Chapter 7
Jason
Thursday. Horror movie night. I've successfully avoided thinking about Ash for exactly zero seconds since yesterday.
It's not for lack of trying. I threw myself into work—rebuilt a transmission that had been sitting in the corner for weeks, changed the oil on three bikes, reorganized the entire tool wall in the garage by function instead of size.
Physical labor usually helps me clear my head, burns off the restless energy until I'm too tired to think. Not this time.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me. Heard him saying he wanted me so much it hurts.
Just not enough.
I come in from the garage around seven, covered in grease from the transmission job, and stop dead in the doorway.
Ash is here.
He's stretched out on the floor in front of the couch, long legs crossed at the ankles, looking completely at ease in a space he's been to exactly twice.
He's wearing jeans and a dark henley that makes his arms look incredible—the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms on display.
His hair is slightly damp like he showered recently.
He looks comfortable, relaxed, like he belongs here.
Like he didn't send me away hurting less than twenty-four hours ago.
Robin's sprawled on the couch behind him, feet dangling near Ash's shoulder, complaining about something work-related.
"—and then this guy at the catering company had the audacity to say my macarons were 'too perfect,' like that's a criticism. Too perfect! What does that even mean? Is there such a thing as too perfect? Isn't perfection the goal?"
"He's an idiot," Ash says quietly. Then, without looking at me, without turning his head even slightly: "There's masala popcorn if you want some. Made it the way you like."
I stare at the bowl on the coffee table.
It's my popcorn. My specific blend—garam masala, turmeric, a little cayenne for heat, finished with ghee and lime zest. The recipe I have pinned to the corkboard by the fridge.
He found my recipe. He made my popcorn.
"Thanks," I manage, voice cracking embarrassingly. "I need to—shower. Grease."
I flee upstairs before anyone can respond.
In the shower, I stand under water that's too hot and try to calm down.
My heart is pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
He's here. In our space. Making my popcorn from the recipe I have pinned up in the kitchen.
Being casual and comfortable like he didn't have me pressed against a workbench yesterday, like I wasn't begging for more than he could give.
What is he doing here? What does he want?
Robin must have invited him. Robin, who warned me to stay away, who called Ash a hurricane, who said I'd get destroyed. Why would he invite Ash to movie night the day after everything fell apart?
Unless this is some kind of intervention. Some attempt to force us to deal with whatever this is.
I take my time getting dressed. Plain t-shirt, comfortable jeans. Nothing special. I'm not trying to impress anyone. I'm definitely not thinking about whether Ash will like the way I look.
When I come back down, the whole pride is assembled.
Knox has Toby in his lap in the big armchair, Toby's head tucked under his chin, both of them looking soft and content in a way that makes my chest ache.
Ezra and Silas are sharing the loveseat, Silas already looking anxious about whatever horror movie we're watching—he hates scary stuff but refuses to miss pack events.
Vaughn's setting up the TV, scrolling through streaming options with the remote.
And there's one spot left on the couch.
Right next to Robin.
Which puts me directly beside where Ash is sitting on the floor.
I catch Ezra very deliberately not looking at me. Vaughn's mouth twitches.
"Jason! Finally!" Robin pats the cushion next to him with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I was about to start without you."
I grab sodas from the fridge and distribute them, trying not to let my hands shake. Pass out napkins. Make sure everyone has what they need. Normal caretaker behavior. Definitely not stalling because Ash is right there and I don't know what to do with that.
"Sit down," Vaughn says from across the room. "You're making me nervous with all the hovering."
Finally, I can't delay anymore. I sink onto the couch next to Robin, hyper-aware that my thigh is inches from Ash's shoulder. He doesn't look at me, doesn't turn around, but I see the slight tension in his back. The way his breathing changes.
He knows exactly where I am.
"What are we watching?" I ask, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
"The Conjuring," Vaughn says. "The original."
"Good choice."
