His throat bobs as his fingers flex against his thighs. “My jeans.” He drops his hands to the floor, palms brushing across the cool concrete. “The floor.” His fingers drift toward my foot, twisting the lace of my boot around his pinky. “Your shoes.” His thumb slides up to my ankle, brushing the strip of bare skin above my sock. His touch is cold and clammy. “Your skin.”
I hum in approval. “Good job. Three things you can hear.”
“Your voice,” he says immediately.
I smilea little.
He closes his eyes and takes a deeper breath, concentrating. “The fermenter,” he murmurs. “The refrigerator… it’s humming.”
He grips the front of my shirt again, fists bunching in the fabric like I’m the only steady thing in the room. I don’t move.
“You’re doing great, blondie,” I whisper. “Two things you smell.”
He inhales slowly through his nose. “Beer,” he says, his eyelids loosening now instead of squeezing shut. His nose wrinkles slightly. “Cigarettes.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me. “Sorry, baby,” I say, remembering how much he hates when I smell like smoke. “Alright. One last thing you can taste.”
His eyes open again.
The frantic rise and fall of his chest has softened now into steady, even breaths.
He leans forward slowly and presses his lips to mine in a soft, lingering kiss. His tongue brushes my bottom lip, catching gently on the ring there.
“You,” he exhales, his breath hot against me.
I keep my arms around him, one hand resting on the back of his head, the other rubbing slow strokes along his rigid spine. His breathing has steadied now, but he still feels fragile in my arms, his body folded in on itself, like he’s making himself smaller.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
Ashton nods against my shoulder. “Yeah.” His voice is low and laced with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”
“Hey.” I pull back just enough to look at him. “Don’t apologize.”
He swallows, eyes flicking away from mine.
“I mean it,” I say gently. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
His shoulders slump.
I hesitate for a second before continuing. “I’m just… worried about you.”
He doesn’t answer.
“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”
His brow tightens.
I think back to that day at the farmers market, when he pulled me away from the crowd. The wind whipping around us, the dunes shielding us, the way Ashton went pale when everything between us finally surfaced. When he finally realized what he felt for me.
A broken sound tears out of him. He falls forward again, pressing his face into my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m pathetic.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I shake my head immediately, tightening my hold on him. “No. No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m broken.”
