"Grace," he greets, voice low and hopeful, stopping a few feet away like he's testing the boundary. He stands there, hands in his pockets, the faintest shadow of stubble along his sharp jaw.
I straighten in my chair, crossing my arms over my worn sweater, my fingers digging into the soft fabric as if it can shield me from the pull of him. “Asher.” My tone comes out clipped, a defense mechanism, but I gesture to the empty seat across from me before I can second-guess myself. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
His eyebrows lift just a fraction, surprise flickering in those gray depths, but he nods and slides into the chair with a grace that shouldn’t belong in a creaky coffee shop seat. Up close, I catch the faint whiff of cedar and sea salt, a scent that drags up too many memories of tangled sheets and blissful orgasms. I shove them down, focusing on the scuff marks on the table instead of the way his gaze searches mine.
“Alright…” I start, forcing my voice to hold steady, though my hands fidget beneath the table’s edge. “You’ve been showing up, bringing me coffee, sticking around in a town you don’t belong in. I get it, you regret what happened. I heard your apology, and I appreciate your thoughtful notes. But I’ve spent day after day putting myself back together after you broke me apart. So tell me why I should even consider giving you another second of my time.”
Asher leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his hands clasping together as if to keep them still. His jaw works for a moment, a rare hesitance crossing his face before he speaks. “Because I was wrong, Grace. Not just in how I ended things, but in thinking I could control what we had, box it into somethingtemporary. I pushed you away because I was scared that I would hurt you again. That being with me would be a lifelong sentence of pain for you. It wasn't because I didn’t feel it. I felt every damn thing. And I’ve been empty since you left. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it yet. I’m asking for a chance to show you I’ve changed.”
His words carve into me, each one a sharp edge against the scar tissue I’ve built. I bite my lip, tasting the bitter tang of doubt, and look away, out the window at the dusty sidewalk where life rolls on, oblivious. My chest aches with the memory of his cold dismissal, that Paid in Full stamp on our contract, but there’s a tremor of something else too. Hope, like I saw in his eyes. Or maybe just the ghost of what we were. I turn back, meeting his gaze, finding an unguarded rawness there that I haven’t seen in so long.
“One date,” I say finally, the words slipping out before my brain catches up, quiet but firm.
A flicker of relief, maybe even a spark of that old intensity, flashes across his face. He nods slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, not quite a smile but close.
My hands unclench under the table, trembling just a little as I press on. “That’s it, Asher. One date to prove you’re not just chasing a memory or some guilt-driven redemption. If it feels like a lie, or if I can’t trust what I see, we’re done. For good. Understand?”
“I understand. One date. I’ll take it.”
I don’t respond, just give a small nod and pick up my latte, the warm cup calming me as I take a sip. The caramel sweetness hits my tongue, but my focus stays on him, on the weight of this decision settling between us.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, seven p.m., does that work for you?”
I swallow roughly. “Sure.”
He nods, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I see the glimmer of a smile on his cheeks. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sugar.”
Nervous energy flutters inside me, which is strange because it's not like this is our first date. He is my husband, after all. Granted, our relationship didn't start out with dates.
Asher arrives at seven p.m. sharp, dressed in that same winter coat and black hat. I slip into my snow boots and parka with my rainbow beanie that I know he hates.
"Ready?" His voice carries that familiar command, but softer somehow.
I nod, stepping out into the cold evening air, snow crunching under our boots. I expect him to lead me to the black SUV that's parked in my parents’ driveway, but he doesn't. Instead, he stops once we're outside the house and pulls something from his pocket. Long black silk, like the ones he used to restrain me at Haven all those months ago.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, and I see the anticipation in his eyes, wondering if I'm willing to give him this little bit. It feels like a big ask, even though I know logically it's not the same as jumping into a submission contract with him, but still, I worry if I take this step I won't be able to come back.
"You can use your safe word," he says softly. "If it gets to be too much at any point. I don't plan on—" He stumbles over his words in a way that I've never witnessed. "I don't plan on us having sex, just to be clear. But you can use your safe word if you need, for any reason. Okay?"
I nod, warming inside. "Okay, I trust you."
He steps forward, turning me around and covering my eyes with the silk.
He still doesn't lead me to the car, instead he takes my hand in his and we start walking. He can't be planning on taking me off my parents’ property by foot; it'd be too long a walk.
"Where are we going?" I ask, confused.
"You'll see."
With my eyes covered, my other senses kick into overdrive. I hear the wind howling through the trees, the cold air nipping at my cheeks, and I smell smoke.
When Asher pulls off my blindfold, a soft gasp escapes my lips. Fairy lights are strung between the trees, casting a warm glow across the snow. The fire pit that's a staple of my childhood memories is glowing with a bonfire. Blankets and pillows are gathered on the other side of it, a cozy little spot to sit and watch the fire. And a thermos sits on a flat rock near the fire.
It's perfect.
"I can't believe you did this," I say, moving toward the blankets and pillows.
"Your mom helped me set this up earlier," he admits, and something in my chest warms at the image of Asher Caine asking my mother for help.
