"He's still a dead man."
Jason laughs and takes my hand as we walk out of the library.
My boyfriend.
I have a boyfriend who looks at me like I'm worth keeping. Who fits against my chest during story hour and laughs at my terrible jokes and makes me want to be better than I am.
I'm probably going to fuck this up a hundred different ways before I get it right. But I'm going to keep trying.
For him, I'll keep trying.
Chapter 11
Jason
The Thai place is called Siam Garden, and it's tucked into a strip mall about ten minutes from the library. Not fancy—fluorescent lights, plastic tablecloths, a fish tank by the register with a single bored-looking goldfish—but the kind of place that has amazing food. I can tell before we even sit down from the way the kitchen smells. Real lemongrass. Fresh galangal. The particular sweetness of good fish sauce.
"How'd you find this place?" I ask as Ash holds the door for me.
"I've been coming here for years. Robin said you like Thai food, so." He shrugs like it's nothing, guiding me toward the back with a hand on my lower back, casual and possessive at the same time.
We slide into a booth near the back corner. Ash takes the side facing the door, which I'm starting to realize is a habit. Military thing, probably. Always knowing where the exits are, always able to see who's coming.
The waitress comes by—a tiny woman in her sixties who takes one look at Ash and raises an eyebrow but says nothing—and we order. Drunken noodles for me, massaman curry for him, spring rolls to share. When she leaves, there's a moment of awkward silence.
"So," Ash says.
"So."
"This is the part where we're supposed to talk, right? Get to know each other?"
"That's generally how it works."
He drums his fingers on the table, a restless rhythm. "I'm not good at this."
"At talking?"
"At... civilian conversation. Small talk. The stuff normal people do on dates." He looks genuinely frustrated with himself. "In the field, communication is about information transfer. Mission parameters, threat assessment, tactical updates. Clear, precise, functional. This is different."
"It's not that different." I reach across the table and put my hand over his, stilling the drumming. His fingers are warm under mine. "You're just transferring different information. Stuff about yourself. Stuff you want to know about me."
"What if I say something wrong?"
"Then I'll tell you, and you'll know for next time." I squeeze his hand. "This isn't a test you can fail. It's just... talking."
He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. "Okay. Information transfer." He takes a breath, squaring his shoulders like he's preparing for a mission. "What should I know about you?"
I think about it. How do you summarize yourself for someone? What matters, what doesn't?
"I'm twenty-four. I've been with Knox's pride since I was nineteen—about five years now. I like cooking, building bikes, and terrible reality TV that I pretend I'm watching ironically but actually get invested in. I cry at sad movies and sometimes happy ones. I've never had a relationship last longer than three months."
"How'd you end up with Knox?"
"Grew up in a pride in Nevada, but it never really felt like home. My family's fine, we just... don't have much in common. They're all accountants and lawyers, very practical, very serious. Good jobs, sensible investments, early bedtimes. I wanted to work with my hands, build things, cook things. Be messy sometimes." I shrug. "When I turned eighteen I started looking for a pride that fit better. Met Vaughn at a bike show in Reno—he was there looking at parts for the garage. He introduced me to Knox, and that was that. Found my people."
"You just... left your family?"
"We still talk sometimes. Holidays, birthdays. They send money on my birthday that I don't need but can't figure out how to refuse without hurting their feelings." I shrug. "But Knox's pride is my family now. The pack is my home."
