Ashetta
burning glances turning heads
The cider’s going fast. Too fast, maybe, but I can already feel the warmth blooming in my cheeks and chest—just enough to settle the trembling in my fingers. The shots helped. They always do. And gods, I’m still a damn lightweight. You’d think after all this time and all the bottles, my body would’ve learned something, but noooo. One shot, two, and two thirds of a cider and I’m already floating just a little. Light enough to vanish. To scatter back into the dark like a storm that passed too close. Like I always do.I breathe through it. In. Out. The dress clings to my ribs when I do, snug and unforgiving, and a few stray sparks shiver down my spine—remnants of nerves, of instinct, of the part of me that never learned how to be still in a crowd. I sweep one off my shoulder like it’s lint, feigning calm even as my pulse stutters.
Then Hawthorn is there.
I don’t recognize him. Masked, bare-chested, draped in scandal and confidence like he was born in it. Tattoos curl along his skin like a story told in sin and heat, and for a tense moment I wonder if I’m supposed to recognize him. I don’t. And from the way he smiles and lifts his glass like we’re just two strangers at a party, I don’t think he knows me either.
Thank the fucking gods.
My brows lift, surprised but amused, and I offer him a smile—carefully measured, something between warm and wicked. There’s a flicker of static in the air between us, and I pretend like it isn’t mine. The sharp scent of ozone is gone as fast as it came. Gods damned magic always betrays every feeling.
“Thank you,” I say smoothly anyways, lifting my cider in answer. “And yours is bound to please more than just Ludo tonight, I imagine.”
I let my gaze sweep over him again—assessing—and take another drink before adding, “So, what inspired your look? Divine devotion, or just a well-timed wardrobe mishap?”
stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you
