The breeze grew stronger, shaking the shuttered cafes as Noah moved further away from the gallery. His footsteps echoed down cobblestone streets, each one crisp and purposeful—as if he could outrun the pain spreading in his chest.
He walked past a closed bakery. A little girl's abandoned chalk artwork still covered the sidewalk: a heart, bisected down the center. He gazed at it. Strange how even other people's kids somehow nailed what was going on inside him.
He smoked a cigarette. He didn't smoke, not exactly. But tonight, he let the paper burn down between his fingers. Paris was hazy around the edges—too refined, too clean for the war still raging inside him.
A buzz—his phone.
Unknown Number.
He paused. Then answered.
A voice. Soft. Nervous.
"…Noah?"
He froze.
It wasn't Kai.
It was Ash.
"Don't hang up," Ash said hastily. "I—I just wanted to say I told him. Everything."
Noah's knees nearly gave out.
"You what?"
