23. Kael
KAEL
Weeks blur as our lives transform in quiet, incriminating ways. Ash says he feels like he’s loosening up, but to me, being with him feels alarmingly close to sustainable, which is how I know it can’t last.
He leaves for Query at the same time every morning, protein shake in hand, running on some internal clock that makes me feel late to my own life.
I pretend his routine is ridiculous instead of comforting.
While he’s gone, I paint in the studio and keep my hands busy enough to stop checking my phone every five minutes.
We text goofy memes and drive-by jokes throughout the day.
I send him a photo of my canvas mid-mess, and he fires back a screenshot of some deranged color-coded spreadsheet.
It doesn’t take long for that to stop being bleak and become something endearing.
It’s who he is, and against all my better judgment, I like it.
I like him.
When I show him my studio, I expect a mix of kindness and funny barbs. Instead, he stands in front of a canvas and actually looks.
“I love how the background’s softer here,” he says, pointing near the horizon. “Like… the edges are blurrier? It makes the tree feel sharper. More of a focal point. And the contrast of light and shadows on this side…” He leans in, squinting, before looking back at me.
I stare at him. “When did you learn what chiaroscuro is?”
He flushes. “I may have… done some research. Don’t look at me like that.”
Somewhere between shocked and turned on, I push him back against the worktable and kiss him. It’s a lot of firsts in my sacred studio space, and I’m the one who started it.
Apparently, I want to start it everywhere. I get hard watching him crack jokes at dinner. My hand wanders when he’s driving us across the Golden Gate Bridge to some restaurant he wants me to try. I find myself wanting to kiss him before we part, even though that’s usually for only a few hours now.
At night, I keep finding new ways to break his smooth-talking act.
He likes it when I lean in and murmur into his ear, then drag my mouth just beneath it until he makes that quiet gasp of a sound.
He likes watching me reposition Rocky on the nightstand.
We still haven’t said I love you, which feels ridiculous to keep track of.
But now that I know what he sounds like when he comes, I can’t shake the feeling that if we never say it, this will become just one more thing I enjoy now and pay for later.
The first time I see his apartment, another piece of the Ash puzzle I’m assembling clicks into place, and the image is nothing like the one I expected.
He’d built up the moment by dodging every question about his place until I asked Jenny what was up. She laughed and gave some vague warning that his life, until recently, had revolved solely around making money. I thought it was a sweet, friendly jab between best friends until he opened the door.
Takeout containers and discarded clothes litter the living room. A faint smell of old workout gear hangs in the air, and it’s far less appealing on forgotten gym shorts than on his skin.
“What?” Ash says, wincing. “Please say something. I told you it was bad!”
“I’m… I’m flabbergasted,” I manage through the hand covering my face, spotting board games, Tupperware, and books tucked into the wreckage.
“I’ll clean,” he says quickly. “Let’s go back to your place.”
I shake my head and remove my hand to let him see my smile.
“You’re not saying anything,” he says. “But you’re smiling. And you’re coming in.”
I bump his hip with mine on the way to the couch. He catches my wrist, and heat shoots straight to my chest, but on my way to kiss him I spot the mountain of bagged newspapers by the door.
He turns to glance over his shoulder. “I like reading the paper.”
“Your place is filthy,” I say, suppressing a laugh. “But your life is so tidy.”
“It’s horrible. Let’s go back to yours.”
“No, no! It’s cute. You don’t actually have everything figured out. Can’t you afford a cleaning service?”
“I do have my life together. Things have been hectic. The new team.” The one paying him a fraction of what he used to make. “And… a boyfriend. Just wait out here. Give me five minutes.”
He shoves me back outside and shuts the door in my face, leaving me in the bland hallway. His building is as average as mine; the difference is in our debts: mine to Alistair, his to no one.
The door opens again, revealing a miraculously transformed living room. Drawers are closed, and it is better, even though I know how the trick was done. He shoved everything into closets and hiding places.
Something’s clearly wrong with me, because every one of these stupid little quirks makes me like him more.
I’m used to obstacles. Even with things this good with Ash, something deep inside me won’t unclench. I can feel it there, warning me not to get comfortable, but I can’t figure out whether to listen to it or silence it.
When Alistair’s text arrives in the middle of the night, it’s almost a relief.
My phone buzzes beside Rocky on the nightstand.
“It’s like two in the morning,” Ash murmurs, wincing at the screen’s brightness.
