Chapter 13
The view out of their suite—more like a fancy hut, really—is nothing short of magnificent. Blue skies and golden sand as far as the eye can see, and water so clear you could spot shoals of fish even from a distance. If Kieran wasn’t so fucking pissed, he might even appreciate it.
Alas, he’s fucking pissed. It’s just hard to say who he’s pissed at more—Ash, or himself.
Himself, he decides. Because Ash being a manipulative dickhead is no news. And yet, Kieran somehow thought it would be a great idea to throw caution to the wind and pretend he’s actually on vacation. With Ash. In the future.
Speaking of, he sure recovered quickly. Who the hell learns that they time-traveled, are stuck in the future for God knows how long, and dating the guy they can’t stand, only to be happily sipping margaritas by the pool an hour later?
He must be more disturbed than he’d thought.
Like, seriously, bullets have left guns slower.
No wonder I got Ash’s attention. He attracts nutcases, after all.
Ugh, Kieran hates the guy. First, he does everything he can to ruffle Kieran’s feathers, only to flirt with him while still ruffling his feathers. And then he makes sure Kieran’s drunken ass arrives home safely, staying until he falls asleep, pretending he actually cares.
Fast forward two years and it’s the same fucking thing.
He acts so caring and understanding, while simultaneously driving Kieran up the wall.
Then bam! Like flipping a switch, he’s suddenly trying to control Kieran the exact same way every other person in his life has done.
And then he has the audacity to turn around and make promises about always being there for Kieran and never leaving him.
No one’s ever fucked with his head this much. Kieran hates it. Hates him.
But what he hates the most is that disgusting, mushy feeling in his chest whenever Ash opens his stupid mouth and makes one of those promises.
He lets out a frustrated grunt, kicking his feet and punching the air.
The bed is a wreck—sheets untucked, pillows scattered across the room after he’d thrown them during one of his many fits of rage.
He thrashes around on the bed just to mess it up even more, then smiles at the chaos. Ash spent five whole minutes making it before they’d left for the pool, because apparently he’s never heard of room service.
Nope. Just a damn control freak.
“It’s a good habit to have. Sets the theme for the whole day,” Ash tried to convince him.
“Sure. Well, the theme of my day is ‘I don’t give a fuck’,” Kieran retorted.
The flash of annoyance in Ash’s eyes had been very satisfying.
What’s weird is that Kieran had almost hoped for…
something. Some kind of reaction. For once, he’d wanted to rattle Ash.
Rattle his composure. He has no idea what that would look like, but his stomach had gone all squirmy with anticipation. Just waiting for Ash to act.
Yeah, weird.
A creaking sound from behind the doors, followed by footsteps, has his body stiffening. There’s a knock. Three of them, same as last time. Measured, impeccably timed pauses in-between. Enough to be heard, but not to startle. Perfectly controlled. Of course it is.
“Kieran?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lies there, in the chaos of rumpled sheets and a bad mood, staring at the opposite wall.
“I won’t bother you, but you should eat something. It’s lunchtime.”
You’re bothering me right now.
His stomach growls in betrayal.
Ash, to his credit, doesn’t try to force his way in.
Three more knocks. Kieran’s name, called out in that soft tone he hates, the one that messes with him the most.
He burrows himself under the covers. If he stays perfectly still, maybe Ash will take the hint and go away. Or—better yet—get annoyed and leave, storm off and disappear into the gold-sanded fantasy Kieran never asked for.
He listens, but hears nothing.
Then footsteps, moving away. Ash passes by the window, probably going for lunch because he’s fed up with Kieran’s sulking.
Kieran stares at the wall. A cold, prickly feeling settles in his chest, like someone cracked open a window in his ribcage and let a freezing Siberian wind in.
This is fine. He’d wanted space, hadn’t he? It’s just that he didn’t expect Ash to give up so soon. He’s always been so pushy, in a sneaky kind of way. Seems as though even a persistent asshole like him has a limit.
So much for all the promises to never leave. But what did Kieran expect? Everyone leaves in the end. Everyone eventually gets fed up with him.
