27. Asher
Chapter 27
Asher
T he drive back is quiet, the hum of the engine a gentle backdrop to Isla’s soft breathing beside me. The warmth of her still lingers in my arms. The fabric where her cheek rested is still a little damp.
But it’s the part when she tried not to cry that gets me. The way she blinked fast and pretended the tears weren’t there. The way she keeps a wall around her heart like it’s the only way to survive.
It twists something in me. Deep and raw.
I want to see her real happiness. Not the polite kind, not the one she puts on for everyone else. The real kind. The kind that lights her from the inside out.
I want to be the one who gives her that. Prove to her I’m not going anywhere. No matter what storms come.
“Thank you,” she says, breaking the silence. “For tonight. For the hilltop. For the dance.” She turns to face me, her eyes reflecting the dashboard lights. “For listening. For . . . everything you said.”
I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the road. “No thanks needed, Peachie.”
Isla shifts in her seat, angling toward me. “How’s the Senior and Adaptive launch event coming along? Did you get that physical therapist from Ridgewood for the panel discussion?”
“Got most of the details ironed out. Just need to finalize a few things.” The warmth in my chest grows. Even with everything on her plate, she’s been keeping track of my project. “The therapist is in. Called yesterday to confirm. Now I’m just wrestling with the layout for the equipment stations. Want to make sure everything is accessible without feeling clinical.”
“You know what would be perfect?” She straightens in her seat, her voice brighter like a switch just flipped. “Your dad could speak! About his recovery journey. And you could talk about how it inspired the whole program.”
“My dad?” My hands tighten on the wheel.
“Yes. It would be so powerful.”
“That’s . . . actually a great idea. I just don’t know if he’d be willing to talk about the accident publicly. He’s not exactly the sharing type.”
“But that’s exactly why it would mean a lot to people,” Isla says, her voice softening. “To show that even strong people like your dad can need help sometimes. And that’s okay.”
I let her words sink in, picturing my father standing before a crowd, sharing the story that changed both our lives. It’s hard to imagine him opening up like that, letting people see the cracks.
And harder still to picture what he’d think, standing in the same gym he built, watching this new program take shape by my hands.
I hope he’d like the way his son’s carrying it forward.
“Besides, he’s proud of you. And I’m sure he’ll be proud of the new program,” she says, stifling a yawn. “I can tell.”
Something in my chest softens, quiet and unexpected. I grip the wheel tighter, resisting the urge to pull her in. She probably has no idea how much her words matter. Or how much she does.
“I’ll ask him. Thank you, Is.”
The conversation shifts as we drive through Maple Street. The town is quiet at this hour, storefronts dark, street lamps casting pools of light on empty sidewalks.
“Mom said the peach tree started blooming yesterday.” I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “She’s betting this year’s peaches will be the best yet. According to her legendary peach-growing instincts.”
Isla’s lips curve, and her eyes flutter open just enough to meet mine.
“This time,” she says through a sleepy grin, “I’m getting the top peach.”
Her eyelids are growing heavy, and she nestles deeper into the passenger seat, her head tilting toward me.
“The very top one,” she mumbles, voice thick and fading. “You don’t get to stop me.”
I chuckle, remembering nine-year-old Isla’s determination to climb to the highest branch of our backyard peach tree, despite my warnings. Some things never change.
“Sure you will, Peachie,” I say softly, but she’s already drifting off, her breathing becoming deep and even.
By the time we reach our apartment building, she’s asleep. I park and sit for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The dome light flickers on, casting a soft glow over her face. Her lips part slightly with each breath, lashes resting softly against her skin.
Something twists in my chest. She looks so peaceful, so beautiful, so precious. I could watch her like this all day.
Scratch that—I want to watch her like this for the rest of my life.
I don’t have the heart to wake her. Carefully, I slip out of the driver’s seat and make my way around the car, opening the passenger door with the slowest, quietest motion I can manage.
I crouch down beside her, gently unbuckling her seatbelt. Her brow furrows at the movement, her body shifting slightly, just enough to stir.
“Shhh,” I whisper, brushing her hair back from her cheek with the backs of my fingers. “I’ve got you.”
She’s light in my arms, her body curling toward me as I lift her from the car. Her head settles against my shoulder, and her fingers curl slightly into my shirt.
Having her this close feels right in a way I can’t explain. Like she belongs here, in my arms. I’m careful not to jostle her as I make my way up the stairs, her warm breath against my neck stirs deep in my core. I take each step slowly, partly to avoid waking her, partly to stretch this moment for as long as possible.
When I reach our floor, Roxanne is waiting by Isla’s door with her phone in one hand and Mochi’s leash in the other. The second Mochi spots me, his entire body starts vibrating with excitement. His tail wags so hard it knocks against Roxanne’s leg like a tiny drum, but somehow—miraculously—he doesn’t bark.
