Ashton
Robbie looked like he was trying to decide whether to melt into the floor or climb inside his mug. I could practically see the thoughts spinning behind his brilliant blue eyes — worry, hope, confusion, all wrapped up in that earnest way he had of overthinking everything.
God, he was adorable.
And I was in trouble.
“Do you want the first shower?” I asked, nodding toward his...situation. The poor guy was trying so hard to stand casually, but the dried-on underwear was doing him no favours.
His cheeks flushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only because you’re walking like you’ve been horseback riding for three days.” I grinned. “Go. I’ll find you a towel.”
He muttered something about dying of embarrassment, but he disappeared into the bathroom with the towel I tossed him. I leaned against the counter, letting out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.
Last night had been...different. Not just sex. Not just company. Something in the way he listened, the way he looked at me like I was a whole person and not a performance — it had cracked something open in me.
I wasn’t used to that.
When he came out, hair damp, shirt clinging in a way that made my brain short-circuit, he gave me a shy smile that hit me square in the chest.
“Your turn,” he said.
I showered quickly — too quickly, because I didn’t want to leave him alone long enough to start spiralling. Or change his mind. When I came out, he was perched on the arm of the sofa, scrolling through his phone, looking as if he belonged there.
“Hungry?” I asked. Feeling relieved yet buzzing with optimism.
“Starving.”
“Good. There’s a café in Richmond I go to all the time. Best bacon rolls in London.”
His eyes lit up. “Lead the way.”
The café was its usual Sunday chaos — clattering plates, the smell of coffee, and the low hum of locals who’d been coming here since the dawn of time. Robbie hovered close to me, taking it all in with that wide-eyed curiosity that made everything feel new.
We’d barely sat down when Gavin materialised like a gremlin summoned by the scent of gossip and bacon.
“Ashton!” he crowed, sliding into the booth beside Robbie without invitation. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing company.”
I love my friend, I really do, but sometimes he was a real pain in the ass.
Robbie blinked. “Uh...hi?”
I could see the question in his beautiful blue eyes, but before I could reassure him that Gavin was just my pest of a best friend and not something else. Gavin leaned across the table, stage-whispering, “He’s Robbie, right? The writer?”
Robbie froze. “I—yes?”
Robbie’s panic was almost palpable. He was looking everywhere but at me or the chaos gremlin who I was plotting to kill, or at the very least, rescind his biscuit access.
Gavin beamed. “Oh, he’s going to die. Ashton’s been obsessed with your books for months. Proper fanboy behaviour. Highlighting passages. Annotating. I caught him rereading chapter fourteen at least six times...”
“Gavin,” I hissed, kicking him under the table.
Robbie turned to me, stunned. “You...read my stuff?”
I felt my ears burn. “I might have. Once or twice.”
“Try twenty times,” Gavin said cheerfully. “He even...”
“Gavin, I swear to God—”
“—stole my biscuits while doing it.”
Now that was a totally arse-faced lie; the back-stabbing jerk was the one who raided my stash of Jammie Dodgers – after eating his own, sniffing them out from their hiding place like some crazy biscuit-finding bloodhound.
Robbie laughed — a bright, warm sound that made my stomach flip. “You stole his biscuits?”
“I did not steal—okay, I stole one. Maybe two.”
“Six,” Gavin corrected.
All a total lie!!!!
I shoved him out of the booth. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Nope,” he said, but he wandered off anyway, waving like a menace.
Robbie looked at me, softer now. “You really read my work?”
I shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s good. You’re good.”
His smile was small but radiant. “Thank you.”
There was no time to embrace the intimacy of that admission
As the arrival of two steaming mugs of tea and two bacon and egg rolls shattered the intensity of the moment.
“Here we are, lads, you won’t find a better eggy-bacon bap this side of Chiswick.” The Grant Mitchell lookalike said, placing plates on the table with a wink.
“Wow, who can argue with that?” I said, reaching for the ketchup.
Robbie just threw his head back and laughed, then tucked into his food.
We walked back to the station slowly, neither of us wanting to acknowledge the ticking clock. Robbie kept brushing his hand against mine, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold it yet.
When the announcement for his train echoed overhead, he sighed.
“I don’t want to go,” he breathed.
“I don’t want you to go either.”
He looked down at me, eyes full of something hopeful and terrifying. “Will I see you again?”
I cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
His breath hitched. “Good.”
The train doors beeped. He stepped inside, turned back, and gave me a smile that felt like a promise.
As the train pulled away, I realised something with startling clarity:
I wanted more.
More mornings.
More laughter.
More Robbie.
And for the first time in a long time, “more” didn’t scare me.
It felt like paradise.