Chapter 6
Ash
The garage still smells like him.
Vanilla and motor oil and want. It's everywhere—on the workbench where I had him pressed, in the air where he stood, on my hands where I touched him. I can't escape it.
I lean against the workbench—the same spot where I had him bent over twenty minutes ago—and close my eyes and try to get my shit together.
What the fuck just happened?
I had him. Right here, in my hands, begging for it. He wanted me—I could feel how much he wanted me, could smell it on him even without shifter senses, could taste it when I kissed him. His whole body was saying yes, every sound he made was yes, and all I had to do was say one thing.
Say I wanted more than just tonight. Say I'd try. Say anything other than standing there like a fucking idiot while the best thing that's happened to me in years walked out the door.
Instead I watched him go. Watched his shoulders hunch as he walked through my empty house. Watched him get on his bike and drive away without looking back.
I did that. I made him look like that.
I try to breathe through it. Try to focus on something else—the tools on the wall, the bikes in their spots, the engine I'm supposed to be rebuilding. But my body doesn't get the memo. I'm still hard, still aching, still feeling the ghost of him pressed against me.
The way he sounded when I touched him. That breathy little gasp when I palmed him through his jeans. The way he said please like it was the only word he knew. The way he pushed back against me, desperate for more, trusting me to give it to him.
And I sent him away.
Fuck it.
I shove my hand down my pants and jerk myself off right there against the workbench, fast and rough, thinking about how he tasted. How he felt. The sounds he made when I bit his lip, when I grabbed his ass, when I told him all the things I was going to do to him.
It's quick and unsatisfying and leaves me feeling emptier than before.
The release does nothing to ease the ache in my chest—if anything, it makes it worse.
Because now I'm standing alone in my garage with my hand in my pants, thinking about a man I just hurt because I was too fucked up to give him a simple answer.
I clean up, take a cold shower that doesn't help, and end up sitting on my couch in the dark like the pathetic mess I apparently am.
The house feels hollower now than it did before he came. At least before, I didn't know what I was missing. Now I can imagine him here—in my kitchen, in my garage, on this couch. And I can imagine how good it could have been, if I wasn't so broken.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to reach for it.
Need to talk. Come over.
Robin's response is immediate: Jason just walked in looking broken so no, we're not talking, because I told you to be careful with him and not fuck him if you weren't going to keep him
The word broken lands hard. I did that. I made him look broken.
Yeah, I know. That's why I didn't fuck him.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then: What?
I didn't touch him. Much. Sent him home.
A long pause. I can picture Robin staring at his phone, trying to figure out what the hell happened. Then: On my way.
---
Twenty minutes later, Robin's in my kitchen drinking my whiskey while I pace.
The house feels even more bare with someone else in it—their presence just highlights all the spaces where no one lives.
All that square footage, all those rooms, and nothing in them except furniture I bought online without looking at.
Robin's sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, the only island in the place because I figured kitchens were supposed to have them, watching me with the expression he gets when he's trying to figure out whether to be sympathetic or sarcastic.
"So let me get this straight," he says. "You had Jason literally begging for it, and you sent him away."
"He asked what I wanted. Beyond sex."
"And?"
"And I didn't have an answer."
"Bullshit." Robin takes a sip of whiskey, grimaces slightly—it's cheap stuff, I haven't had time to stock the bar properly—and takes another sip anyway. "You once told Dad's girlfriend to get out of our house while simultaneously making me a pancake. Didn't even stop flipping it."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I knew how to get rid of her. She was mean to you."
"Ah." Robin sets down his glass, studying me. "So the problem isn't that you don't want to date him. It's that you don't know how."
I stop pacing. That's actually accurate.
"He wanted to know if I'd date him. If I wanted more than just fucking." I grab the bottle, pour myself a glass. "And I just stood there. Like an idiot. With my hand on his dick."
Robin laughs. Actually laughs, head thrown back, the full-body kind that makes his whole frame shake.
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny." He's still grinning when he looks at me. "Big bad special forces soldier defeated by feelings. The man who infiltrated terrorist cells and extracted hostages from war zones can't figure out if he wants to take a cute boy to dinner."
"I don't know how to do relationships, Robin. What would that even look like? What would I even do with him when we're not—" I gesture vaguely.
"Fucking?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know, going to movies? Dinner? Hanging out without your dick in him?" Robin steals my glass, downs it, pours himself another. "Talking about things that aren't sex? Learning what his favorite color is?"
"Why would I need to know his favorite color?"
"Because that's what people do when they care about each other beyond orgasms." Robin's voice goes quieter. "Our parents really fucked us up, didn't they?"
"They weren't exactly relationship role models."
"Mom changing boyfriends every few months.
Dad with his rotating girlfriends who were always 'just friends' until suddenly they were living with him.
" Robin's voice goes flat, the humor draining out of it.
"You remember that one Christmas? Where both their current partners had a fistfight in the front yard while we ate cold pizza in your car? "
"I remember." I'd been sixteen. Robin was ten.
We sat in my beat-up Honda and watched through the windshield like it was a movie.
Mom screaming. Dad's girlfriend pulling hair.
Someone's boyfriend throwing punches. And us, eating pizza that had gone cold an hour ago, because no one had remembered to feed us.
"Good times."
"The best." Robin's quiet for a moment, staring into his whiskey like it holds answers.
"We never saw them be in love, did we? Not real love.
Just... possession. Jealousy. Using each other to not be alone.
Fighting and making up and fighting again because that was easier than actually being vulnerable. "
"Is that not what relationships are?"
Robin looks at me like I've said something profoundly sad.
"Ash. No. That's not—" He shakes his head.
"Look at Knox and Toby. That's what relationships can be.
Someone who chooses you, every day, because they want to.
