Chapter 61 Aslan
Aslan
I felt like a character in Romeo and Juliet, and it was so stupid I almost laughed.
We were in the twenty-first century. We were technically adults. We had laws. Rights. A constitution. Google. What the hell was happening?
Was he serious?
Was his family actually powerful enough to ruin us for being together? To hurt him for being… with me?
My head was spinning, not just from the mushroom anymore. The world tilted sideways, the fairy lights strung across Joe’s garden blurring into streaks of gold. The music and laughter from inside the house felt distant, like it was happening underwater. My chest started to ache in that familiar, dangerous way—tight, electrical, wrong—and I tried to breathe through it, but the air wouldn’t fully reach my lungs.
I didn’t even remember lowering myself to the ground. One second I was standing near the stone balustrade, gripping my phone like it might explode, and the next my knees were digging into thick, soft grass. My hands were shaking so hard I had to press them against my thighs to steady them. Tears were running down my face before I consciously registered I was crying.
Let him go.
If you care about me, you’ll let me go.
My throat closed. I hated him. I loved him. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to run back to him. I wanted to burn his entire last name to the ground.
God.
Before I could fully collapse into it, before I could let the grief swallow me whole, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Aslan?”
Aitor.
He'd found me.
He moved around me and knelt in front of me, the gravel crunching under his boots. The moonlight caught in his long dark hair, turning the loose waves silver at the edges. His porcelain face looked almost unreal like that, pale and beautiful—defined cheekbones softened by concern, deep brown eyes wide and steady, focused entirely on me. The noise from the party didn’t touch him. He was calm in a way the world never was.
“My chest,” I managed, because that was easier than saying everything else.
He probably assumed I was having a reaction to the shrooms.
His hands slid to my upper arms, warm and firm, grounding me without squeezing too hard. “Slow breaths,” he murmured. “With me. In. Out.”
I focused on his voice, low and even. I matched his rhythm. The psychedelic effects were still humming in my bloodstream, making everything slightly too bright, slightly too intense, but his presence cut through it like an anchor dropped in deep water.
He smelled familiar, like something sweet and warm… so comforting and safe. I leaned forward resting my forehead against his.
“I’m okay,” I lied automatically, because that was my brand.
He didn’t argue. He just stayed there, kneeling in front of me in the cold, like I was something worth protecting.
The ache in my chest eased enough to stop scaring me. The shaking slowed. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand, embarrassed and exhausted.
Without thinking, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him.
He caught me instantly, pulling me against him, one hand pressing flat against my back, the other cradling the back of my head. He held me tight—not suffocating, not possessive, just solid. Protective. Like if the world tried something, it would have to go through him first.
“Feeling better?” he asked quietly, his lips brushing my temple when he spoke.
I nodded. “I'm so sorry, I just—”
“Shh. It’s alright. I’m here.”
He was here.
I let myself sink into him, let him hold me until the tears finally slowed and my breathing evened out. His thumb moved absently against my spine, small soothing circles that made my muscles unclench one by one. I felt small and exposed and stupidly grateful all at once.
When I finally pulled back, we didn’t move far. My hands were still gripping his jacket. His were still on my waist.
We were close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint tremor on his full lower lip. His skin looked smooth under the moonlight, almost glowing. His eyes searched my face like he was trying to read something I hadn’t said out loud.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly. “I want your smiles and your tears, Aslan. Your pain, your fear… They're a part of you. And they are beautiful to me.”
And just then, he was beautiful too. The most fucking beautiful man I've ever seen…
I swallowed. My head was still buzzing, emotions dialed up too high, everything too loud inside me. I became pretty aware of how close we were, how his hands were still resting at my sides, how my knees were practically between his. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of my shirt. His breath fanned across my lips.
He was so perfect it almost hurt to look at him.
Strong shoulders, broad shoulders and lean muscles. That long, silky hair brushing his collar… And the way he looked at me.
There was no cruelty in him. No games. Just this quiet, unwavering presence.
My anchor.
My angel.
The opposite of him.
It seemed like Garrett was my private demon, the one who could always break me, destroy me with a few words, within minutes, so that Aitor could put me back together.
And the part of me that had just shattered needed that right now. Needed something—needed him—to fill the space Garrett had ripped open.
My fingers tightened slightly in his jacket. His gaze flickered down to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up, like he hadn’t meant to.
The air shifted.
We were both breathing a little heavier now. Not panicked. Not rushed. Just aware.
“Aitor,” I said, but it came out quieter than I intended.
His hands flexed at my waist. “Aslan.”
There was so much gentleness in his voice it made my chest ache all over again, but differently this time.
I didn’t think. I didn’t calculate. I didn’t analyze whether this was healthy or fair or smart. I was tired of thinking. Tired of rejection…
So I closed the distance.
It started soft. Hesitant. My lips brushed his, testing, giving him time to pull away.
He didn’t.
His breath caught instead, and then his mouth pressed back against mine, careful but certain. His hands slid from my waist to my lower back, holding me steady as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t messy. It was warm and deliberate, like he was memorizing me instead of consuming me.
But the longer it lasted, the more something inside me cracked open.
I kissed him harder.
All the grief, the anger, the humiliation, the fear—I poured it into that kiss. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. I felt him inhale sharply against my mouth, his grip tightening in response. The world tilted again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was heat. It was the sharp, dizzy rush of wanting to feel something that didn’t hurt.
His lips parted under mine as our tongues found each other. The kiss turned deeper, hungrier, charged with everything we weren’t saying. My heart was racing now, but not in that wrong, electric way. In a reckless, human way.
For a moment, I forgot everything else.
And my body decided for me.
“Take me out of here, Aitor. Somewhere private…”