"You don't know if you want to date me?"
"I don't know if I know how to date you. Or anyone." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't do relationships, Jason. I do missions. Objectives. Short-term goals with clear endpoints. I don't know how to want someone beyond right now."
"But you do want me right now."
"So fucking much it hurts."
The words hang between us, honest and brutal. He wants me. He's not pretending otherwise. Not playing games, not stringing me along, not making promises he can't keep. He's telling me the truth: he wants me, but he doesn't know how to keep me.
But wanting isn't the same as keeping, and I need to be kept.
"I can't," I whisper. "I can't do just tonight. I'm not built for it."
"I know." He steps back, giving me more space. His hands drop to his sides, empty. "I know you're not."
"Robin warned me. He said you'd want me, but wanting and keeping are different things." I'm rambling now, trying to fill the silence with words because the silence is too heavy.
"Robin's usually right about me."
"Is he right about this?"
Ash doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those hazel eyes, and I see something there that might be regret. Or frustration that he's not getting what he wants. I can't tell. I don't know him well enough yet to read him, and maybe I never will.
My hands shake as I fix my clothes. Straighten my shirt. Try to make myself look like I wasn't just being devoured against a workbench.
"I should go."
"Yeah."
But neither of us moves. We just stand there, both breathing hard, the space between us charged with everything we're not doing. His hands are clenched at his sides. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it.
"Ash—"
"Go, Jason." His voice is rough. "Please. Before I do something we'll both regret."
I go.
Walk out of his perfect garage, past his three beautiful bikes, through his empty house that doesn't feel like a home. Get on my bike with numb fingers. Start the engine.
I don't look back as I drive away.
---
I make it back to the bar somehow. Park my bike. Walk through the main room on autopilot, barely registering who's there or what they're doing.
Robin and Toby are on the couch watching something with Knox. Vaughn's behind the bar, polishing glasses he's probably polished three times already. They all look up when I come in, and I see them register my expression, my posture, the way I'm holding myself together by sheer force of will.
"Jason?" Robin calls, sitting up.
I wave vaguely. Can't manage words. Head straight for the stairs.
"Jason, wait—"
I don't stop. Can't stop. If I stop, I'll break down right here in front of everyone, and I can't do that. I still have some pride left. Some small scrap of dignity that I'm clinging to with everything I have.
My room is small. Just enough space for a bed and a dresser and the shelf where I keep my cookbooks. I close the door behind me, strip off my clothes that still smell like him, and get in the shower.
The water is too hot, almost scalding, but I don't adjust it. I stand under the spray and try to wash the feel of him off my skin. His hands on my hips. His mouth on mine. His body pressed against my back, so close I could feel every inch of him.
