He doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t even look at me. “You mean when you’re a famous blogger with a book deal and you’ve forgotten all about me?” His mouth curves into a grin, like it’s all a joke.
But he never actually answers.
I force a small smile, pretending to play along. “Right. I’ll be too busy living my glamorous author life to remember some washed-up rockstar.”
“Exactly,” he says lightly, squeezing my hand. “I’ll have to bribe your assistant just to get on your schedule.”
We keep walking, our joined hands swinging lazily between us, and he starts talking about a seashell he spots up ahead. I let him change the subject, telling myself it’s just who he is—Ash lives in the now. He’s not the type to map out the future in tidy bullet points, and maybe that’s part of what makes him so magnetic.
Still, even with his warmth beside me, his easy touch, and the sunset catching in the edges of his hair, there’s a faint ache under my ribs. I tell myself it’s fine. That I don’t need answers yet. That this moment—barefoot on a beach with him—is enough.
For now.
***
After our walk on the beach we take a winding path through the jungle, following the faint glow of lanterns hung between the trees. The air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, and the hum of insects blends with the faint strains of guitar drifting from somewhere ahead.
The restaurant reveals itself like something out of a dream—an open-air space tucked deep into the greenery, tables scattered between massive tree trunks, every surface bathed in the golden glow of twinkle lights. Candles flicker in glass jars, their light dancing over wooden beams and the polished curve of wine glasses.
We’re seated at a table draped in white linen, the jungle opening up behind us in shadow and sound. Somewhere, hidden speakers mingle the live music with the soft rush of leaves overhead. The air is warm, carrying the scent of grilled seafood and lime.
And I can’t stop looking at him.
It’s ridiculous, really—he’s been in my orbit for weeks now, and I should be used to the way Ash looks under dim light. But here, with shadows licking over the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the candlelight catching in his eyes, he’s almost… unfair.
He’s dressed simply—linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms—but it’s enough to make my pulse skitter every time hereaches for his glass. The warm gold light makes his skin glow, turns the dark ink on his arms into something mysterious, like a story I still haven’t fully read.
I nod along as he talks about the ceviche and how the guitar player reminds him of someone he toured with years ago, but my mind is busy tracing the curve of his smile, the way his fingers drum lightly on the table in time to the music.
At one point, he catches me staring. His lips tilt into that knowing smirk—the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. I roll my eyes and look away, pretending to study the menu, but heat curls low in my stomach.
The night feels like a spell—just us, tucked away in this little pocket of magic, laughter and candlelight and music wrapping around us. And as I sip my wine, I can’t shake the thought that if someone asked me to define perfect… this moment might be it.
By the time we get back to the villa, the air is heavy with the scent of rain—warm, tropical, alive. The sound of the waves is a low, steady heartbeat in the background. Ash takes my hand, leading me through the open space until we reach the outdoor shower tucked behind a wall of climbing vines and white hibiscus.
The night sky stretches above us, ink-black and speckled with stars. A single lantern glows on a low shelf, casting soft golden light over stone tiles and trickling water.
Ash turns the tap, and a warm cascade pours from the showerhead, steam curling into the humid air. He doesn’t rush me—just steps close, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear like it’s the most important thing in the world.
When his lips meet mine, it’s unhurried. No frantic edge, no teasing. Just slow, deep kisses that taste faintly ofsomething sweet and warm. His hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, tracing me like he’s memorizing every inch.
The water soaks through my dress, and he peels it away piece by piece, letting it fall with a soft splash against the tile. His touch is reverent, not greedy—like he’s afraid I might vanish if he holds too tight.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and certain. “You’re safe with me.”
The words wrap around me as surely as his arms—warm water, steady hands, and the grounding press of his body against mine.
When he finally moves inside me, it’s slow—so slow it almost hurts in the best way. Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, the rhythm unhurried and deep. His thumbs brush the curve of my hips, his eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to speak without words.
By the time I shatter, it’s not from urgency—it’s from the way he’s made me feel seen. Cherished. Wanted.
Afterward, we stand there, water streaming over us, his hands still on my skin as if letting go isn’t an option. And I think… maybe I don’t want him to let go, ever.
24
ASH
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