I shrug, taking a slow sip. “Hard to sleep.”
He nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe that’s why he’s here, too.
We fall into a familiar silence, the kind that used to feel easy but now holds something else. Something unspoken, pressing infrom all sides. I hate it. I hate that things feel different now, like we’re all waiting for something to snap.
I take a breath. “Are you still leaving?”
It’s a simple question. He could just say yes, and we’d move on. But the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers flex against his biceps like he’s bracing for impact—it tells me the answer isn’t simple at all.
“Yeah,” he finally says.
The word lands heavier than I expect. I swallow against the lump forming in my throat and force a small smile.
“Okay,” I say. “Then I free you.”
His brows knit together. “What?”
I gesture vaguely between us. “Whatever this is. I free you from it.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s ridiculous, anyway. What do I even know about you? What do you know about me?”
Asher’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before he straightens. His voice is quiet but firm. “You like your coffee with too much sugar. You sleep with the window cracked open, even when it’s freezing. You count things when you’re nervous—steps, cracks in the sidewalk, how many times the twins say your name. And you hum when you cook, but only when you think no one’s listening.”
I stop breathing for a second.
His eyes don’t leave mine. “And I know you want to let people in, but you don’t know how.”
I tighten my grip on the mug, the warmth barely reaching my fingertips. “And you?” My voice is softer now, almost hesitant. “You drink black coffee, but only because you think sugar is a weakness. You carry that damn coin in your pocket and roll it over your knuckles when you’re overthinking something. You don’t talk about your parents, but I see it in your face when thegirls do something that reminds you of what you lost. And you hate goodbyes.”
Asher’s breath catches. For a second, something shifts between us, breaking open.
Then suddenly, he’s right there, his forehead pressing against mine, his exhale warm against my skin. My pulse stutters, the moment too fragile, too real. I close my eyes, letting the silence stretch between us. Letting myself feel this, whatever this is.
I can’t remember the last time something felt this intense, this raw.
His breath warms my lips, and a tremor runs through me. I look up, finding his eyes locked on mine with a hunger that makes my stomach flip. We don’t speak. There’s no need. We both know what we’re about to do.
He tilts his head, mouth brushing against mine in a kiss that starts slow—gentle, even—but the dam breaks fast. My fingers grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he answers with a low sound that vibrates through my chest.
I press up on my toes, deepening the kiss, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me on the edge of the kitchen countertop.
The cool surface contrasts with the heat coursing through me, and I gasp. My legs part to make room for him, and his arms cage around me, strong biceps flexing under my palms. The closeness is dizzying. I can feel every breath he takes, every soft rumble in his chest when he lets out a low groan.
“You sure?” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes hooded with need.
I answer by tugging him in, capturing his mouth again. There’s no hesitation left in me. My heart thuds so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it. His hands slide under my shirt, fingertips grazing my waist, my ribs. I arch into his touch, hungry for more,letting the tension and frustration of the last few days boil over into something fierce and undeniable.
We kiss like we might lose each other tomorrow. Because we might.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank my shirt over my head, and I shiver at the sudden rush of air against my skin. Without waiting, he palms my breasts, his large hands rough against my sensitive skin. I moan, letting my head fall back as he dips down to run his mouth along my neck, his breath hot and ragged.
“God,” he murmurs, lips grazing the hollow of my throat. “You feel so damn good.”
I arch into him, a whimper escaping me when his thumbs brush over my nipples. The friction sends a bolt of pleasure low in my belly, and I tug at his shirt, urging him to shed it, needing to feel his bare skin.
He complies, tossing the fabric aside. My eyes trace over his torso, the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen, the faint scars that tell stories of a past he rarely discusses. I swallow hard, excitement and a little fear swirling in my veins.
