The storm between us

Rain drummed steadily on the metal roof of the cabin, restive fingers drumming against a jammed door. Asher changed positions on the couch, caught in a threadbare blanket that did nothing to warm him. A deep grunt escaped between his lips, not pain, but from the suffocating realization of waking up in a world that had only gotten scarier overnight.

His eyes snapped open to fuzzy, gray light filtering through grime-covered windows. Chilly air stuck to him, and he still heard the rumble of thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance. For a moment, he didn't recall where he was. Then last night came crashing down on him like a freight train of images.

The shooting. The broken glass. Damien.

He leapt upright, gasping, his heart pounding against his chest like a mad animal.

"Easy," came from the other side of the room.

Asher's head spun in that direction. Damien lounged by the window, half-hidden by light, a foaming mug clasped in both hands. He seemed not to have slept—eyes reddened, dark circles shadowing the skin beneath them. His broad shoulders were taut and the stubble on his jawline was more defined now, wild.

But not his disheveled looks were what caused Asher's throat to close. It was the way Damien was looking at him—still, hesitant, as though he was gazing at something delicate he didn't know how to hold.

Asher glanced away, holding the blanket tighter. "I should've stayed gone."

Damien was silent for a space of time. Then, softly, "They would've found you eventually."

Asher laughed, a sour sound. "Sure. Because being near you is that much safer."

The mug thudded against the windowsill as Damien set it down there. Rain smudged the world outside the pane, tracing the trees like tears. "I didn't come back to hurt you."

"No? So why did it feel so much like a bullet to the chest when you walked away?"

Air grew heavy. There was nothing but the rain and Asher's quiet, raspy breathing.

Damien stood, slowly, deliberately. Each step he took toward the couch was careful, as though afraid he might spook a wounded animal. He stopped just short, crouched down to Asher’s level. "I made a mistake."

Asher met his gaze, jaw clenched. "You think saying that fixes everything?"

"No," Damien whispered. "I think saying it is the start."

---

The next silence was heavier than any altercation. Asher stood and walked over to the tiny kitchen, not because he was hungry, but for space. His fingers fumbled over a broken mug, pouring from the kettle on the stove. The air stank of stale coffee.

He shuddered as he swallowed and leaned against the counter.

"Tell me everything."

Damien's footsteps lagged behind him. "Where do I start?"

"Start with Veronica."

Damien inhaled through his nostrils. "My father died when I was fourteen. Veronica married him late in life—she was younger, smarter. When he died, she moved in. Took over. The company. Me."

Asher turned, frowning. "What do you mean 'control of you'?"

Damien's grin was hollow. "Blackmail. Guilt. Manipulation. She has files on everybody. Skeletons to the ceiling. Including me."

Asher crossed his arms. "So all those months you were with me. you were being manipulated the whole time?"

Damien's voice cracked. "No. Not then. Not with you. That was real."

"You left like it wasn't."

Damien moved closer. "I left because she found out about you. Handed me pictures. Following. Said she'd ruin your life if I didn't kill her. Said I'd destroy yours like I destroyed hers."

Asher's breath was stuck in his throat. The image of her — Veronica — hard fingernails and harder smile, sitting behind a desk as lives were shattered at her fingertips, twisted his stomach into knots.

"You still should have told me," he breathed softly.

Damien nodded. "I know."

Asher looked down, the dust and lines between the boards of the cabin. "So now?"

Damien leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "Now we survive. And then we take her down."

Asher's face twisted in anger, incredulity lighting up his eyes. "We?"

Damien's face softened. "I'm not leaving you again."

---

-----------------------------------------------------

The fire they lit that night was tiny but cozy, sputtering in the hearth. Asher huddled on the frayed rug, knees to his chest, while Damien coaxed the flames. The warm light played across their faces in gold and shadow.

"Give me something honest," Asher said harshly.

Damien blinked. "What?"

"Something you've never told anyone. Something that isn't a tool."

Damien gazed into the flames. His voice was so low that it was hardly audible. "When I was ten, I escaped. I made it two blocks before I frightened myself. I slept in a bridge. I thought I could get away."

Asher saw firelight dance in his eyes. "Why did you leave?"

Damien breathed. "Because I wanted to be free. Even for one night."

Asher was quiet for a moment. Then, "I used to press my ear to the wall in the group home. Pretend the sounds were from a real family. I’d imagine someone calling me for dinner."

Damien looked at him, something breaking in his expression.

He reached out slowly, brushing his fingers against Asher’s knuckles.

Asher didn’t pull away.

Their fingers intertwined like muscle memory.

A heavy, long silence hung between them. The only noise was rain hissing against the glass and the fire spitting.

Asher stared at their hands entwined. "You make it very hard to hate you."

Damien's thumb traced a circle around the rear of Asher's hand. "You can still attempt it. Just let me stay while you try."

Asher let out a deep breath. The storm outside was slowly breaking up.

But the one inside him was only just beginning to die down.