Chapter Ten : Ariana and Aston
1925 Words
They started the trail with only their phone flashlights guiding them. The path was steeper than it looked from below. Gravel shifted under their shoes. The air grew thinner with every step.
Halfway up, Ariana slowed.
Aston immediately noticed. “You okay?”
She gave a faint nod, but her breathing was uneven.
“You didn’t eat dinner,” he realized aloud.
She let out a small, tired laugh. “We had snacks.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Guilt hit him sharply. He should have made sure. Should have insisted.
“Ariana, we can go back.”
She shook her head. “No. If we stop now, I’ll regret it.”
Her stubbornness was quiet but unmovable.
Still, her steps grew heavier. At one point she stumbled slightly, and his hand shot out instinctively, catching her by the waist.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Her body felt fragile under his hold—too light, too tired—but warm. Real.
“Lean on me,” he said softly.
She hesitated.
Then she did.
The rest of the climb became slower, steadier. His arm stayed around her, not possessive, not dramatic—just supportive. She could feel the firmness beneath his calm exterior; he could feel the tremor in her strength that she refused to admit.
Somehow, breathless and flushed, they reached the top.
The horizon was just beginning to bleed color.
They sat on a flat rock, the world stretched wide below them—dark valleys slowly surrendering to dawn.
Ariana’s head tipped back slightly, eyes closing for a moment as she tried to steady herself.
“I’m sorry,” Aston said quietly.
“For what?”
“For dragging you up here without making sure you were okay.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “You didn’t drag me.”
“I should’ve taken care of you better.”
The sentence hung there—heavier than intended.
The first thread of sunlight cut across the sky, soft orange melting into pale pink.
Ariana watched it silently. “You’re not responsible for everything, Aston.”
“I feel like I am,” he replied.
She turned toward him. The sunrise painted his face in gold, softening the sharpness people usually associated with him on stage. Up here, he looked younger—and older at the same time.
“You think love is protection,” she said gently.
He met her gaze. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s also trust.”
The wind moved through her hair, brushing a few strands across her lips. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked them behind her ear.
His fingers lingered a second too long.
The air between them shifted.
“You scare me,” he admitted suddenly.
Her brows knit. “Why?”
“Because you see things I don’t say.”
A faint smile curved her lips. “You don’t hide them very well.”
He exhaled softly, almost laughing.
The sun began to rise fully now, spilling warmth over their skin. Light touched her face, illuminating the exhaustion there—but also something steady and unbreakable.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he said.
“And you’re softer than you pretend,” she replied.
Silence again.
But this one was different.
Ariana swayed slightly, dizziness creeping back in. Aston noticed immediately and shifted closer.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Before she could protest, he gently pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist this time. Her forehead rested against his shoulder, breath warm against his neck.
His hand moved to her back—slow, careful—anchoring her there.
They stayed like that as the sun rose higher.
Not dramatic.
Not desperate.
Just two people suspended between heaven and earth, realizing that maybe strength didn’t mean standing alone—and maybe protection didn’t mean building walls.
Ariana’s fingers lightly gripped the fabric of his jacket.
“You know,” she whispered, voice still weak but steady, “being alone is comfortable.”
“I know.”
She tilted her face up slightly, close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin.
“But this…” she continued softly, “…is warmer.”
His heartbeat stuttered.
Aston rested his forehead gently against hers, eyes half-closed, as if afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the moment.
“Then stay,” he said, barely above a whisper.
The sun rose fully over the horizon, wrapping them in gold.
And for the first time in a long while, neither of them felt alone.
____
After the sun climbed high enough to erase the softness of dawn, they sat for a while longer, talking about nothing and everything—music, fabric textures, terrible roadside coffee, the absurdity of fame.
Eventually, reality returned.
“We should head back,” Ariana said quietly.
The descent was slower than the climb. Aston stayed close, one hand hovering near her back as if she might stumble again. This time she didn’t argue.
At the base, she stopped by a small convenience store near the parking lot.
“I’ll grab something quick,” she said.
“I’ll—” He stopped himself. Of course he couldn’t. A random appearance inside a minimarket at this hour could turn into a trending topic before noon.
“I’ll wait,” he finished instead.
She returned with a small sandwich and a bottled drink. Too small, he noticed immediately.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“I’m not that hungry.”
He didn’t believe her, but he let it go.
They started driving back toward the city. Morning traffic slowly thickened. Ariana nibbled at the sandwich, barely finishing half.
About thirty minutes into the drive, she leaned back in her seat, eyes closing.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Just… a little nauseous.”
His grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“You barely ate.”
“I know.”
