I chuckle. “You've posted clearer photos than that of us on your Instagram.”
Asher turns to me, his brow furrowed. “It's not just that. The speculation. If they dug enough…”
I roll my eyes, taking another sip of wine. “They'll find nothing.” Because If things get too messy, Punk can make any digital trace disappear with a few keystrokes.
I study Asher more closely, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. “You look like shit,” I say bluntly, trying to redraw the line of friendzone. “When's the last time you slept?”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that always makes my fingers itch to smooth it back down. “I don't know. A while.”
Asher's silent again, his gaze fixed on the fire. The light dances across his face, betraying his inner turmoil. Part of me wants to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort. But that's not who we are. Not what we do.
Instead, I pick up my wine glass again, draining the last of it. “So, what are you going to do about the photo?”
He turns to me, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Why? Worried about your reputation?”
I snort. “Please. My reputation can handle a lot worse than being seen with you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly, warmth seeping into his voice for the first time in weeks.
I sigh, smirking. “Who is Asher Jameson?”
He chuckles, edging farther into the bouclé sofa, spreading his knees wide in a way that takes up every inch of available space. The movement is deliberate, claiming territory. “The question everyone wants to know.”
“Hmmm…” I study the sharp angles of his face in the dim light, trying to decide whether he likes the attention. The sadness bleeding into his eyes right now—raw and unguarded—tells me no. There's something hollow there. Emptied. Gutted. “Camille's fiancé. That's a good place to start.”
He licks his bottom lip, slow, deliberate, before stealing my wine glass.
His fingers brush mine. “Am I though?”
Words hang between us like a loaded gun, and he's looking at me like he's daring me to pull the trigger.
“That's an interesting way to cheat.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Okay. I’ll dabble. Step into this minefield he's laying out. Why not? Two in the morning, wine making me reckless.
His whole body tenses, and when my eyes land back on his, my stomach dips.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Why'd you marry him?”
I look away. Back to the fireplace where flames dance in patterns that make more sense than this conversation.
I shrug. “Why not?”
He’s relentless as he unloads more questions. “You said it yourself—you don't cheat. So why me?”
“I don't know.” Memories claw to the surface, sharp, unwelcome things that taste like blood and trauma. I shove them back where they belong. “Why? Do you do it often?”
Snatching the glass from his fingers, my hand trembles as I rest it against my mouth.
When he doesn't answer, I look at him from behind my glass before taking a sip. It burns less than his gaze.
“Never.” Pause. “But you knew that already.”
Sure I knew. He’s had no serious girlfriends since high school, and the moment he parades someone in front of his fans, they'll either devour her or worship her.
I push up from the sofa, folding the blanket. Need distance. Air. Anything but this suffocating tension between us.
Placing it on the armrest, I go to squeeze between him and the coffee table, but his hand shoots out—catching my wrist.
