My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type out a firm 'no', when my phone rings. His name flashes on the screen.
"Damn him." But I answer anyway. "How did you know I'd be awake?"
“Didn’t. But then I saw the typing bubble." His voice carries that familiar deep rumble, the one that still makes my stomach flip in ways I refuse to analyze. "How are you?"
I sink deeper into my couch, phone pressed to my ear. Damn him for sounding so concerned, so close. As if he's right here instead of hiding away in that overpriced hotel suite. "How do you think? My inbox is flooded with interview requests, and the gallery's surrounded with photographers and reporters. So your parents' smear campaign worked perfectly."
"I'm sorry. I never meant for you to get caught up in all this again. This was supposed to be my fight, not yours."
I want to stay angry, but something in his tone makes it difficult. "Yeah, well, your parents clearly have other plans."
"They always did, didn't they?" His voice softens, taking on that contemplative tone I remember from late-night conversations in the garden. "Always plotting, always controlling. God, even the kitchen staff had to run every menu past my mother."
The mention of the kitchen brings an unexpected wave of nostalgia. The warm smell of fresh-baked cookies, the quiet laughter as we snuck around after hours, those precious moments of rebellion...
"You're thinking about it too, aren't you?" His voice pulls me from the memory. "Those nights in the kitchen?"
"Don't." But the warning lacks heat.
"Remember that time my mother caught us stealing cookies?" His laugh—that rich, warm sound—triggers a cascade of images I've spent years trying to forget. His hands on my waist, lifting me toward the highest shelf. The intoxicating mix of his scent and fresh-baked cookies that always meant trouble.
"God, she was so mad." A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "But she couldn't say anything without admitting two teenagers had outsmarted her."
"You were always quick on your feet." The warmth in his voice slides over me like honey, making my heart do that stupid little dance I thought I'd outgrown. I can picture him now, probably pacing his hotel room, running those long fingers through his hair the way he always did during serious conversations.
My fingers find Evelyn's old throw blanket, seeking comfort in its familiar texture. "I shouldn't even be talking to you like this."
"Maybe not, but I like it, Red." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Don't you miss it? The way we used to talk for hours. How we could talk about anything to each other."
The nickname slides through my defenses like it always did. Heat blooms in my chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "Ares… Don't."
"Don't what?" There's an edge to his voice now, the one that always meant trouble. "Don't care? Don't try to fix this? Don't think about how good it felt having you in my life? Think about how good we felt together?"
My breath catches. Trust Ares to bulldoze right through my carefully constructed walls. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" Fabric rustles on his end—he's definitely pacing now. "Because it makes it harder to hate me?"
"I never hated you." The words slip out before I can catch them, dangerous in their honesty.
I hear his sharp intake of breath, and for a moment, I think he might say something that will shatter what's left of my defenses.
Instead, he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is hesitant, like he's choosing his words carefully.
"Tell me what happened to Evelyn?" His request is gentle. "Please?"
"That's not a good idea." I press my hand on my heart, where a familiar ache is building. "Might trigger a migraine."
"Worth it." The conviction in his voice makes my heart stutter. "I need to know, Red."
My throat tightens as memories flood back. "She'd been complaining about joint pain for months." I curl deeper into the couch, pulling the throw blanket around my shoulders. "Kept saying it was just her arthritis acting up, that Boston winters were getting harder on her bones."
"But it wasn't arthritis." His voice is a whisper.
"No." The word comes out raw. "One morning, she was making breakfast, and suddenly she was coughing up blood. I'd never been so scared in my life." My fingers twist in the blanket's soft fabric. "The hospital ran tests. Stage four stomach cancer. It had already spread to her liver and lungs."
"Christ." His breath catches. "But treatment—"
"She refused." A bitter laugh escapes me. "Said she wasn't about to spend what time she had left hooked up to machines and feeling worse than the disease itself. She wanted..." My voice breaks, and I have to take a moment. "She wanted to be home with me."