It rarely happened to her—she was usually composed, steady, in control of her body the way she was with her emotions. But her stomach had been empty for too long. Coffee. Snacks. A steep climb. Too little sleep.
Aston adjusted his driving immediately—slower turns, gentler brakes, avoiding potholes. Every small bump felt like a personal failure.
He exhaled sharply at his own spiraling thought. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t spiked anything. He hadn’t been careless intentionally. But guilt crept in anyway.
As they approached the city, her condition worsened. She pressed a hand lightly against her abdomen, breathing shallowly.
“Ariana,” he said softly. “We’re not going to your place.”
She barely opened her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I can’t step into your building without creating a scandal.” His jaw tightened. “You’re coming with me.”
She didn’t have the strength to argue.
The car turned toward his private residence—a high-rise designed for privacy. The elevator required direct access from the basement parking, leading straight into his unit. No lobby crowd. No wandering eyes.
He helped her out of the car, one arm steady around her waist.
She leaned into him without protest.
Inside the elevator, the mirrored walls reflected a version of them that felt strangely intimate—her pale and quiet, him tense and focused.
The doors opened directly into his apartment.
The unit was expansive—floor-to-ceiling windows, muted tones, carefully curated art pieces, the kind of place magazines loved to feature. But Ariana didn’t even glance around.
The moment they stepped inside, Ariana stiffened.
“Aston—”
She pulled away suddenly and rushed down the hallway.
“Ariana!”
He followed immediately as she disappeared into the bathroom. The sound came before he reached her—she was already kneeling, getting sick.
He dropped beside her without hesitation, gathering her hair back with one hand so it wouldn’t fall forward. His other hand hovered near her shoulder, unsure whether to touch or not.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
She trembled, weak and exhausted.
When it subsided, he grabbed a towel, running water gently, cleaning up quickly so she wouldn’t have to look at it. He handed her a glass of water, helping her rinse her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Stop apologizing,” he replied immediately.
She tried to stand.
Her knees buckled.
“Ariana—”
He caught her just before she hit the floor, arms wrapping around her as her body nearly collapsed against him. For a second, panic shot through him—sharp and blinding.
Half panic. Half guilt.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured weakly.
“Stop apologizing.”
He guided her to his bedroom.
She barely made it to the bed before sitting down heavily, fighting another wave of nausea.
Aston felt a twist in his chest. What have I done?
Then he remembered.
Months ago, during tour season, he had been prescribed IV fluids for severe dehydration and stomach issues. His doctor had shown him how to use them safely if needed, though he rarely did.
He moved quickly, retrieving the kit from his medical drawer.
“Hey,” he said gently, kneeling beside her. “I’m going to put a drip on you, okay? Just fluids. It’ll help.”
She nodded faintly.
His hands were steady—more experienced than she expected. Careful. Clinical. Nothing like the man who had kissed her on a mountain hours ago.
While the fluid began to run, he pulled out his phone and messaged Andrew privately.
Don’t freak out.
Ariana’s with me. She’s sick. Probably empty stomach + exhaustion.
Handling it.
He deliberately avoided the group chat. The last thing he needed was panic from the rest of the band.
He set his phone aside and looked back at her.
She was already half-asleep, lashes resting against pale skin.
He adjusted the pillows, brushed her hair away from her face.
“You’re the worst adventure partner,” he muttered lightly. “One sunrise and you collapse.”
Her lips twitched faintly. “Your fault.”
He let out a quiet laugh, relief washing through him at the sound of her voice.
“Yeah. I’ll take that.”
The afternoon slipped into evening. He stayed nearby the entire time—checking the IV, making sure she drank water once she could, coaxing her into eating a few crackers.
“Five bites,” he negotiated.
She glared weakly.
“Four,” he amended.
She managed three.
When night came, she was stronger but still fragile. Too weak to go home.
“You’re staying,” he said firmly.
She didn’t argue.
He prepared the guest side of his bed without hesitation—extra pillows, clean blanket. He changed into something comfortable and kept a respectful distance when he lay down beside her.
The room was dim, city lights glowing faintly beyond the glass walls.
There were moments when he felt the pull—she was right there, close enough to touch. The memory of the sunrise still warm under his skin.
But he held himself back.
Care was different from desire.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, unconsciously reaching toward him. His hand met hers halfway, fingers intertwining gently.
“That’s all,” he whispered to himself.
No more lines crossed. Not tonight.
He stayed awake longer than necessary, listening to her breathing steady out, feeling the quiet weight of responsibility settle in his chest.
For someone who feared loneliness more than anything—
He had never felt more protective.
- Writer
