Page 106 of Puck Me Back to Life

He stands and crosses the room. When he reaches me, he doesn't ask questions.

Ash spent the next several hours using me how he saw fit until the sun had set and the night was full of thunder from the rain and his bedpost. Words are exchanged that can only be said with the drunkenness of lust.

“Look at me while I'm inside you.”

“Ash, don't stop.”

“Kiss me.”

“Harder.”

“Such a pretty boy.”

“Fuck me. Use me. Please.”

When we finally finish for the fourth time, Ash is breathing hard face-first into his pillow.

He falls asleep astonishingly fast. One moment he's murmuring something half coherent about practice tomorrow. The next he's gone.

His arm never leaves my waist. Even asleep, he keeps me tucked securely against him.

I lie awake listening to the rhythm of his breathing.

For the first time in a very long time, the silence doesn't feel threatening. It feels peaceful. I know this is dangerous. I know I'm walking toward something that could break me if it disappears.

Ash isn't medication.

He isn't therapy.

He isn't supposed to become the only place where my mind feels quiet.

And yet that's exactly what's happening.

Every day, I find myself looking forward to seeing him a little more. Every night, I dread going home a little more. He's becoming an addiction. Not because of desire. Not because of what happens behind closed doors. Because when I'm with him, I can breathe. Because when he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and tells me to look at him, the panic listens. Because when he looks at me, I almost believe I'm worth saving.

I should stop this now.

Before it gets worse.

Before I start needing him.

Before I convince myself someone like Ashford Grant could ever want someone like me for reasons that have nothing to do with distraction.

Instead, I settle a little closer against his chest. Just this once. I'll allow it.

Tomorrow, I can worry about boundaries.

Tomorrow, I can remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Tonight, I let the steady beat of Ash's heart lull me to sleep, and for the first time in two years, the nightmares arrive too late to catch me.

12

Ash

The bed is cold. My hand drifts instinctively across the mattress before I've fully opened my eyes, searching for warmth that isn't there. My fingers meet nothing but rumpled sheets.

I frown. For one ridiculous second, I think I dreamed the last twenty-four hours. Then I catch the small hickies scattered over my chest. Nope, definitely real. I force myself upright and squint toward the clock. 7:30.