He had the nerve to sit there and look so fucking calm and collected, and Phoebe wanted to claw his eyes out. She wanted to give in and drink the tea, because she [i]knew[/i] it would warm her up and clear her head, but she couldn’t let herself do it. She couldn’t let him win. Not after what he’d done to her.

He refuted her point—and Phoebe clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering, to keep her from hurling insults at him. He was correct, of course. She’d chased him down when she could barely see straight, high as a fucking broomstick, but it still seemed so drastically unfair. She elected not to comment on that, on the judgment he passed on her. She merely narrowed her eyes. Worse for others [i]indeed[/i]. He’d known of her marriage—but he hadn’t known how it had fallen apart, how she’d lost a child and a husband in a span of weeks. And then the riots had happened, and she’d had no time to grieve, not when England was burning and every Healer was needed in the hospital. So she’d just kept working and coming home to a flat stripped bare of everything she’d built her life on.

[i]Fuck[/i]. Now was not the time for these thoughts. It was so easy to get lost in the cold, coming down from Heat. She’d lost days before in the aftermath, curled into a ball and desperate for warmth that eluded her, no matter how many blankets or charms she used. Phoebe wetted her lips. She didn’t have long. Twenty minutes, tops, before she needed to be curled up at home, or another dose. The sachet in her purse burned in the back of her brain. Decisions needed to be made, and soon.

“Fuck you, Ackerman,” she hissed, hating how her voice stumbled, blinking hard to keep her eyes clear. The side of her hand deftly pressed against her lower lashline, catching what she couldn’t quite swallow. “Fuck you and your stupid, melodramatic poetry, you twat. Don’t lie and say you [i]missed me[/i], you had no [i]idea[/i]--”

Fuck, her voice wasn’t supposed to break like that. No. No, she had to keep it together. Fuck. Ten years had passed, she had moved on with her life.

He’d mentioned her friends; Phoebe couldn’t think of a group she’d rather see less. She glanced out the window, ducking behind her hair (as if somehow that would prevent them from recognizing her). Rhiannon and Deirdre—she hadn’t counted on her boss being out with them when she’d accepted the little sachets of magic golden powder from her best friend. She turned in her seat, looking up at Justin, and for the first time she thought maybe he wasn’t lying about everything. He was still a git, of course, but… fuck, no, that was not what she needed to be thinking. She hated him, had to cling to that anger. He deserved nothing less. She’d loved him, had given him [i]everything[/i], would have followed him to the edge of the world and he had dropped her like she was trash. Her! Phoebe Lockwood, top of her year, cunning and clever and charming and brilliant. He dropped her like she was beneath him, like her friends whispered he always would, and that had stung worst of all. He’d never cared about her blood when she’d pulled him into a broomcloset or an empty classroom. As soon as she’d been inconvenient, he’d dropped her, and even Phoebe hadn’t been so blind as to pretend it was due to anything but the circumstance of her birth.

But fuck, he was [i]here[/i] and alive and she was so fucking cold. She was so tired and exhausted and sick to death of being left behind and the thought of him leaving again had her stomach in knots. She choked, a stupid sob of a sound, and hated the way her pale hand reached out to grab his sleeve. [i]Pitiful, mewling, pathetic girl[/i], her brain managed through the fog. She felt her shoulders drop, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Justin,” she had no idea what she meant to say, or do, and she hated herself for her weakness. “Please…”