My gaze finds Ashton.
He’s in the middle of the floor, kneeling over a stretch of unfinished boards, completely focused. Headphones cover his ears, his head nodding faintly to whatever he’s listening to. A measuring tape clips to his jeans, a pencil tucked behind his ear, his hands moving with careful precision as he lines up the next plank.
Despite the cold, he’s in just a T-shirt, the fabric clinging slightly to his skin, damp with sweat.
My eyes drift to his arm.
The cast is gone. In its place is a pink, raised scar stretching along his forearm. It catches the light when he moves, a quiet, permanent reminder of everything he’s endured.
Sawdust is smeared across his jeans, a faint streak on his cheek. His hair’s a mess, falling into his face as he leans forward, pressing the board into place. His brows pull together in concentration, tongue caught between his teeth as he adjusts it—once, then again—striving for perfection.
His posture is stiff as he works, his body rigid with tension. Despite how many times he’s assured me he’s okay, I know this day must be difficult for him.
Today was his first Thanksgiving estranged from his parents.
He wasn’t invited—of course he wasn’t. We both knew how that would go the second we made our relationship public. His parents made it clear, quick and cold, that they wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Like he’d become something disposable.
My jaw tightens.
He’s tried to brush it off. Shrugged, said it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t need them. Said he’d be fine staying home with me and eating take-out Chinese food.
But I know it’s not the same.
I can see the truth in the quiet moments. The way he goes a little distant when family gets brought up in conversations. The wayhis eyes become glassy whenever his younger siblings mention going home to them.
My gaze softens as I watch him adjust another plank.
I push off the beam.
Quietly, I cross the space, my boots barely making a sound against the new floor. He still doesn’t notice me, too locked into whatever song is playing in his ears. I crouch down behind him, close enough now to see the fine layer of sawdust clinging to his skin, the slow rise and fall of his back.
Then I reach forward and wrap my arms around his waist.
Hejumps.
“Jesus—!”
His elbow flies back on pure instinct, catching me square in the stomach.
“Oof—fuck—” I wheeze, falling back onto the floor with a startled laugh.
He rips his headphones off, whipping around, eyes wide. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps, breath coming fast as he scrambles after me. Before I can even recover, he’s on top of me, pinning me down, glaring. “You scared the shit out of me!”
I’m still laughing, one hand coming up to my stomach. “Yeah, I gathered,” I manage, grinning up at him.
The light’s starting to shift, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, catching in his hair and turning it almost gold at the edges. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, his green eyes bright and alive.
God, I love him.
“Could’ve killed me,” I add, my hands settling on his hips to keep him right where I want him.
“Oh, please.” He scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “You deserved it.”
“Did I?”
He opens his mouth to argue—probably to keep scolding me—but I don’t give him the chance. My arms loop around his neck, pulling him down into a searing kiss.
He melts into it almost instantly, the tension bleeding out of him as his hands slide up into my jacket, gripping tight.
