He doesn’t know I wait for them.
He also doesn’t know what I do in my room when he’s not around to see it. Of course, no one knows. Not Liam. Not Nina. And certainly, not Ash.
Because I write. I write like a woman possessed—like it’s the only thing that brings me any real release these days.
And my blog readers love it. From a small corner of the internet that was supposed to be my creative outlet, it’s grown and grown over the last year.
Now there are thousands of subscribers. Dozens of comments on every post. Readers who leave messages like “You put into words what I feel but can’t say”and “I come here to feel less alone.”
And itmakes me feel less alone, too.
They don’t know who I am. Just that I love stories, and I have a lot of feelings about pining and groveling and first kisses that feel like home.
I write at night, after Ash leaves for the studio.
Curled up in bed, laptop glowing, while his music drifts faintly through the walls.
Tonight’s blog post is supposed to be fun. Light. Silly. A little spicy.
I titled it “Five Steamy Book Scenes That Live in My Head Rent-Free.”
But somewhere between scene two and scene three, I realize I’m in trouble.
Because every time I close my eyes, the hero I’m writing about doesn’t have green eyes or a Scottish accent or a pirate scar anymore.
He has tattoos. Messy dark hair. A voice like velvet and sin.
And he calls meHartin a low, infuriating tone that curls somewhere low in my stomach.
Still, I type:
Scene 3:The one where the grumpy MMC teaches the sunshine-y FMC how to throw a punch in a back alley and then ends up pinning her to a brick wall while whispering, “You talk too much.”
Yeah. That one’s… fine.
I squirm slightly in my chair and take a long sip of water before moving on.
Scene 4:When the buttoned-up librarian finally lets go and kisses the reformed bad boy in the middle of a rainstorm. Bonus points if he cups her face and says, “You undo me.”
I pause.
Scene 5:The kitchen counter scene. You know the one. Tension snaps. Hands in hair. “Tell me to stop” and no one ever does.
I stare at the screen, heart thudding.
I’m not thinking about fictional characters anymore.
I’m thinking about a man who made me carbonara at midnight. Who stands too close. Who watches me like he’s trying to memorize something he’s not allowed to touch.
Ash Ryder isn’t mine. And I have no business imagining him in these scenes. But my traitor brain keeps putting him there anyway.
I finish the post, schedule it for tomorrow morning, and shut my laptop with a soft, guilty sigh.
Then I roll onto my side, bury my face in my pillow, and try not to think about Ash’s hands on the counter.
***
The next morning is a Saturday, and I wake up cramping and miserable. I feel bloated, and when I go to the bathroom—yep. Period.
