Page 92 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

T (9:33 AM): Oh wow, yeah, you’re probably hungover as fuck.

That’s accurate.

T (9:34 AM): Don’t count on doing anything productive today. Today is a loss.

AMBRA (9:34 AM): I was planning on scoping out some of the outside protections in Paris.

T (9:35 AM): Don’t. Also, find time to get a passport if you can.

On the other side of the bed, Gurlien’s phone chimes, and he flails awake, sitting bolt upright with a gasp.

Ambra immediately misses the contact.

She turns over to face him. “It’s just your phone.” Her words croak out instead of anything smooth, and she scrunches her face at the sound.

He stares wildly down at her, before cramming his glasses on his face. “Oh my god, you’re already awake.”

She holds up her phone. “Your experts were texting about hangovers.”

He cradles his head, squinting against the brightness of the swirling snow outside.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and there’s panic in his voice. “I didn’t mean to cuddle you, I…”

She blinks at him slowly. That’s what he’s upset about? “Gurlien, you’ve been doing that all week.”

He gapes at her.

She sits up carefully, and her head swims all the same. “Did you think I didn’t notice?”

“You didn’t say anything…” he trails off, then squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t handle this right now.”

“You want coffee?” Ambra offers, thinking back to his words the night before and to T’s advice. “My head hurts.”

“No shit,” he snips, before he rubs his face.

He’s still in the undershirt from the night before, and the shirt she grabbed by the collar lays crumpled next to the bed.

“What time did we get back?” he mumbles from behind his hand.

Ambra didn’t look at a clock when they did, so she shrugs, and her neck is way too stiff after the looseness of the wine.

Hand still on his face, he glances at her, like he’s searching for a clue in her appearance.

“What do you need?” Ambra asks, after the moment stretches on too long. “You’re trying to figure something out, what is it? I can’t help if I don’t know what it is.”

There’s another flicker of panic, before something akin to fondness crosses his face, and it’s so out of place among the physical misery he’s putting off. “Right, you’re a demon. Different cultural mores.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes once more, before he swings his legs over his side of the bed, steadying himself. “My memory is very fuzzy from last night,” he informs her, not looking at her, instead leafing through his bag of clothing.

She eyes his shoulders. “Define fuzzy.”

“I’m not sure what happened,” he says, and there’s a trace of embarrassment in his tone. “I was trying to figure out if I needed to apologize more.”

“No,” Ambra replies, and despite her stomach and despite her head, there’s a little bit of amusement worming inside of her. “No, you don’t need to apologize.”

It’s not something she’d considered, that he might not have even been aware of what happened. That he might nothave a strong emotion about it, because he doesn’t even know it happened.

She hopes he doesn’t dislike the thought.

Instead of grabbing another button up, he shrugs a plain black shirt on over his head.

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