"Why'd you expect me to know you?" he asked after a beat, voice soft, not nosy.
I shrugged, picking at a thread on the blanket. "Oh, no reason really… Just dumb stuff."
Lucien didn't press.
"Either way, enough about me," I said, shifting the spotlight off my thoughts before they got ideas. "I'm Iris. And you are?"
He grinned, like it was obvious. "Lucien. Nice to officially meet you. Again."
"Again?"
He just smirked like he knew a secret and wasn't ready to share it.
Then he glanced up at the sky and squinted. "It's really late. Like, past 2 a.m. You sure you can walk home by yourself?"
I gave him a look. "Duh. I can. Besides, nothing ever happens in Ashpointe. It's the safest creepy town on the planet."
"But," I added, standing, "if you really wanna be Prince Charming about it, I won't stop you from escorting me."
He rolled his eyes, getting up and brushing off his jeans. "Wasn't trying to be. Besides, Prince Charming's got a horse or a Tesla or something. With me? You get the deluxe walking package."
I laughed. "Not so bad. Walking's fine… But yeah, you got a point. Let's get outta here before it's morning and we get struck by lightning for trespassing on holy grounds or something."
We snuck back through the loose panel behind the chapel, shoes quiet on gravel. The night had that stillness only small towns know—like even the ghosts were asleep.
The walk back was mostly quiet, in a good way. The kind of quiet that's comfortable, like a jacket that fits just right.
Then he said, "Never thought I'd bump into anyone up there. You're not… Ashpointe material."
I blinked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He scratched the back of his neck, hesitantly. "I don't know how to explain it. Just… take it like that."
I snorted. "You're a weirdo. Weirder than the people in this town. But I guess I'll 'take it like that.'"
He chuckled under his breath, and we kept walking. Streetlights flickered like they were blinking themselves awake. The air smelled like dew and old pine.
"You've been limping for a while," Lucien said, almost offhandedly. "Gonna tend to that?"
I looked down at my scuffed knee, the jeans ripped and still dark with blood from earlier. I'd forgotten. Or maybe I just didn't care.
"Don't feel like it," I said. "At least it means I'm not numb."
He looked at me sideways, quiet for a second. Then, "Numb or not, you should still tend to it. Before you get an infection or lose a leg or whatever."
I laughed. A real one this time. "Alright, alright. Jeez. I'll take care of it. Doctor Lucien noted."
We rounded the last corner. My house was small, the porch light dead like usual, the siding faded into ash and shadows.
"Well," I said, motioning to the porch, "home. Thanks, Prince Charming. You got me home in one piece."
He rolled his eyes. "Goodnight, Iris. Hope I see you again sometime."
He started walking off, but then turned over his shoulder.
"Maybe next time, lose a shoe so I can find you easier."
I barked a laugh, shaking my head. "Get outta here."
Lucien disappeared into the dark like he'd never been there. Like some weird dream I'd talked to for too long.
I slipped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it for a second. The house smelled like old fabric softener and burnt-out memories. The heater creaked once, then settled.
My legs finally gave in, and I slid down to the floor, back against the door, heart heavier—but not in the same way.
The floor was cold against my legs, and I was too tired to care. I didn't even take off my shoes. The silence sat with me like an old friend who knew better than to speak.
Then came the creak.
Not the house shifting, not the wind—it was softer than that. More intentional.
I looked up as Mara stepped out from the hallway, her frame catching the dim hallway light like a shadow cut out too sharply. Hair still wet from a bath or a breakdown—I couldn't tell which.
She didn't say anything at first. Just looked at me, sitting there like a kicked dog.
"You're home late," she finally said. Her voice wasn't accusing. Just... informational. Like she was noting the time out loud for herself more than for me.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Shift ran long."
Her eyes dropped to my knee. "You're bleeding."
"I noticed."
She stood there a moment longer, then crossed the room. Not toward me—toward the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening felt too loud in the quiet. She pulled out a bottle of water, twisted it open with a pop, then took a long drink.
"I got a call from the diner," she said finally, voice muffled by the bottle still at her lips. "Said you threw soup at a customer."
I blinked at the ceiling. "Is that what they said?"
"That's what they said."
She didn't ask why. Didn't ask if I was okay. Just stood there, leaning against the counter like we were roommates who tolerated each other out of routine.
"You're suspended?" she added.
"Yeah."
She took another sip. I waited for the lecture, the disappointment, the sigh.
Instead, she just said, "I was gonna make eggs. Want some?"
It landed like a slap in the wrong direction. I looked over, and she wasn't even looking at me. Her gaze was fixed somewhere past the cabinets, somewhere past the walls.
"No," I said. "I'm good."
"Suit yourself."
She walked past me again without making a sound. The only proof she existed was the faint scent of mint shampoo and silence in her wake.
"Hey, Mara?" I said, before I could stop myself.
She paused in the hallway, hand resting on the wall.
"Yeah?"
I thought I had something to say. Maybe an apology. Maybe a scream. But nothing came.
"Never mind."
She stood there for a second too long.
"Night, Iris," she said, and then she was gone again.
The eggs never got made.
