Punk finally glances up, eyebrows raised.
Asher sets the mug down on the counter. The sound echoes. “That so?”
“That's so.”
Camille looks between us, confusion flickering across her face before she masks it with irritation. “What are you two even talking about?”
“Nothing,” I say, still holding Asher's gaze. “Just clearing up any potential misunderstandings.”
His jaw works. “Yeah. Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
“Exactly.”
Camille's hand slips from his arm. “Asher—”
“Give us a minute,” he says, not looking at her.
Her mouth opens. Closes. She glances at me, then back at him, and I see the moment she decides this isn't a battle worth fighting right now. “Fine. I'll be in the pool house.”
She turns on her heel and stalks toward the doors in the living room, heels clicking against marble. The sound fades as she leaves, and then it's just the four of us.
Atlas shifts on the couch. “I'm gonna—”
“Stay,” Asher says.
Atlas freezes mid-rise. “Dude.”
“Stay,” Asher repeats.
“Yeah,” I say, head tilting but focused on Asher. “Stay Atlas. We might need a witness.”
He drops back down, exchanging a glance with Punk, who's now fully invested in whatever's about to unfold.
Asher steps around the island, closing the distance between us. “You want to run that by me again?”
I tilt my head, keeping my expression neutral. “Run what by you?”
“The part where I don't mean anything.”
“Did I say that?” I ask, agitation trailing my tone.
He continues. “You implied it.”
“Sounds like a personal interpretation.”
His eyes narrow. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What?” I shift the clothes in my arms again, using the movement to create space between us. “I'm just standing here. You're the one making it a thing.”
His brows jerk. “I'm making it a thing?”
“Yeah.” I take a step back. “You are.”
He follows. “Bullshit.”
“Asher.” Atlas's voice cuts in, tentative. “Maybe not—”
“Shut up, Atlas—”Asher snaps without looking away from me.