Not because they're scared to be alone. Not because they're trying to win.
Just because being with you makes them happy. "
"Knox is a shifter. He has instincts telling him Toby's his mate."
"And Toby's human, and he chose Knox back.
That's the point." Robin leans forward, elbows on the island.
"The bond told Knox that Toby was his. But Toby didn't have a bond.
Toby just had a guy who looked at him like he was the sun, and he decided that was enough.
That's what choosing someone looks like. "
I don't have a response to that. I've never thought about it that way before.
"Okay, new approach." Robin sets down his glass with a decisive click. "Do you actually like Jason? As a person?"
"He's... passionate. About bikes. And food. He takes care of everyone."
"That's not what I asked."
"I don't know him enough to know if I like him."
"Then get to know him."
"How?" I start pacing again, restless energy with nowhere to go. "I already fucked it up. He probably hates me."
"He doesn't hate you. He's hurt, but he doesn't hate you." Robin's quiet for a moment, watching me pace. Then he grins suddenly, the kind of grin that usually means trouble. "Want to go to a movie?"
"Now?"
"Tomorrow. Horror night at the bar."
"I don't like horror movies."
"Perfect. The pack does movie nights. Popcorn, blankets, the whole thing. It's very cute and domestic." Robin's grin widens. "Jason will be there."
"Robin—"
"No, listen." He holds up a hand. "You want to figure out if you actually like him? You want to maybe not be a complete disaster? Then come to horror night. Be friendly. Dress nicely. Do something with Jason with your clothes on so you actually get to know him."
"He won't want to see me."
"He will. He's got it bad for you, despite my many warnings about your emotional unavailability.
" Robin stands, coming over to grip my shoulders.
His hands are firm, grounding. "But Ash, if you're going to do this, you have to actually try.
Not just show up and brood in a corner and hope he comes to you. You have to make an effort."
"I don't brood."
"You exclusively brood. It's like your primary personality trait. You sit in corners looking dangerous and wait for people to come to you." He releases me, heading for the door. "Tomorrow. Eight PM. Wear something that isn't tactical gear."
"I have regular clothes."
"Prove it."
---
After he leaves, I stand in my empty house and try to imagine what dating would look like.
Movies with the pack. Dinners that aren't just foreplay to getting someone into bed. Talking about bikes without planning to fuck against them. Learning someone's favorite foods and what makes them laugh and why they cry at things.
It sounds... complicated. Like a mission with no clear objective, no defined parameters, no extraction plan.
But then I remember Jason's face when he asked if I wanted more. The want in his eyes before I shut him down. The way his whole body had been open to me, trusting, and then the way he'd closed off when I couldn't give him an answer.
I remember the way he looked walking out of my garage—shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself, trying to hold himself together. The sound of his bike starting. The way he didn't look back.
I did that. I hurt him because I was too fucked up to give him a straight answer.
Maybe complicated isn't the problem. Maybe it's just another mission to figure out. I've figured out harder things than this. I've learned languages in weeks, infiltrated organizations in days, survived situations that should have killed me. I can learn how to be a boyfriend.
Probably.
I text Robin: What kind of movies does he like?
Action and cooking shows
Cooking shows aren't movies
He once made me watch a 4-hour documentary about the history of bread. He said it was life-changing.
Was it good?
I have no idea, I was drunk by hour two. But he cried at the sourdough segment
Jason cries at bread documentaries.
I'm so fucked.
What do I wear?
Clothes
Robin.
Nice jeans. That henley that makes your arms look good. Don't wear combat boots
All my boots are combat boots
Then buy new ones. Jesus, Ash, you're not invading a country, you're trying to date a soft lion boy who cries at documentaries about bread
Date. I'm trying to date someone.
The word feels foreign in my mouth. I've never dated anyone.
Not really. I've fucked people, left people, occasionally hung around people long enough to fuck them multiple times.
But dating—the thing where you spend time with someone on purpose, not just because you want to get them naked—I've never done that.
First time for everything, I guess.
I pour another whiskey and pull up my phone browser. Type in "how to date someone."
The results are deeply unhelpful.
Apparently I'm supposed to "be myself" but also "show my best self" which seems contradictory. If I'm being myself, isn't that automatically my best self? Or am I supposed to pretend to be a better version of me? That sounds exhausting.
There's something about flowers—do men like flowers? Do shifters? Would Jason want flowers or would he think that's weird?—and opening doors, which I already do out of habit, and "asking questions to show interest."
I can do questions. I interrogated people for a living.
That's probably not the same thing.
One article says to "find common ground." We both like bikes. We both like spicy food. That's something. I can talk about those things without making it weird.
Another article says to "be vulnerable." I'd rather be shot. I've been shot, actually, and I'm pretty sure it was less painful than whatever "being vulnerable" entails.
A third article says "don't try to sleep with them on the first date." Well. I've already fucked that up. Technically we've had zero dates and I've already had my hand on his dick, so I'm starting from negative territory.
I close the browser and text Robin again: What if I fuck this up?
You already did. Tomorrow is about unfucking it.
Helpful.
Just be nice to him. Show interest in things besides his ass. Don't leave after the movie.
Where would I go?
Exactly. Stay. Hang out. Be normal.
I don't know what normal is.
Fake it. You've done undercover work.
This feels harder than infiltrating terrorist cells.
Because it matters more.
He's right. It does matter more. Which is terrifying.
But Jason matters. The soft lion who wanted to feed me before he even knew my name. Who lit up talking about engines and spice chemistry. Who made four batches of vindaloo to get it right for someone he'd met once. Who was strong enough to walk away when I couldn't give him what he needed.
Maybe I can learn to give him what he needs. Learn to be someone worth staying for.
I guess I need to find out.