The first, me buried in a massive jacket on Mount Crow, frowning at the camera while snow falls around us. I remember that day. I'd demanded he take me up after he wouldn't shut up about it, then regretted it when I realized how cold it was. But Asher's smile in the photo is pure joy, arm slung around my shoulders.
I swipe to the next photo and choke on my wine.
Sick with the flu two months ago, my face is decorated with every product from my makeup bag. Lipstick whiskers. Eyeshadow war paint. Bronzer stripes. And Asher's face is pressed close to my sleeping one, his grin diabolical. I don't even remember this happening.
“You broke into my room when I was dying of the plague?” I gasp, hand on my chest in mock shock.
“You had a cold.” He's watching me over his beer. “And the door was unlocked.”
I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t make it any better.”
The last photo stops my heart.
Us. Asleep on his couch. I'm sprawled across his chest, drowning in his hoodie, face buried against his neck. His arms wrapped around me, refusing to let go.
We look…
“Fuck,” Jord whispers, looking at his own phone. “The comments are already—”
“Friend goals,” Lucinda reads. “Ashvy is endgame. Why aren't they together? She's using him. He deserves better.” She pauses. “Oh, this one's creative. If my friendship doesn't look like this, I don't want it.”
My phone explodes with notifications. Tags, mentions, comments, DMs.
“You're so extra,” I tell him, but I'm smiling despite myself.
He shrugs, unfazed. “You deserve extra.”
Punk stands. “Bathroom.”
The look she gives me is barely a flicker, but I catch it.
“Second door on the left,” I tell her, though she already knows.
She disappears down the hall, combat boots echoing against marble. The others keep scrolling through comments, laughing at the increasingly creative speculation about whether Asher and I are secretly together.
“This one says you're clearly in love,” Jord announces. “Based on, and I quote, ‘he looks at her like he wants to eat her.'“
“Ridiculous,” I say.
“Completely,” Asher agrees with an eye-roll, hiding his smirk behind his bottle.
But when our eyes meet across the table, something electric passes between us. Six months ofalmost.Six months of dancing around this thing we can't name, can't touch, can't have.
“I need more wine.” I stand too quickly, the dim lighting catching my dress.
Asher tracks the movement.
“I'll get it,” he says.
I shake my head. “I can manage.”
“It's your birthday.” He's already following me into the kitchen. “Let someone else take care of you for once.”
His words land heavy, touching some buried insecurity I don’t talk about.
Lucinda and Jord exchange looks, and I know tomorrow I'll get an earful about boundaries and complicated feelings and why I need to be careful. But tonight, with Parker in Switzerland and my friends filling this cold apartment with laughter, with a cake that looks like art and photos that show a version of happiness I didn't know I was capable of, I let myself pretend.
Pretend that I'm just a normal woman whose marriage is falling apart. That Asher's a friend who cares too much. That the knife tucked against my thigh is for protection and not profession.
