After each overblot, some part of you cracked and never quite returned. Facing death again and again would do that to anyone—especially someone grossly unprepared. Maybe everyone else was too caught up in their own problems, or maybe they were simply inconsiderate, but nobody really noticed how you were slowly coming undone.

Ace certainly hadn’t. Not at first.

The signs became obvious one evening while he was tidying Ramshackle. Under a stack of papers he found an old photo of the two of you from the first day: you looked tired and a little confused, but somehow brighter. His fingers tightened around the photo as his gaze drifted to you on the couch — still smiling, still laughing… but just a little off.

Had you been sleeping at all lately? Your eyes looked more blank than tired now, more watchful. Over the next few days Ace began to notice everything: the jumpiness, the way you over-prepared for small things as if another overblot lurked around the corner, how you tracked the housewardens with your eyes, body taut, ready to intervene. It had never been openly said, but it was clear to him now that you were the only person who had been present at every single overblot—the one who always calmed things down.

He tried to brush it off. He told himself anyone in your situation would act like that, that it was normal. Then he’d catch himself and feel sick for dismissing you like everyone else.

When he slung an arm around your shoulders one afternoon in a casual, boyish greeting and you flinched, ducking as if to hide, Ace kept his grin plastered on. He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a light tone. “You’ve been jumpy all week. Did Grim steal your sleep again, or is something else going on?”

You waved it off. Blamed it on zoning out. On lack of sleep.

Maybe that was when he started being more watchful—not that he’d ever admit it. He noticed you didn’t like the dark anymore. Not after being swallowed by so much. So on Wednesday afternoon he showed up at Ramshackle with a bag from Sam’s. “Ramshackle’s too dark for me to see, y’know? This is my second home; gotta be able to see.” He plugged small warm night-lights into every corner. You watched him, shocked at the consideration.

Ace still teased and prodded—it was who he was. But the second you flinched or drifted too far away he softened, anchoring you back to earth with something nearly casual but quietly caring: suddenly handing you the snack he “didn’t want,” the drink you knew he didn’t like anyway.

When a duel threatened to erupt between Leona and Riddle over some petty slight, Ace looked at you first. Your panic was visible now—or maybe it always had been and nobody else had bothered to look. He put an arm in front of you, ushering you gently away while making a loud joke that drew both housewardens’ eyes to you—to your expression. It made them falter.

Around the bend somewhere quiet, Ace rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “Jeez, those guys. Temper, am I right?” He gave a weak laugh. “Hey, Riddle kicked me out of Heartslabyul again—'cause I was being too cool. Mind if I crash at Ramshackle?”

You had a feeling it was a lie—normally he’d text you immediately and complain for twenty minutes about being banished or evicted—dramatic terms like that—but he hadn't. He wasn't trying to get out of anything or avoid any responsibilities. Under his usual cocky tone was something eerily similar to taking responsibility.