28
ASH
The L-Word
Fuck.
My hands are still shaking, adrenaline burning through my veins like I’ve just come offstage in front of fifty thousand people—but there’s no high, just the crash. The ugly, bitter taste of a moment gone sideways.
That wasn’t how Liam was supposed to find out.
Hell,he wasn’t supposed to find out at all. Not like this.
He looked at her like she was a stranger. Looked atmelike I’d stabbed him in the back and twisted the knife just for fun.
And maybe I did. Maybe Iamthat guy. Maybe everything he said is true.
I don’t do relationships. I don’t do sticking around. I’ve made a career out of vanishing when things get too real. Break it off, blow it up, burn it down—before anyone can do it to me.
But Olive…
She’s not just another pretty face I’ll forget in a week. She’s not some fling, not a groupie, not a notch on the bedpost. She’s Olive. Sweet. Smart. Fucking radiant.
And Liam’s right. She’s not built for something casual. She’s the kind of girl who reads love stories for comfort, who still believes in soulmates, who makesmewant to believe, too. She’s all in, or not at all.
So what the hell am I doing?
Olive appears beside me, holding out a fresh pack of ice. I take it and gingerly press it to my throbbing face.
“You okay?” she asks, voice low.
I want to tell her yes. I want to shrug it off, make a joke, let her believe this didn’t get under my skin. But the truth is wedged somewhere behind my ribs, heavy and uncomfortable.
“I’ve been better,” I say finally, leaning back into the couch cushions. My voice sounds rough, even to me.
She frowns, crossing to the kitchen, and comes back with a glass of water. I take it from her, our fingers brushing, and drink just to have something to do.
“You didn’t deserve that,” she says quietly.
I huff out something that’s not quite a laugh. “Depends who you ask.”
Her brows knit. “Ash—”
“Don’t,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. Her expression flickers, and I run a hand through my hair, forcing my tone softer. “It’s just… I hate that he found out like that. He’s protective of you, and I—” My words stall, the truth tasting bitter on my tongue. “I don’t want to be the reason things get screwed up between you two.”
She sits beside me, her thigh warm against mine. “You’re not.”
I let out a long breath, staring at the glass in my hands. “Aren’t I? I don’t know about that.”
She cups my jaw, and I swear her fingers are made of cool water. Careful on the dark bloom spreading under my cheekbone, she ghosts her thumb along the edge of the bruise like she’s mapping a coastline no one’s supposed to know exists.
“Be gentle, Doc,” I murmur, trying for light. It comes out sandpapered and too low. “What’s the prognosis on my face? Am I salvageable or should we just replace the whole unit?”
Her mouth tips. “The patient is dramatic.” Her thumb pauses, and her eyes, God, those eyes, search mine. “But he’ll live.”
Olive’s fingers spread, one hand cradling beneath my ear, the other steady on my jaw. She leans in, tentative, like she’s stepping onto thin ice. I hold still. My breath stalls. Her lips press to mine—soft, careful, a question more than a kiss, as if she’s testing whether I’ll break.
I don’t. I lean into it.
