Emily stays close when we reach the hotel, the kind of close that used to mean something. The lobby’s chaos, crew hauling cases, fans outside, the sound of muffled shouts even through the walls. She’s smiling like she belongs here, like no time’s passed.
Before she can turn to me, because I can feel it coming, the "mind if I come up with you?", Ronan appears out of nowhere, all grin and Irish timing.
“Em!” he says, looping an arm around her before she can get a word out. “Come on, I’ve got to show you someepic Swedish shit.Råvind sent it, let us listen to their new demos,completely unhinged. You’re gonna love it.”
Her eyes light up. “IloveRåvind! I’ve been following them all tour.”
“Only the best for our guest,” Ronan says, steering her towardhis room with the kind of good-natured authority only he can get away with.
I catch his eye for half a second, gratitude, warning, all of it unspoken. He just shrugs, likeI’ve got you. Don’t make me regret it.
“Give me ten,” I tell them, voice even. “I’ll get changed.”
When the door to my room closes behind me, the silence hits. My chest still feels tight from the show, adrenaline, confusion, maybe both. I force a few deep breaths, counting them until my pulse slows.
I strip off everything that makes me visible, rings, bracelets, chain, the life. I throw a hoodie on and tie my hair back. I glance at my phone. Kasia’s name glows on the screen, just a tap away. I think about calling, about saying I got ambushed tonight, that I didn’t plan any of this. Emily's here. That there wasn’t a decent, human way to handle this without being cruel. But it’ll be better to tell her after. Once I’ve handled it. Once I know what this is. She’ll understand, I tell myself.
I knock on Ronan’s door, and it’s Emily who answers. Her face brightens, the kind of easy smile that used to make my chest loosen before it ever started to ache. “You can come in we’re just listening to the Råvind demos. They’re insane,” she says, nodding toward the speaker where Ronan’s leaning against the minibar, pretending not to watch us.
“Yeah, I’ve already heard them,” I lie, stepping just far enough inside to look polite. “They’re great.”
I give Ronan a small nod,thanks for the buffer, and he returns it, subtle as ever. I can tell he’s reading every muscle in my face, but he doesn’t interfere.
“I can grab us an Uber,” I say. “We’ll go out the back, through the staff exit. Fewer eyes that way.”
We slip through the kitchen downstairs, long since shut down for the night. The clatter and noise from the dining room are gone, just us now, shadows waiting for an Uber notification to ping.
She leans against the counter, arms folded loosely. “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” I say automatically. Then, “Busy. You know how it gets. You?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Good, too.”
But it’s the kind ofgoodthat comes with a pause, the kind people use to plug a hole in conversation. Her eyes dart down, then to the floor, then back up, like the word itself doesn’t fit right in her mouth. I know that look. It’s the same one I’ve seen a hundred times.
“Why are you in Paris, Em?” I ask finally, soft but serious. “Vacation?”
She shakes her head. “Actually… I got married. To a Frenchman.”
I blink. “Married?”
“Yeah. Five years ago.” She forces a small laugh. “One of the students I met when I was studying here. He reached out not long after we split. Said he’d always had a crush on me but never had a chance, not while I was—” she trails off, eyes flicking to mine, “—with you.”
She swallows hard. “We were married for five years.”
Were.The word catches in her throat like a nail dragged across silk. I feel the sweat prick at my neck before I can stop it. My chest tightens, not from jealousy but from knowing exactly where this is going.
The phone in my pocket buzzes, the Uber’s here. Perfect timing. Maybe divine intervention. I glance at the screen like it’s a lifeline. “Car’s here,” I say.
She looks up at me, her face already forming the next sentence, the one I’ve dreaded since I saw her in the crowd tonight. And I wish, with everything in me, that I could stop it. Stop whatever’s coming next.
Stop from hurting her one last time.
I don’t talk in the car. I keep my hands buried in my pockets like they’re evidence and stare out at Paris sliding past in wet glass and neon. Emily sits beside me with her palms splayed on the soft leather, fingers relaxed, not quite touching me. It feels like a question, an old habit of being near, of giving me the option to close the distance. I keep my head down.Breathe.Count the streetlights.
Lyrics swarm me on entry, like birds startled from the rafters. Napkin ink. Night-after-night scribbles. Her hair in those years was a black river that got caught in my knuckles and around my throat; I wrote it like a confession I couldn’t stop making:
Raven rope, I beg the bite,
