He catches my wrist.
Firm but not painful, his hand wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet, like he has every right to touch me. His grip is warm and calloused, calluses in patterns I don't recognize—not mechanic calluses like mine, something else. Something that comes from holding weapons, maybe. From doing violence with his hands.
I can feel my pulse pounding against his palm. He has to be able to feel it too, the jackrabbit race of my heart, the way my blood is rushing hot and fast through my veins.
"Your heart's racing," he says, low enough that only I can hear. Intimate. Like we're sharing a secret.
"Maybe I don't like strangers grabbing me."
"Maybe." His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling the flutter of my heartbeat. "Or maybe you like it too much."
He lets go.
I retreat to the other side of the room, dropping into a chair and trying to remember how to breathe. My wrist feels branded where he touched it, warm and tingling, like he left a mark.
Robin and Ash settle onto the couch, Robin tucked against his brother's side with the easy comfort of family. Knox has Toby in his lap in the armchair, one hand running absently through Toby's hair while Toby practically purrs. Domestic Sunday afternoon, plus one terrifying new addition.
"So," Robin says, curling his feet up under him, "tell me everything. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you really retired?"
"Classified, classified, and yes." Ash's arm is draped along the back of the couch behind Robin, casual and protective at the same time. "Finally done. Planning to lay low for a while."
"That's not everything. That's literally nothing."
"That's all I can tell you."
Robin makes a frustrated sound. "Fine. Where are you staying? Do you need a place? You could crash with me and Toby—we've got a couch, it's not great but it's a couch—"
"I've got a place. Don't worry about it."
"What place? Since when do you have a place?"
"Since I bought one." Ash shrugs, like buying real estate is something everyone does between classified military operations. "Before I deployed. Figured I'd need somewhere to come back to eventually."
Robin looks like he wants to push—his face is doing that thing where he's obviously biting back a million questions—but something in Ash's expression stops him. A wall coming down. A door closing.
"Fine," Robin says, not fine at all. "But we're catching up properly. Tuesday," he announces, in the tone that means he's made a decision and no one's going to talk him out of it. "We're doing lunch on Tuesday. Ash, you're coming. You can meet everyone properly without the whole threatening-to-burn-things-down energy. It was very scary and I'm sure Knox appreciated it." Robin pats Ash's knee like he's soothing a large, dangerous dog. "Tuesday. Toby will be here after the library closes, I'll bring something, and Jason can show off his cooking."
I sit up straighter. "I didn't agree to cook—"
"You're always cooking. It's your thing. Recently it was those amazing grilled cheese sandwiches with the fancy bread. And the tomato soup that wasn't from a can."
"Fine," I hear myself say. "I'll cook. Tuesday."
Ash is watching me again, that sharp focus back in full force. "What are you making?"
"Depends. You have any preferences?"
"I don't do sweet." He says it simply, without apology, like it's just a fact about himself. "Never have. Can't stand it. But I like spicy."
"How spicy?"
"Ghost pepper's a good starting point."
A challenge. I can work with a challenge.
"I can do spicy."
"Good." His eyes hold mine for a second too long, charged with heat. "Looking forward to it."
