LOUIS🗡

Saturday, 8:34pm

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I'M QUESTIONING MY EXISTENCE.

Every minute spent with this woman is another minute where I wonder how the hell I ended up with her. I used to have a reputation to uphold, but now I'm a wanted 'criminal' on the run with an actual criminal, and she's being the most confusing person on Earth.

This is [y/n] Ash we're dealing with here. She set things on fire, blew things up, and held a knife to my throat just because she was bored.

But apparently she's also the kind of person who'd risk her own life to save a tiny animal, and who searches a beach for an hour just to find the person the cat belonged to. Not to mention the watery eyes when she realized she had to give it back.

"I miss him," she whined, trudging through the street of a busy section of Barbados, "Mister Scratchy was the best thing in my life."

I squinted my eyes. "I highly doubt that."

"You always doubt me."

"Not always."

"Name one time where you actually took me seriously," she said, turning her head to shoot me a dirty look, "bet you can't."

I opened my mouth to respond, but decided against it.

The answer to that question was not one I should openly say. It would either be taken the wrong way, or just make things awkward, and I'm not ready for another one of her angry moods. How would I even phrase it?

Oh hey, Ash, I take you seriously when you're committing domestic terrorism, becuase that's a a serious topic, but I also took you seriously when I had my tongue down your throat, but we aren't going to talk about that, hm?

Yeah, so I'm not going to say that.

It was too late, and we were too hungry to go and find her parents now, so we decided to find a hostel we could stay at. After talking to some of the street vendors, we were directed to a place at the edge of town, mint-green walls isolated from the sandy ground.

"This is cute," Ash said excitedly, passing through the gate, "very homely."

I furrowed my brows. "It's small."

"Small? This is huge."

"The front porch is the size of my bathroom," I said, "I bet the entire kitchen is only half the size of my living room."

Once again, I was used to luxury. Switching from a well-paid and privileged life to a rationed, quaint, and questionable life was a struggle for me. All I wanted to do was go back in time so I could read my book in the comfort of my apartment.

"First-World problems," Ash scoffed under her breath, "grow up, please."

I frowned. "I am grown up."

"Then why do you act like a child?"

"Why do you act like you're any better?" I said, following her inside, "don't call me a child, like you weren't blowing things up just because you were bored."

Exactly.

She knew I had a point, so she snapped her mouth shut, deciding to ignore me instead. These petty arguments were getting tiring, and I just wanted to stop talking at all if it meant I wouldn't have to constantly defend myself from her criticism. The difference between us was that I criticized her in my mind—not to her face.

She, however, ran her mouth off in front of me.

If we were talking about immaturity, maybe she should consider herself instead. She was the one who told us to work together, so even if she hates me as I hate her, she should keep it to herself.

"Welcome, welcome!" A man said as soon as we strode through the small door—which I had to duck under—opening his arms in greeting, "how may I help you?"

I let Ash speak.

"Hello!" She said with a smile, "we were wondering if you have any rooms available?"

She's a chameleon, I tell you.

A shapeshifter.

I stood there in utter bewilderment as she conversed with the receptionist, smile flashing and eyes bright with joy. She was an entirely different person around other people (cats included), yet she only spoke to me in complete distaste. She had a right to, I guess, but it was still odd to see her switch up so quickly.

"Yes, we have rooms available," the man said, shuffling behind his desk, "how many nights will you be staying?"

Ash smiled again. "Just one!"

"One night," the man repeated, jotting something down.

"And we'd like two rooms, please," she added.

At those words, the receptionist's head snapped up, and he instantly started eyeing me with confusion. I saw him glance at my neon vest, to the sunglasses propped on my head, and then back to Ash. I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking.

"One room?" He asked, "isn't this your boyfriend?"

Oh, Hell no.

"Definitely not," I cut in quickly, "I'm a man, not a boy, and I'm not her friend either."

At my abrupt exclamation, Ash pressed her lips into a thin line. I couldn't tell if she was bothered by me cutting into the conversation or by my sudden defiance at the man's assumption. It wasn't that I hated the thought of being her boyfriend, it was that I wasn't and I didn't want to be associated with someone like her.

"I also have standards," she added sassily.

I frowned. "I'm sure you do."

"You don't even make the bare minimum, Partridge."

"You act as if I care."

"Do you?"

"No, because I can learn from my mistakes," I said, "and being anything but your enemy was the worst choice of my life."

There was a moment where something flickered in her eyes, but then it disappeared. It wasn't a flicker of amusement, anger, or rebellion; it was almost like the last flicker of a dying candle. I wondered if my statement hurt her in some way—which would make no sense in any reasoning—but it would explain the subtle faltering of her stone-cold expression.

Sighing, she turned her head to the receptionist, placing her hand on the counter.

"Sorry," she said, "could you cancel the second room? We won't be needing it."

I furrowed my brows. "We won't be needing it?"

"Didn't you hear what i said?"

"Surely you aren't implying we'd be sharing one room."

"Of course not," she said curtly, swiping the keys into her hand, "that's my suite. You can sleep somewhere else."

Oh, I see what she's doing.

She was the one who carried what little money we possessed, and now that she took away my place to sleep for the night, I was left with no options. I'd have to sleep on the sand outside. Petty, as usual.

"Ash," I called out, following her up the stairs.

She didn't turn around. "Have a good night, Partridge."

I grabbed her wrist, nearly pulling her down the steps and on top of me. I didn't think she'd resist my touch so harshly. She caught herself on the railing, strands of her hair falling over her face.

"Drop the attitude for a second, okay?" I said, lowering my voice, "why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

She looked at me with a frown.

"I'm just making sure you don't make any more mistakes," she scowled, "so take your hand off my wrist and let me leave."

So I was right.

It did bother her.

And in that moment I started to question my existence for the second time that day. Enemies see hate as a necessity—a reason to be the way they are, and a mechanism of defense and attack whenever they encounter the one they despise—so insults aren't supposed to hurt them.

But if it hurt her, maybe that means she doesn't hate me entirely.

Why?

"That's not what I meant," I started to say, "I was just—"

"Don't," she said, cutting me off and turning away, "we're here to find my family, not to be friends."

I stood there in silence, watching as she wrenched her arm back, striding off the stairs and towards the room closest to where we were standing. She opened her door, stepping inside.

"Goodnight," I said.

But the door shut with a click.