He looks at me like he’s analyzing a crime scene. Then softer. “You didn’t come down for dinner.”
“Not hungry,” I say.
“You haven’t eaten all day,” he counters.
“Observation noted,” I mutter.
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “May I?”
He gestures toward the room, waiting for permission. I nod.
Ash steps inside slowly, gaze sweeping the space—the half-folded blanket, the cup of cold tea, the clothes still hanging where I left them. I can almost see him logging the details. Timestamps, positions, and data points.
“You catalog everything,” I say.
“It’s how I remember things,” he answers. His tone isn’t defensive—just factual.
“And me?”
He glances up. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Something inside me stirs at that—something that feels too much like curiosity. “I’m fine, you know,” I lie.
“No, you’re not,” he says, calling my bluff immediately.
“Maybe I just don’t want company,” I answer, though we both know it’s a lie as soon as I say it.
“Then why’d you open the door?” He asks.
That stops me. I don’t have an answer that won’t sound like truth.
He steps closer, slow enough for me to notice his restraint. The air thickens—rain and skin and static. His scent is clean, metallic, like ozone before a storm.
“You shouldn’t let them get to you,” he says softly.
“Too late.”
“Maybe.” He studies me for a moment, head tilting. “You look different tonight.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Like you’re waiting for something to happen.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Maybe I am.”
He reaches out—hesitant, the barest brush of his fingers against my jaw. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it. Just keeps his gaze on me like he’s trying to decode a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. When he leans in, it’s tentative. A question, not a demand.
I could step back, but I don’t. Out of all of them, Ash's quiet demeanor intrigues me the most. Something says there’s a fire buried deep inside him.
The kiss is soft, searching. Nothing like the others, and somehow the same. Static hums under my skin, the faint tremor of someone too controlled to know what to do with wanting. I taste rain and breath and restraint breaking, slow and reluctant.
He deepens it once, then stops—like he’s catching himself mid-fall.
We stay there a heartbeat, foreheads nearly touching, both of us suspended in the kind of silence that only happens when you realize you’ve gone too far.
