"Ash—"
"Please." He looks at me, and there's vulnerability in his expression that he's not trying to hide. "I'm not ready for today to be over."
How can I say no to that?
"Okay," I say. "Dinner. But then I really have to go."
"Deal."
He orders Thai again from the same place, because we both liked it and because trying new things can wait for another day. We eat on the couch, watching something mindless on TV, and I don't leave until almost midnight.
At the door, he kisses me like it's the last time even though we both know it isn't.
"Tomorrow?" he asks.
"I work until five. But after—"
"I'll come to the bar. Help with dinner."
"You can cook?"
"I can chop vegetables. Same thing."
I laugh and kiss him again. "See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
I ride home with his taste in my mouth and his smell on my clothes and his voice in my head telling me how much he cares about me.
My boyfriend. My actual, real, official boyfriend.
Robin said Ash was a hurricane. But maybe hurricanes can learn to be gentle.
Maybe this one already has.
Chapter 12
Ash
I'm doing dishes.
I don't do dishes. I've never done dishes voluntarily in my life. Growing up, Robin and I had a chore wheel that I routinely ignored—let the dishes pile up until someone else caved, usually Robin because he couldn't stand the mess. In the military, there were mess halls and MREs and the occasional local restaurant when we were somewhere civilized enough to have them. At my house, I use paper plates because washing anything feels like admitting I live there permanently.
But Jason cooked dinner for the whole pack tonight—some kind of pasta thing with homemade sauce that took him three hours. He made the noodles from scratch, rolled them out by hand, hung them on a rack to dry while he worked on the sauce. Roasted tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic he minced himself because apparently pre-minced garlic is "a crime against cooking."
Now he's leaning against the counter looking exhausted and happy, flour still dusted on his forearm, and the sink is full of pots and pans and mixing bowls, and somehow my hands are in soapy water.
"You don't have to do that," Jason says for the third time.
"I know."
"Seriously, I can—"
"Jason." I turn to look at him, soap suds dripping from my fingers. "Let me."
His face goes soft. Surprised. A little bit like he might cry. Like no one's ever offered to clean up after him before.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
