COLT
"Ashton."
I don’t realize I say it out loud until his name is in the air, my voice raw, scraped over gravel. He tilts his head, eyes flicking over me, and f**k—he looks exactly the same. Same cocky expression. Same sharp, knowing gaze. Same casual arrogance, like he wasn’t supposed to be dead in a ditch by now.
"Wow, Wilding," he drawls, sliding his hands into his pockets. "You look like shit."
I breathe out hard through my nose, shoulders so f*****g tight they might snap. It takes everything in me not to lunge.Not in anger. Not in relief. Not in anything I can name, because the emotion that slams into my ribs is too f*****g big to fit into a single word.
Instead, I move.
Because I don’t know what else to do. Because I spent days chasing ghosts. Because I had to imagine them d
