“I don’t.”
His voice snaps across the room like a live wire.
My breath catches. His expression softens by half a degree as he drags a hand down his face, like he’s annoyed at himself for letting anything slip.
“Look,” he says quieter, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
“Really? Since when?”
The corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Since right now.”
“Oh. A new leaf,” I tease.
“Don’t push it.”
I push it anyway. “Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation.”
“I didn’t sleep because someone kept breathing next to me.”
I blink. “You’re blaming me for your breathing?”
“I’m blaming you for how loud your breathing was.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Doesn’t have to.”
The heat in his eyes makes it impossible to look at him too long. I glance toward the window again, where the storm’s aftermath sparkles beneath the rising sun.
“Well,” I say, pushing off the bed and standing way too close to him, “then I guess I should?—”
“Stay.”
It’s one word. One syllable. One low, rough command that hits me like a physical touch.
My breath halts in my chest. He stiffens too, like he surprised himself by saying it out loud.
“Ash…” I whisper.
He looks me up and down slowly, carefully, like he’s cataloging every reason this is a bad idea and every reason he wants to ignore all of them.
“You don’t have to rush back,” he says, voice softer now. “There’s still festival decorating to finish. The parade float team’s meeting this afternoon. And Holly will want to show you the nativity crafts she made. And…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I could use help with a few things.”
Festival prep. Parade stuff. Holly. All perfectly reasonable, non-threatening adult tasks.
But none of them are why he wants me to stay. We both know it.
My voice comes out embarrassingly fast. “Okay.”
His brows lift. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I mean—sure. I can stay. For festival stuff. If you need an extra set of hands. I don’t have to rush home. I’m not in a hurry or anything. Like, at all.”
Stop talking, Lucy. Stop talking immediately.
He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I just impulsively agreed to something I don’t understand. Or if I understand perfectly.
“You’re sure?” he asks, low.