He shifts onto his back. Then to his side. The bed creaks with every movement, the sheets bunching up around him.
Time passes, but it’s hard to say how much. Long enough for his thoughts to spiral, though it never takes particularly long for that to happen.
His throat’s tight now, and he hates it. Hates the way his stomach has hollowed out—not just from hunger, but from something heavier, colder, harder to admit.
He wants to believe Ash left out of frustration. Wants to picture him getting upset and swearing under his breath. Wants to believe he mattered enough to Ash to piss him off.
He presses the balls of his palms against his eyes when they start to burn.
What the fuck are you on about? This is what you wanted!
For the longest time, his world is filled with the soft hum of the ceiling fan and his own screaming thoughts. Amongst all the noise, the creaking sound of the wooden patio echoes.
He shoots up from under the covers, gaze snapping towards the door. A shadow passes by the window, Ash’s silhouette unmistakable.
Kieran waits for the knock, but it never comes. Instead, there’s a rustling noise, before the patio creaks again, signaling Ash leaving once more.
Kieran deflates. Is this some mind game or what? Something Ash does with his patients?
Then the smell hits him. Grilled meat and greasy fries.
Kieran’s mouth waters against his will, stomach growling so loud the people at the beach could probably hear it. He hesitates at first—what if Ash left it there trying to lure him out like a rodent? Because Kieran has to say, it might work.
Sitting there for a few more minutes, he eventually swings his legs off the bed, stands, and pads to the door before he can talk himself out of it.
When he cracks it open, no one’s there. Just the paper bag without a label sitting neatly on the floor. He snatches it, closing the door as quietly as possible. He tears into the bag, finding a burger sitting on a bed of fries. No note.
Just food.
Just Ash, not giving up on him yet.
Kieran’s heart does a stupid little flutter thing.
God, he hates the guy.
He takes the burger out first, inspecting it. No matter how hungry he is, he’s not gonna put a fucking pickle in his mouth, let alone an onion.
The lack of either makes him pause. The burger is simple. Just a slab of meat with sauce spread on the bottom, then a slice of bacon topped with melted cheese. He gives it a taste, instantly recognizing his favorite BBQ and chipotle mayo combo.
This is how he always gets his burger. And Ash got it for him. Because Ash knows him.
He picks up a fry with a shaky hand and brings it to his mouth, an overload of salt bursting on his tongue. The exact way he likes it.
And Ash knows it.
Kieran really, really hates him.
After inhaling the food in under ten minutes, Kieran just sits there on the bed, surrounded by greasy trash. A contented sigh leaves him with a deep rumble.
He feels…good. His stomach is full, the hollow feeling gone. He really must’ve been quite hungry.
As he settles into a lazy sprawl, licking salt off his fingers, something else registers in his silly little brain. An awful, gnawing awareness of how easily it all happened.
He hadn’t checked the food. He’d checked for freaking onions and pickles, but didn’t think for even one second about whether it was safe before stuffing his face.
Like Ash handing him food is the most natural thing in the world, despite what happened at the pool earlier. Fuck.
He lets his head fall back against the wall. The thud is soft, dull, barely satisfying.
What is wrong with me?!
The second he asks the question, he feels the answer in his body. It travels through his veins, carves its way into his heart, and wedges itself deep, like a splinter.
I trust him.
Fuck. I trust him.
Not completely. Not willingly. But enough. Enough to eat food he touched, to believe he wouldn’t hurt him. Even after what had happened today. Even when Kieran’s done nothing but shove him away. He trusts him enough for it to be dangerous.
It was the same yesterday—well, two years ago—at the pub.
When Ash had pushed the glass of water towards him, Kieran’s first instinct was to reach for it.
Take a long, grateful sip. No alarm bells ringing in his head, no muscles freezing in response to potential danger.
He’d had to remind himself to stay alert, to expect the worst.
That kind of trust isn’t logical. It’s not earned. It’s just there.
And Kieran’s terrified to ask why. Because he knows, with an awful clarity, that he’s not ready for the answer.