I hate that I'm jealous of it.
Ash doesn't seem to mind being Robin's pillow. Just shifts slightly to accommodate him, one arm tucked behind his own head, the other resting on the floor beside him. His hand is maybe six inches from my foot.
The movie is genuinely creepy. Good atmosphere, solid scares, that slow-building dread that effective horror does so well. I've seen it before but it still gets me—the family making terrible decisions, the demon lurking in the shadows, the inevitable possession sequence.
Twenty minutes in, I feel it.
Fingers on my ankle.
Light, barely there, just above my sock where my jeans have ridden up. Ash's hand, touching me in the dark where no one can see.
I freeze.
The touch doesn't move, doesn't demand anything. Just rests there, warm and steady. His thumb against my ankle bone, his fingers curled loosely around the joint.
On screen, someone screams. Robin jumps, accidentally kicking me in the side. "Shit, sorry."
"It's fine."
Ash's fingers tighten slightly—protective, reflexive—before relaxing back to that light touch.
"Popcorn?" he offers, holding the bowl up without looking at me. His voice is low enough that only I can hear.
I take a handful. It's perfect. The exact spice balance I use, the ghee giving it that rich depth, the lime zest brightening everything. He didn't just follow the recipe—he made it well. Got the ratios right, toasted the spices properly, didn't burn the ghee.
His thumb strokes once along my ankle bone, and I nearly choke on a kernel.
"You okay?" Toby asks from Knox's lap, twisting to look at me.
"Fine. Just—went down wrong."
The movie continues. The family makes more terrible decisions. People get possessed. Things go bump in the night. The demon does demon things.
And Ash's fingers stay on my ankle the whole time.
Not pushing for anything. A connection in the dark that no one else can see. His thumb traces occasional circles against my skin, each one sending a shiver up my spine that I have to fight not to show.
Robin shifts, pressing his face into Ash's shoulder during a particularly effective jump scare. "I hate this movie."
"You picked it," Ash reminds him.
"I have regrets."
"You always have regrets."
"Shut up and be my security blanket."
Ash huffs what might be a laugh. But his hand never moves from my leg.
Halfway through, I shift to get more comfortable, and my thigh presses against his shoulder. He leans into it. Just slightly, just enough that I know it's on purpose. The warmth of him seeping through the fabric of my jeans.
This is torture. Sweet, maddening torture.
"Anyone need anything?" I whisper, because I need to move or I'm going to do something stupid like slide down onto the floor and climb into his lap.
Various mumbled "no"s from the pack, everyone absorbed in the movie. But when I start to stand, Ash's hand wraps around my ankle, holding gently.
"Stay," he says.
