The night was difficult. Memories tangled with creeping anxiety and morphed into nightmares.
I wake up drenched in cold sweat, but Cody's presence quickly soothes me. I can't quite recall how we ended up in my bed together, but now his head rests on my outstretched arm, his face just centimeters from mine.
For a while, I study his features closely. His tousled light brown hair sticks out in all directions, perfectly suiting him. He sleeps peacefully, his slightly parted lips occasionally releasing soft sighs. These quiet breaths graze my neck, making my skin prickle. I observe him with endless admiration, as though he's a masterpiece in a museum.
My thoughts become hazy; all I know is that I enjoy looking at him. But should I even think this way?
Eventually, I can't bear my thoughts any longer and decide it's time to move. As carefully as possible, I slide my arm out from under him. Cody stirs slightly but doesn't wake. I pull the blanket over him and quietly make my way to the bathroom.
In the shower, I let the cool water wash away the stale smell of yesterday's rain. The sensation tingles on my skin, a reminder that I can still feel something. I tear off the worn-out bandage from my wound. The scar is large but no longer red—it's well-healed, with no sign of infection. It'll probably stay as a souvenir. Although the area still aches, I ignore it. Physically, at least, I feel patched up and capable.
After a quick shower, I dress and head downstairs. I'm uneasy, unsure of what I might encounter. I dread anyone asking about last night. I don't want anyone to know just how much of a mess I really am.
Still, I need food—I haven't eaten since midday yesterday—so I head to the bar. Elle and Arthur are already busy, and Kaja is probably still asleep. The clock on the wall shows just past six.
I hate early mornings, and this is probably the first time I've been up this early without a good reason. Approaching Eleonora and Arthur, I try to appear calm and composed, hoping to avoid snapping or saying something I'll regret.
"Good morning," Elle greets me. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," I shrug. "Maybe it's too warm."
Elle smiles, but I can see the worry in her eyes. She hesitates, likely wanting to ask if I'm okay. She's always been the type to ensure everyone in the house feels heard and understood. I appreciate her for it, but this time, it feels different.
"I'm sorry," I begin, but my voice falters, "about last night."
Elle and Arthur pause what they're doing, briefly looking at me before awkwardly turning away, realizing they were too obvious.
"All good, kid," Arthur says, clearing his throat as he loads pastries into the display case. "Everything's fine, right?"
I hesitate, then nod slightly.
"You know you can talk to us about anything," Arthur adds gently, and Elle nods in agreement.
I should thank them, tell them how messed up I feel, but I hold back. That conversation wouldn't save me. Nothing I've faced has been as mentally draining as this, so it's better for everyone if I stay silent.
"You're overreacting," I say, deflecting. "There's nothing to worry about. Just… a moment of self-loathing?"
"Bullshit," Arthur laughs. "Everyone's just glad you made it back alive, and here you are, worrying about your toxic masculinity."
"Screw you," I mutter with a faint smile. "Just make me some coffee."
"You've got hands," he snorts, "but fine, I'll do it—only because I love you."
"Are you hitting on me?"
Ignoring my comment, he stretches out his arms for a hug. I hesitate but eventually, step forward for a quick, manly embrace.
"All right, enough. This is getting weird," I say, patting his back as I pull away.
Afterward, we settle down for a casual coffee break. We chat about random things. It feels cozy and comforting, but no matter what, my thoughts remain elsewhere. Still, I watch my friends with a small smile. I don't know how much longer I can stay here before I completely lose myself, but one thing is certain—I don't want to forget them. Arthur, Eleonora, Kaja, and especially Cody.
*
Elle insists I take another week off before returning to my normal routine. My duties at the bookstore are reassigned, leaving me with too much time to dwell on my crap.
I sneak into the basement when I'm sure no one will come down for at least an hour. I stretch and loosen up with a few sets of exercises. My muscles ache and occasionally cramp, but I attribute it to the strain of my injuries.
As I strike the punching bag, I realize I won't stop there. My fire—it's my only advantage against Leo. I bet he's not sitting idle, probably collecting souls and growing stronger. I need to master my power. Even if it's the last thing I do.
Grabbing a small folding knife, I make a shallow cut on my already injured palm. I focus, thinking of fire and anger. Warm blood trickles down onto the ground. At first, the fire resists, but eventually, it obeys. A faint blue glow fills the basement as I try to control it.
I experiment with its intensity and range. It doesn't disappear. I don't know its true strength or the damage it could cause without a real opponent, but I hope it's stronger than before.
The session ends when my trembling hand gives out, and I collapse onto the cold floor. Blood drips from my nose, and I press a hand to my nostrils, tilting my head back. This power drains me, leaving me weak, but I tell myself it's worth it.