But it’s not just sex. It’s this soft, almost unbearable closeness. Like the walls between us are dissolving.
At night, we collapse in bed—my head on his chest, his fingers trailing patterns across my back. One night, I find him thumbing through one of my romance paperbacks, the cover curled in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus.
“You’re reading my book?” I ask, propping myself up on an elbow.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I wanted to know what turns you on.”
My cheeks flame. He smirks.
“You could just ask,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m melting.
“I prefer research.”
I roll my eyes. He kisses me anyway. Then doesn’t stop.
By Sunday evening, I’m sore in places I forgot existed. My hair smells like chlorine and his body wash. My cheeks ache from smiling. My heart—God, my heart—feels like it’s filling up with something too big to name.
I’m curled up on the couch in Ash’s oversized hoodie, legs tucked under me, a cup of lukewarm tea cradled in my hands.
Across from me, Ash is strumming his guitar—half-humming, half-focused, playing something that sounds suspiciously like a love song.
I glance over. His brows are furrowed in concentration, fingers gliding over the strings like it’s second nature. His hair is still damp from the pool, curling at the ends. He’s barefoot, shirtless, in nothing but gray sweatpants and a look of quiet contentment I want to bottle and keep forever.
My chest tightens.
Because tomorrow is Monday.
Which means early alarms. A long commute. A full day of being Miss Hart again—kindergarten teacher, professional snack-opener, chaos-wrangler.
Not the girl who’s spent the last two days being kissed stupid, spoiled rotten, and read to in bed.
I love my job. But right now? I just want to stay home.
I set my mug down with a sigh.
Ash glances up immediately. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “Just sad it’s over.”
He sets the guitar aside, scooting closer until his knee bumps mine. “It’s not over.”
I raise a brow. “Pretty sure Monday comes for us all.”
He grins, then leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “We’ve got the engagement moon to look forward to. We should pick a place.”
My stomach flips. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” He brushes a knuckle down my cheek, voice soft. “But first, we’ve got a couple things to check off. Tomorrow’s the award show—our red carpet debut. And the magazine cover drops too.”
I blink. “Tomorrow? Already?”
He nods. “Mid-morning.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “So tomorrow, we break the internet.”
He grins. “That’s the goal. Between the cover story and the red carpet, we’re going full PR power couple.”
“Right,” I murmur, my voice softer now. “Power couple.”
