17. Xayden
CHAPTER 17
Xayden
The moment Ash brushes past me, her scent—strawberries and cream—lingers in the air, a faint trail of what she’s feeling but won’t say. I stay rooted in place, watching her retreating figure. There’s tension in her shoulders, the kind that says she’s barely holding it together.
West hasn’t moved since she left. He’s still standing there, his hands at his sides, clenched like he’s trying to keep himself in check. His jaw works like he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start.
For a few minutes, neither of us talk, and West watches me warily like I’m going to call him out for kissing Ash. Because even without actually seeing it, I know what Ash looks like when she’s been kissed.
I step further into the room, letting the door click shut behind me. The light dims again, but the tension in the air doesn’t. It wraps around both of us, heavy and unrelenting.
“So,” I say lightly, crossing my arms as I lean back against the wall. “You going to tell me what that was, or should I make my own assumptions?”
West exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t?—”
“What it looked like?” I finish for him, my tone dry.
He lifts his shoulders in a half hearted shrug, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I didn’t plan it.”
“Well, apparently flirting isn’t the way to go. Just kill the power and find her alone.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, the grand plan.” Silence falls again, and he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter though. The flirting, the being nice—she still has a boyfriend, and we lost her.”
I don’t get the boyfriend vibe from her. Sure, a lot of my teasing and joking is a barrier I use, old habits are hard to break. But she hasn’t acted like there’s a guy in her life.
“I don’t think she has a boyfriend, West. If she does, it isn’t serious. The Ash we know wouldn’t kiss you if she had a boyfriend.”
“She isn’t the Ash we know anymore,” he says, crossing his arms.
“Isn’t she?” I study him.
West finally looks at me in the darkness, and for once, his walls are down. “Even if she isn’t, I still want her, I still love her,” he admits, the words quiet but steady. “I never stopped.”
“I don’t think any of us did.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves, the shadows wrapping around us like the past we’re trying to make sense of. Then, suddenly, the overhead lights flicker back on, harsh and unrelenting.
West shifts, running a hand through his hair, his gaze meeting mine again. “I’m ready,” he says firmly. “Ready to do what we should’ve done back then—accept her for who she is, all of her, and support her. No ultimatums. No conditions.”
I snort, shaking my head. “If she even gives us a second chance.” I cross my arms, leaning back slightly. “She might kiss us, West. Hell, she might even want us. But that doesn’t mean she’ll open her heart to us again. And I wouldn’t blame her if she told us all to shove it.”
West doesn’t argue, but the determination in his eyes doesn’t waver. “Then we’ll earn it,” he says after a moment.
I press my lips together and nod slowly. “We’ll try at least.”
The rehearsal space is quiet, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound as I step inside. Most of the team is either on break or running errands, leaving the room feeling unusually empty. Ashlyn’s purse is balanced on the edge of a table, but there’s no sign of her at first.
Then I spot her by the mirrors, her arms crossed as she studies the playback of yesterday’s choreography. She’s deep in thought, her brows slightly drawn, and for a moment, she looks just like the girl I used to know—before the fame, the walls, and the hurt we all caused each other.
The faint scent of strawberries and cream drifts toward me as I approach. It’s different today. Sweeter, softer, like sunshine warming ripe fruit. She’s not wearing her scent blockers. She must not realize, or maybe she’s too distracted. Either way, the smell pulls at something deep inside me.
“Ash,” I call out gently, not wanting to startle her.
She turns, her lips parting slightly in surprise, but her expression softens when she sees me. “Xayden.”
Her voice isn’t guarded. It’s just my name, said like it used to be, and that alone gives me hope.
“You’ve been working hard.” I nod toward the screen, stepping closer. Her scent grows stronger, wrapping around me like it’s meant to. Like it’s calling to me.
She gives a small shrug, glancing back at the video. “Just making sure everything looks perfect. Shelley would lose her mind if something went wrong.”
“Everything’s already perfect,” I say, watching her instead of the screen.
Her lips twitch, almost smiling, but she doesn’t quite let it happen. “You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” I admit, letting a small grin slip through. “But I’m also not wrong.”
She glances at me, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, the years fall away. The tension, the pain—it all fades. I reach out, my fingers brushing her elbow lightly, and she doesn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, she lets me stay, her warmth seeping into my skin.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low. “After… last night?”
Her gaze drops to where my hand rests against her arm, then lifts back to meet mine. For a moment, her walls falter, and something unspoken flickers there—vulnerability, maybe.
“I’m fine.” She smiles slightly, but it’s guarded. “It was just a kiss.”
I swallow hard, her words hitting like a slap and a caress all at once. “I’m sure West will disagree.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, the cornflower blue of her irises brighter, bluer than usual, as if searching my face for the truth buried beneath my words. “Xayden, I know that we are all different people now. I don’t expect anything to come from a kiss.”
Something in her voice twists the knife already lodged in my chest. Is she trying to reassure me? That she’d understand if we don’t want her anymore? The thought makes me sick. How could she believe that? How could we not want her? Not regret the choices that led to this wreckage?
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, releasing her arm. I drag my hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together. My eyes dart away for a second, but I force them back to hers. “Yeah, we are different people now. I’m pretty sure the people we are now would never make you choose between your career and us.”
She blinks, and just like that, the mask slides back into place. Her scent—rich and inviting only moments ago—gains a sour hint to it.
“None of us are here for a second chance.” Her voice is steady, but it cuts deeper than a shout ever could.
The words sit heavy between us, but I can’t let them be the last thing that is said. “Maybe not,” I say softly but with enough emotion that she can’t miss it. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t want one.”
Her gaze flickers, just for an instant, before she takes a small step back, putting more distance between us. “Wanting and deserving aren’t the same thing,” she murmurs. Then she turns away, her shoulders stiff as she moves toward the playback screen.
She’s right. We don’t deserve a second chance. I can’t argue with that. We hurt her. Yeah, we hurt ourselves in the process, and I haven’t been able to shake the hurt. It’s with me everywhere.
I step back and tug my drum sticks out of my back pocket before twirling them between my fingers and turning away. My whole body feels heavy, and my heart wants to argue, wants to prove to her that we might not deserve a second chance but we’d like to earn one.