Eventually, I peeled myself off the floor like molasses sliding from the side of a jar—slow, reluctant. Every bone in my body felt like it belonged to someone older. Someone is more tired.
In my room, I stripped off the hoodie and jeans and let them crumple to the floor. The bruises had darkened—purple halos blooming over my leg and thigh, one angry scratch where the floor caught my skin. I stepped into the shower without looking in the mirror.
The water stung, but at least it was hot.
After, I threw on the only nightgown that didn't smell like stress and diner grease. Sat at the edge of my bed, towel-wrapping my hair in a half-hearted effort. The first-aid kit was where I always left it: second drawer, beneath old sketchbooks I never had the energy to fill anymore.
Antiseptic. Cotton pads. Bandaids. Tape.
I patched myself up like a kid fixing a toy that would never move the same way again. When I finished, I lay back against my pillow, still damp.
My phone lit up on the nightstand. A message.
Diner Manager (Saved as: Grease Troll)
Suspended. Two weeks. Cool off.
I locked the screen without replying. My thumb hovered for a second, like it wanted to type something—anything. "Thanks for nothing"? "Next time I'll use hot coffee."? But I didn't have the energy to be petty. Not even digital petty.
I turned off the lamp. Rolled to my side.
Sleep came in strange waves. My body kept jolting awake, expecting more. More yelling. More touching. More soup.
Nothing came.
Morning tasted like iron. I sat up slowly, muscles stiff and bruises aching. My room looked the same as it always did—like I hadn't moved in, just existed within it.
As I reached for my socks, Mara passed by my open door. She paused. Didn't come in. Didn't knock.
"Wanna eat?" she asked. Her tone was flat, like someone asking if I wanted to borrow a pen.
I looked up. She didn't meet my eyes. Just stared at the hallway wall.
"Don't feel like it," I said.
She nodded like she expected it, then turned and kept walking.
I got dressed in slow motion. Baggy hoodie, loose sweatpants. Clean sneakers that wouldn't stay clean for long. I tied my hair into a low bun and ignored the red swelling under my eye that makeup wouldn't fix.
Backpack slung over one shoulder. Phone in my pocket. Sketchbook left behind.
The air outside was crisp in that Ashpointe way—smelling like damp leaves and forgotten things. I tugged my hoodie over my hands and started walking.
Same cracked sidewalk. The same crooked mailbox I always passed. Same house with the ugly garden gnome that looked like it was plotting murder.
School loomed in the distance like a punishment I didn't deserve.
By the time I made it to school, I already felt like I was carrying someone else's body. I slipped into class without anyone really noticing. Sat at the back. Hoodie up. Eyes on the wall instead of the board. I listened just enough to avoid suspicion. Not enough to retain anything.
During break, I headed toward the back exit of the school building, wanting air, wanting silence—just wanting less.
But of course.
Ashpointe doesn't do less.
I was barely three steps down the hall when someone blocked my path.
"Hey."
I blinked at her. Then raised a brow. "...Hi?"
She looked vaguely familiar—freckles, long braid, eyes too tight with self-righteousness.
"You threw soup at my brother last night."
I stared. "...Okay?"
Her expression twisted like I'd slapped her. "Lost all morals or what?"
"Uh. Okay."
It was all I gave her. Not my job to offer plot summaries.
She stepped closer. "Just 'cause you don't have parents to teach you how to behave—and living with that insane woman isn't helping your case—doesn't mean you get to pour your frustration on other people."
I sighed. Glanced at the ceiling. "Right. Got it."
By now, a few students had paused in the hallway. The circle was forming, that sick little crowd that always bloomed around confrontation like flies on roadkill.
"Uh, excuse me?" I said. "Your rant's starting to sound like a bee buzzing."
Her hand moved faster than I thought it would.
A slap—sharp, loud. My cheek lit up with heat.
And like bad sitcom timing, a teacher walked around the corner.
The girl—her name was Katie or Kathy or Something-C—withdrew her hand dramatically and started to cry. "She cursed me!"
I rolled my eyes. Didn't say a word.
"Principal's office," the teacher snapped.
I muttered, "Typical," and turned on my heel.
"She just threatened me," the girl sniffled behind me.
I didn't dignify it with a glance. My legs carried me like this wasn't the fifteenth rerun of the same damn script.
The principal droned like a tired engine. Something about behavior, school image, and community. I tuned it out the way you tune out commercials. My eyes focused on the cheap laminate of his desk.
When he finally paused to breathe, I said, "Maybe if you put that much thought into your own family, they'd turn out like decent beings."
His mouth opened like a fish, but I didn't stick around for the gasping.
I walked out and made a beeline for the old art room in the west wing. It was dusty and cold, rumored to be haunted. I'd always liked that. Haunted meant people avoided it.
It creaked as I opened the door. Paint fumes and forgotten memories hit my nose. Light filtered in through cracked blinds.
I moved toward the back shelf, fingers brushing over half-used brushes and dried paint tubes.
Footsteps.
I froze.
Turned.
Lucien stood at the doorway. Head tilted. That crooked, lopsided smile that made you feel like he'd just dropped in from another universe.
"Kind of a weird place to get creative," he said. "Or... are you hiding?"