His nose twitches, ears perked, eyes locked on Isla in my arms like he knows this is serious business.
I nod toward Isla and mouth, asleep .
Roxanne arches a brow, slow and smug, typing something into her phone with far too much satisfaction. She flashes me a thumbs up, then steps aside as I unlock Isla’s door with one hand.
Mochi tiptoes in after us, nails clicking quietly on the hardwood like he’s trying to sneak in past curfew.
I carry Isla to her bedroom, lay her down on her bed, careful not to wake her.
Roxanne stands in the room, arms folded, her expression softer than usual.
I keep my voice low. “Can you help her change later? I am going to head out.”
She nods once.
I brush a strand of hair off her cheek and straighten to leave. She stirs, lashes fluttering, and catches my shirt in a sleepy grip.
“Don’t go,” she murmurs.
I freeze, heart thudding hard. She’s still half-asleep, not fully aware of what she’s saying. She probably doesn’t even realize I’m here.
“You need to change, Is,” I say quietly, even though I’m not sure I want her to let go.
“Nooo,” she mumbles, patting the space beside her as she shifts over, making room. “Stay.”
Roxanne raises one brow, but says nothing. She gives me the smallest nod, then mouths Take care of her as she slips out and pulls the door shut behind her.
I sit, careful and quiet, the mattress dipping under my weight. She scoots over, making more space. Her hand grabs my arm.
“What do you need, Peachie?”
She reaches out clumsily, her fingertips brushing my jaw like she’s trying to map me out in the dark.
“Mmm. Sharp jaw,” she mumbles, nose scrunching the tiniest bit as she draws in a sleepy breath. “You always smell like cedarwood. That’s your cologne, right?”
I catch her hand gently, letting it rest against my cheek. “Nope,” I murmur. “Just me.”
There’s a pause where I think she’s drifted off again.
“How was it?” Her voice is soft, dreamy.
“How was what?” I tug the blanket up around her shoulder, smoothing it down carefully.
“Our date.” Her eyes are still closed. “Was it good? Also . . . did we ever feed the spaghetti to the ducks?”
A smile pulls at my lips. Isla’s always been like this when she’s half-asleep—unguarded, talkative, and somehow managing to say the strangest things. The last time she dozed off like this, she asked me if penguins had knees and then cried because she thought maybe they didn’t.
“The date was perfect.” I shift a little closer, brushing her hair off her cheek.
“Perfect, how?”
“Aren’t you the matchmaker?” I say, letting my knuckles graze her cheek. “Why don’t you analyze how the date went?”
“Mmm. I think it was good,” she hums. “Finally got to see how my best friend dates.”
Hope kicks hard in my chest. She wanted to see that? Maybe this fake dating thing is working.
She stretches like a sleepy kitten, then curls back into me. Her hand finds my wrist and tugs with surprising strength, pulling me down beside her. I catch myself on my elbow, lying half beside her on the bed as she drowsily drapes part of her blanket over my legs.
“Do you know what you just said, Peachie?” I ask, propping myself up just enough to see her sleep-softened face. We’re too close now, the kind of close that messes with a man’s focus.
“Of course.” She tries to squint one eye open.
“What’s my full name then?”
“Ash . . . bear?”
“Close enough.” I brush my thumb softly over her eyelid, closing it gently. “Definitely not awake.”
She sighs, her lips curving into a contented smile as she nuzzles deeper into the pillow, face tilting toward mine.
“Do you think your best friend makes a good boyfriend?”
“Mmm. A good fake boyfriend.” Her nose scrunches adorably. “But . . . missing something.”
“What’s missing?”
Her lashes flutter but don’t lift. “Dunno how he kisses.”
“Do you know who you’re talking to right now?” My voice deepens to a rough edge.
“Mhmmm?”
My heart stops, then kicks back in, harder this time. It’s one thing to wonder if she feels what I feel. But knowing she’s been thinking about kissing me, too?
That’s something else entirely.
Even half-asleep, Isla wouldn’t say it if she didn’t mean it. Would she?
My fingers gently trace the curve of her bottom lip, feeling its silken softness beneath my touch. “Do you want to find out how your best friend kisses?”
“Maybe.” Her lips part slightly. “Maybe I do . . .”
Her breathing begins to slow, the shift so subtle I almost miss it. Her hand loosens on my arm, fingers relaxing, but not letting go.
I stay frozen for a long moment, every nerve alive. Her words still hang in the air. It takes everything in me not to close the space between us. Not to press my lips to hers like I’ve wanted for years.
As much as I want to, I won’t take that moment from her. Not when she’s half-asleep. Not when she might not remember.
Our first kiss, when it happens, will be when she’s fully present. When she chooses it, completely.
I adjust her blanket with my free hand, resigned to the fact that I’m not going anywhere tonight.
“Don’t forget the marshmallow ladder . . .” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Won’t,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Promise.”