
Her fork clattered against the plate.
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe because you’re hot. Maybe because it’s been a while. Maybe because the last guy I trusted treated me like a backup plan with benefits.”
Ashar didn’t respond right away.
So she filled the silence. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not tempting. But if you’re real? You’ll eventually leave. Or worse, find someone else who summons you with prettier candles and non-generic glitter.”
His expression darkened just slightly. “Is that what you think I do? Hop from one desperate girl’s trauma to another?”
She stood. “I think men always find a way to move on when we start to fall.”
He stood too, slowly. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a man.”
Her throat tightened. Her mouth opened, then closed.
She didn’t want to go there. She already felt too bare. Too seen.
“Okay,” she muttered. “But how many other women have you said the same thing to? How many others have you been their pleasure demon before you had to go back where you came from?”
Ashar went to answer,
Blair cut him off. “I don’t want to know.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. She didn’t know if she meant it; she didn’t know if she could handle the truth either way.
“I don’t want to know,” she repeated, grabbing her coffee like it might anchor her to the floor.
Ashar didn’t speak.
Just stood there, still shirtless, still too calm, with his unreadable demon poker face on. His tattoos pulsed faintly across his skin, moving like ink caught in a slow tide. Even his silence felt intentional.
Blair took a sip and promptly burned her tongue.
She hissed, then groaned. “God, of course.”
Ashar raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize coffee was now the enemy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t get it. You probably drink souls or starlight or, like, espresso blessed by Satan’s barista.”
He smirked. “Only on Sundays.”
She turned her back on him, pacing toward the window. The sky was still gray outside. Gloomy and haunted, it felt appropriate.
And then she said it, or blurted it, really.
“I’m not catching feelings.”
Ashar paused. “I didn’t say you were.”
“I just want to clarify.” She pointed at him with her coffee mug, her eyes wide, as if to say, ‘Look at me, saying emotionally mature things.’ “This isn’t some notebook-worthy spiritual connection, okay? You’re hot. The sex was mind-melting. And yes, I might still be vibrating from lastnight, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
