“Ash…” Her voice softens, slips, becomes something fragile. “This is really not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
She swallows. Her eyes search mine like they’re trying to find an escape hatch from a truth she didn’t expect and I didn’t plan on revealing.
“Tell them it’s not true,” she whispers.
“If that’s what you want.”
She blinks. “Wh— what?”
“If that’s whatyouwant, Lucy. I’ll shut it down right now.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“Do you want me to?” I ask.
She stares at me like she has no idea how to decipher the man standing in front of her.
“I… I…” She falters.
Holly jumps into the silence. “Miss Lucy, can you read me my book later?”
Lucy clings to the distraction like a lifeline. “Of course, honey. I’d love to.”
Holly grins and runs off. Lucy exhales shakily.
“Ash,” she says finally, her voice low so only I can hear, “this can’t happen.”
“What can’t?”
“This.” A tiny gesture between us. “People talking. Assuming. Holly thinking we’re… together.”
I lean down, voice so quiet it barely exists. “Is that the part that bothers you? Holly thinking it?”
Her breath shivers. “Ash?—”
“Or the possibility it’s not as crazy as it sounds?”
Color floods her cheeks. She steps back like she needs space, but I follow, not touching, not crowding—just close enough she feels every inch of my presence.
“Ash,” she whispers, “you’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help.”
“No kidding.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“What you want.”
She freezes. Completely.
The room buzzes with holiday music, the hum of engines warming, the chatter of the crew—but none of it touches us. We're in our own pocket of air, locked in something heavy and hot and impossible to ignore.
Her voice comes out barely audible. “I don’t know what I want.”