“Sorry,” I whisper, twisting toward the edge of the bed. “Go back to sleep.”
“Who is it?”
I fight the urge to lie. I could get used to things going smoothly, but I want to be honest with Ash.
“It’s Alistair,” I admit. “But it’s fine.”
Ash shifts beside me, his bare thigh brushing mine under the covers. I feel his warmth, and his retreat, at the same time.
It isn’t the first text I’ve received from Alistair since coming back, just the first one at this hour. Before, it’s been “How is it going?” which isn’t even performative concern so much as a tiny tug on the leash he keeps on my work. This text is a full yank.
Alistair: Party tomorrow night.
Without a question mark or a please, the line reads as a direct order. My thumb hovers, until I realize there is no other choice. I type the only thing I can.
Kael: I’ll be there.
When I tell Ash, his shoulders slump. “Oh…,” he says. “We’re supposed to have dinner with Jenny.”
Guilt slices clean through the thin layer of comfort I’ve built with him. Another shoe, finally dropping.
“We’ll have to reschedule,” I say. “Or you can just go without me.”
Ash gets out of bed without another word.
“You’re mad,” I say.
“Not mad. Confused.”
He crosses to the desk and flips open his laptop. Its glow turns his face into planes of blue and shadow.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Applying for jobs.”
“At three in the morning?” My tone accidentally has no joke to it. “Well, that’s… good. I’ve been wondering why you hadn’t applied to anything since the fire. We agreed it wasn’t your fault.”
He exhales, a long, frayed breath, and guilt twists in my stomach. This is familiar. This is what I expected: not just a boyfriend, but an obligation.
“I don’t want to distract you from something important,” I say softly, “the way you don’t distract me.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Is Alistair’s three a.m. invitation really so important?”
“It’s not exactly an invitation,” I say, sitting up because, fine, I do owe him some explanation. “I’ve tried not going before.”
Ash’s fingers remain on the keyboard. “I thought you wanted to break things off with him.”
Yes. This I expected. This is exactly what I expected.
My ribs feel too tight. “Are you going to make me?” I hear the defensiveness in my own voice and hate it instantly.
“I’m not going to make you do anything.” He closes the laptop and climbs back into bed to look at me. “I want you to be happy. Is this making you happy?”
No. It’s making me feel owned, cornered, and exactly how I expected to feel after Paradise. But the word that comes out is, “Yes.”
He watches me, and then something in his expression shifts.
“Move in with me,” he says.
His offer drops through me too fast to catch.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he adds quickly. “Not because of tonight, and not because I think you need saving. You’ll still have your studio. You’ll still have everything that’s yours. I just don’t want Alistair being the reason you stay trapped.”
He’s shirtless, asking me to move in like it’s nothing, like I’m someone you build a life around, instead of a debt somebody else still owns.
“Uh…”
“I’ll have the place cleaned,” he adds, completely missing my stunned silence.
“I don’t care about your place being dirty,” I say, once I find my voice.
“Then let me help. I want to help.”
Help. Is that what he thinks this is about? Trading my freedom for shared dinners and acceptable curfew times?
He shifts to sit cross-legged in front of me, surrounded by his things, in a place he paid for with his massive bank account.
“I know you want your freedom.” He takes my hands, pulling me back from the edge of panic. “But Alistair is not freedom.”
“Uh, this feels like a big step. How long have we even been together?”
“Then don’t answer yet. I’ve made the offer, and I want you to know I mean it.”
That’s all the permission my brain needs to jump three steps ahead to imagine my toothbrush by his sink, my jeans in his hamper, and our lives blending together until leaving would require untangling. The thought hits like vertigo.
I don’t know what scares me more, needing the help or liking the picture.
I do need a place to live. This isn’t how I imagined independence, but maybe that’s because I’m incapable of imagining good things happening to me. I can’t stay under Alistair’s control forever. But I also can’t walk away while he pays my rent.
“You’re serious?” I ask.
“You make me happy.”
“I literally made you get out of bed and apply to jobs at three in the morning,” I point out.
“Smoke pollution… I said happy.”
I want to look away, but I can’t. Ash is looking at me like there’s room for me in his life, and I hate how badly I want to believe him. I might want the apartment. I might want the mornings. I might want him.
I don’t know if saying yes means I believe in us or don’t believe in myself. Either way, I nod.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay, you’ll think about it or…?”