I followed him inside, the warmth of the estate hitting melike a wave. The grand hall was dimly lit, the faint scent of cedarwood and old books filling the air. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. It was cozy in a way that didn’t match the dark exterior of the mansion, a hidden warmth that made it feel like a sanctuary.
Ashton shrugged off his coat, hanging it on a hook near the door, and I did the same, rubbing my hands together to chase away the lingering chill.
“You should warm up,” he said, his tone softer now, almost gentle. “There’s tea in the kitchen if you want it.”
“You’re not joining me?” I asked, tilting my head.
He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the window where the snow continued to fall. “In a bit. I just need a minute.”
I studied him for a moment, the way his shoulders seemed heavier than usual, the way his hands flexed at his sides as if he was trying to hold something back. I wanted to press him, to make him tell me what was going on in that guarded mind of his, but I knew better. Ashton wasn’t the kind of man you could push. He had to come to you on his own terms.
“Okay,” I said finally, giving him a small smile. “But don’t take too long. I might drink all the tea without you.”
His lips curved into a faint smirk, and for a moment, the tension in his face eased. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I left him standing there, his gaze fixed once again on the window, and headed toward the kitchen. But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was weighing on him, something he wasn’t ready to share.
And for the first time, I realized how badly I wanted to be the one he trusted enough to let in.
The kitchen was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the chill that clung to me from outside. The large wooden beams overhead gave the space a rustic charm, and the smell of freshly baked bread lingered faintly in the air, though the ovenwas now cold. The soft light from the pendant lamps cast a golden glow over the countertops, making the room feel cozier than it had any right to be in a house as massive as Ashton’s.
I wandered to the kettle on the stove, filling it with water and setting it to boil. The quiet hum of the house surrounded me, but it wasn’t enough to drown out my thoughts—or the image of Ashton’s face, shadowed and distant, as he’d stared out the window.
There was something about him that was different tonight. The way he looked at me, the way his shoulders carried an invisible weight—it unsettled me. He wasn’t just brooding. He was lost in something, something dark and heavy, and I couldn’t stop the worry from creeping in.
I leaned against the counter, watching the steam begin to rise from the kettle, and let out a soft sigh. Why couldn’t he just talk to me? I knew he was used to carrying everything on his own, but I was here now. I wanted to help, even if I didn’t know how.
The whistle of the kettle broke the silence, and I quickly poured the hot water into a teapot, the rich aroma of steeping tea filling the room. I grabbed two mugs and brought everything to the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen, setting it all down with a quiet clink.
I glanced toward the doorway, half-expecting Ashton to appear, but the hall was empty. He was still out there, still staring out that window, still keeping whatever was on his mind locked tightly behind his dark eyes.
Why does he have to make everything so damn difficult?
The sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall, and I straightened in my seat, waiting for him to come in. But when Ashton finally appeared in the doorway, I immediately noticed the tension in his frame. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his gaze heavy as it landed on me.
“You didn’t drink all the tea, did you?” he said, his voice gruff but softer than before.
“Not yet,” I said, trying to inject some lightness into my tone. “But I was getting close.”
He gave me a faint smirk as he crossed the room, pulling out the chair opposite me and sinking into it. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire in the next room and the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall.
“Are you okay?” I asked finally, my voice quiet.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for one of the mugs, wrapping his large hands around it like he was trying to absorb its warmth. His gaze was fixed on the steam rising from the tea, his jaw tight.
“Ashton,” I pressed, leaning forward slightly. “What’s going on?”
He let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders rising and falling as if he were carrying the weight of the world. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice low.
“It’s not nothing,” I said, frustration creeping into my voice. “I can see it all over your face. Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive.”
His dark eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for a moment, I thought he might actually open up. But then, just as quickly, he looked away, his jaw clenching.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, his tone firmer now. “I can handle it.”
“Maybe I want to worry about you,” I shot back. “Did you ever think about that?”
He let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.”
