You'll Be The Death of Me

RYAN'S POV

My name is Ryan Ashbrook, and I love life.

I love it in the quiet, reverent way a man loves something he’s afraid of losing. I love mornings that smell like paper and ink, I love the soft drag of chalk on a board, I love the sound of teenagers groaning at metaphors they don’t yet realize will save them one day. I love the way books breathe when you open them....as if they’re exhaling after being held too long.

I love all of it. Maybe too much.

Which is why I’m stepping into the lobby of the Grandview Literary Forum tonight, breath catching in the warmth as the doors close behind me. Everyone seems paired off, grouped....connected.

I hardly see anyone else who’s alone like I am.

But tonight, I’m not letting that bother me.

Tonight, I’m here for her, Elena Marlowe, author of A Body Made of Quiet Things, a book I’ve already read twice and underlined until the margins looked bruised.

I head toward the elevators, ticket and a worn copy of the novel tucked under my arm. There are already half a dozen people inside....most holding the same book.

I step in, press myself lightly against the side wall. The doors begin to close, then a hand shoots out. The elevator groans back open.

And he steps inside....

Phone pressed to his ear, bag slung over one shoulder, copy of the book in his free hand. My eyes flick to him for just a second, just long enough to register the curve of his jaw, the way he pushes a hand through his dark hair as if trying to shake the day off. Then I look away and pretend to reread the back cover of the book.

I pretend not to notice him.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone, voice annoyed, not caring that everyone hears him. “Look, I’m only here because she insisted, okay?....No, I don’t want to fucking network. I wanna go home, crack a beer, and sleep for twelve hours. But now I’m stuck here with a bunch of book nerds who probably think this crap is life-changing.”

He sighs loudly. As if the evening is personally out to ruin him.

“I haven’t even read the damn thing,” he mutters. “I’ve been editing garbage all week and my brain’s fried. If this author starts talking about ‘the human condition,’ I’m jumping out a freaking window.”

A few people stiffen, scandalized. He doesn’t care. I'm guessing he's the kind of man who never has to try. The kind of good-looking who takes up space like it belongs to him.

And he’s vain.

God, he is so vain.

I look away, my irritation mixing with something I refuse to name. He leans against the wall opposite me, finally ending the call with a muttered, “I’ll survive.”

I shouldn’t look at him, but I do. I study the cut of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the kind of beauty that makes you pause even as you resent it. Someone in the back mutters, “Asshole.”

He lets out a low scoff, a small unbothered shake of his head. Then he turns and our eyes catch. Striking blue, arresting....and yet hollow. Like there’s a whole storm behind them but nothing left to throw.

He doesn’t look away.

And neither do I.

I don’t do this. I don’t blatantly stare at strangers, especially not the shallow kind who complain about being “stuck with book nerds” at an event I consider a kind of pilgrimage. But something about those empty blue eyes, that careless beauty, pulls at my attention.

My heart kicks hard. I swallow and finally look away. But even as I turn my head, I feel him. His gaze is direct and unashamed, burning into the side of my face. So I risk it and I glance back.

And there he is, still staring. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of animal I am. The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

I’m the first to move, stepping out quickly, grateful for the excuse to breathe again. I head down the hallway toward the venue, trying to shake off that strange, electric pull.

But the ghost of his eyes follows me.

As if they’re still on my skin.

I step into the room, breath catching as I spot Elena Marlowe already on stage. I consider sitting at the front, where I could soak in the panel of editors, watch them debate and ask questions. But something holds me back. I drift toward the back instead, slipping into a corner where I can do what I do best.... observe.

Something shifts in my system, a sudden tightening in my chest, a quickening of pulse I can’t explain. I turn toward the entrance.

He’s there.

He moves slowly, scanning the room as if trying to find a place where he belongs. Our eyes meet. And I almost physically shake my head, as if doing so could erase the electricity thrumming through my veins. But I know. I can see it in the way he pauses, the flicker of calculation in his expression. He’s considering sitting next to me.

There are plenty of empty seats. He could choose any of them. A part of me....the cautious, reasonable part, wants him somewhere else. But a darker, riskier part wants him next to me.

He starts walking and my entire body tenses. Every nerve is alert.

He stops right next to me. Close enough that I can smell him. Clean, subtle cologne mixed with something faintly woodsy and warm. My fingers clench in my lap. He looks down at me and our eyes lock again. And this time, the angle....him towering slightly above me, does something visceral. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. A wild, reckless pressure that makes my thoughts tumble into places I have no business entertaining.

Then he speaks.

“Is this seat taken?”

Part of me wants to lie, wants to say yes and spare myself the pull of his nearness. But I shake my head, “No.”

He sits too close. The brush of his arm against mine sends a shiver up my spine. I shift in my corner.

Lately, everything’s been catching me. Colors feel sharper, almost painfully vivid, like the world is waking up around me just to show me how alive it is. Music floats through me differently, notes bending into shapes I didn’t know existed. I notice patterns in the city streets, the way sunlight angles through trees. I get lost in it all more than I used to, attuned to things I barely understood....but not like this. Not like him.

Then he does something I didn’t expect, he extends his hand. My chest lurches. My brain screams don’t, but everything inside me wants to reach, to touch.

“Michael,” he says, just his name, but it lands in my chest like a bell. I stare at the hand as if it’ll bite and undo me. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, pretending not to feel the pull. Then, instinctively, I touch it.....just a brush.

Electric fire.

Every nerve flares as if I’ve burned myself on the world’s brightest star. I jerk my hand back as if scorched, heart hammering, heat rushing through me. I remind myself, ruthlessly, that there are things I can’t let myself imagine. Things I can’t dare to want. Things I can’t crave without risking more than my heart can bear.

Because my name is Ryan Ashbrook....and I’m dying.