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The Hangover
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2025-07-06 05:08:51Cassian woke with a sour taste in his mouth, an aching head, and the distant, humiliating memory of being protected. Again.
The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Sunlight stabbed through the tall windows like punishment. He groaned and sat up, squinting at the floor scattered with designer clothes, half-empty glasses, and a bottle of something amber and reckless.
And then he saw him.
Rowan was still there. Seated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed in black, a mug of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. He looked like a statue carved out of steel and discipline. Sharp jaw. Set shoulders. Unmoving.
Cassian ran a hand through his tangled hair and muttered, “Jesus, do you sleep in shifts or are you just haunting me now?”
Rowan’s eyes didn’t lift from the tablet. “I sleep when you stop self-destructing.”
Cassian made a face and flopped back on the couch, arm over his eyes. “You’re chipper this morning.”
“I’m functional,” Rowan said. “You should try it.”
Cassian chuckled dryly. “What’s the diagnosis, Doctor Doom? Am I a danger to myself again?”
“You’re a danger to your future. And if you keep pushing the wrong people, maybe to your life.”
That sobered him just a little.
He turned his head and looked at Rowan directly. “You’re good at this whole ‘ice man’ thing. Doesn’t anything get under that tactical vest you call a chest?”
Rowan finally glanced up. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re bulletproof. I already know you’re not.”
Cassian froze, something sharp pricking beneath his ribs.
Rowan stood, walked across the room, and set a water bottle and two painkillers on the marble coffee table beside him.
Cassian blinked at them.
“No lecture?” he asked.
“No point,” Rowan replied. “You already know.”
Cassian sat up slowly, took the pills, and downed them without thanks. But he didn’t look away from Rowan.
“You ever been responsible for a train wreck before?”
“I’ve been the wreck before,” Rowan said quietly.
The words hit harder than Cassian expected.
He studied Rowan again. Not just the muscles or the military posture, but the tiredness behind his eyes. The way he stood like he never really sat down inside.
“What happened?” Cassian asked.
Rowan’s face shut down. “Not your business.”
“Right,” Cassian said. “Because God forbid we connect like human beings.”
“You don’t want connection, Cassian. You want reaction.”
Cassian flinched like it stung. “What the hell do you know about what I want?”
“I know when someone’s testing me,” Rowan said calmly. “And I know why.”
Cassian stood suddenly, needing movement, space air. He stormed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, slammed it shut again. Pacing.
“You think you’ve got me figured out? Just because I act out and party and don’t give a shit?”
“I think you care a lot,” Rowan said. “That’s the problem.”
The silence that followed was a vacuum.
Cassian gripped the counter, eyes shut tight.
“You ever wish you were someone else?” he asked, voice smaller than he liked. “Not rich or prettier. Just… normal. Like it didn’t feel like breathing was always something you had to earn?”
Rowan didn’t answer right away. But when he did, his voice was gentler.
“All the time.”
Cassian turned to face him. Something cracked in his expression.
Rowan stepped closer slow, cautious.
“You don’t have to keep proving how much you can break,” he said. “Some of us are just waiting for a reason to stay.”
Cassian’s breath hitched.
Their eyes locked. For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Cassian looked away, suddenly raw.
“I’ve got a father who wishes I was someone else. A publicist who lies for a living. A company built on a name I keep dragging through dirt.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But sure. Let’s talk about my feelings.”
“You’re allowed to have them,” Rowan said.
Cassian looked up sharply. “Not in my world. In my world, weakness gets printed in bold headlines and dissected in podcasts. Vulnerability’s a luxury I was never allowed.”
Rowan’s voice lowered. “Maybe that’s why you need someone like me.”
Cassian stepped forward, inches away now. He looked up at Rowan like he wanted to punch him, or kiss him, or both.
“Careful,” he said. “You keep talking like that, and I might start believing you give a damn.”
Rowan’s eyes didn’t move. “What if I do?”
The moment stretched.
Too close. Too real.
Then Cassian stepped back with a harsh breath, shaking his head. “Nope. Not doing this. Not turning into another tragic diary entry.”
He grabbed his phone and stalked down the hall toward his room, muttering something about needing space.
Rowan didn’t follow.
But he didn’t look away, either.
Later that afternoon, the sky had turned gray, shadows stretching across the living room.
Cassian reappeared in a new shirt, looking slightly more composed but still distant. Rowan was on the balcony, watching the city, posture still as glass.
Cassian joined him, quiet for once.
“You ever wonder what it’d be like if you weren’t born into your life?” he asked, eyes fixed on the skyline. “If you could just… disappear and start over somewhere else?”
“I tried once,” Rowan said. “Didn’t work.”
Cassian glanced at him. “Why not?”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Because you carry yourself wherever you go.”
They stood in silence, the hum of the city far below them.
Cassian exhaled slowly. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Good,” Cassian said. “Because I think… I’m tired of people who are trying.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love. It wasn’t even a truce.
But it was the closest Cassian had come to admitting he needed someone.
And for now, that was enough.
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