The lights go off. The movie starts. Robin immediately shifts, flipping onto his stomach with his feet hooked over my lap and his head dropping onto Ash's shoulder.
It's so casual, so easy—the kind of physical affection that comes from a lifetime of being brothers.
No awkwardness, no hesitation, just comfortable closeness.
I hate that I'm jealous of it.
Ash doesn't seem to mind being Robin's pillow. Just shifts slightly to accommodate him, one arm tucked behind his own head, the other resting on the floor beside him. His hand is maybe six inches from my foot.
The movie is genuinely creepy. Good atmosphere, solid scares, that slow-building dread that effective horror does so well. I've seen it before but it still gets me—the family making terrible decisions, the demon lurking in the shadows, the inevitable possession sequence.
Twenty minutes in, I feel it.
Fingers on my ankle.
Light, barely there, just above my sock where my jeans have ridden up. Ash's hand, touching me in the dark where no one can see.
I freeze.
The touch doesn't move, doesn't demand anything. Just rests there, warm and steady. His thumb against my ankle bone, his fingers curled loosely around the joint.
On screen, someone screams. Robin jumps, accidentally kicking me in the side. "Shit, sorry."
"It's fine."
Ash's fingers tighten slightly—protective, reflexive—before relaxing back to that light touch.
"Popcorn?" he offers, holding the bowl up without looking at me. His voice is low enough that only I can hear.
I take a handful. It's perfect. The exact spice balance I use, the ghee giving it that rich depth, the lime zest brightening everything. He didn't just follow the recipe—he made it well. Got the ratios right, toasted the spices properly, didn't burn the ghee.
His thumb strokes once along my ankle bone, and I nearly choke on a kernel.
"You okay?" Toby asks from Knox's lap, twisting to look at me.
"Fine. Just—went down wrong."
The movie continues. The family makes more terrible decisions. People get possessed. Things go bump in the night. The demon does demon things.
And Ash's fingers stay on my ankle the whole time.
Not pushing for anything. A connection in the dark that no one else can see. His thumb traces occasional circles against my skin, each one sending a shiver up my spine that I have to fight not to show.
Robin shifts, pressing his face into Ash's shoulder during a particularly effective jump scare. "I hate this movie."
"You picked it," Ash reminds him.
"I have regrets."
"You always have regrets."
"Shut up and be my security blanket."
Ash huffs what might be a laugh. But his hand never moves from my leg.
Halfway through, I shift to get more comfortable, and my thigh presses against his shoulder. He leans into it. Just slightly, just enough that I know it's on purpose. The warmth of him seeping through the fabric of my jeans.
This is torture. Sweet, maddening torture.
"Anyone need anything?" I whisper, because I need to move or I'm going to do something stupid like slide down onto the floor and climb into his lap.
Various mumbled "no"s from the pack, everyone absorbed in the movie. But when I start to stand, Ash's hand wraps around my ankle, holding gently.
"Stay," he says.
One word. That's all. But it echoes in my chest like he shouted it.
I stay.
---
The movie ends with the family surviving but traumatized, the demon temporarily defeated. The lights come back on, and Robin immediately grabs the remote.
"Thank god that's over." He starts scrolling through options with desperate energy. "I need to see people making cupcakes after that. Something wholesome. Something where no one gets possessed by demons."
He lands on some baking competition show. A bunch of nervous contestants in matching aprons, a gleaming kitchen, judges with British accents making gentle critiques. Good palate cleanser after demonic possession.
People start moving around—bathroom breaks, more drinks, stretching legs.
Knox murmurs something to Toby and they disappear upstairs, not subtle at all about their intentions.
Ezra and Silas drift toward the back room, probably to play chess or whatever quiet thing they do together when they want to decompress.
But Ash stays where he is. So do I.
"The popcorn was really good," I say, when Robin's absorbed in critiquing someone's fondant technique on screen.
"Had help." Ash tips his head back to look at me, and from this angle I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. The vulnerability he's trying to hide. "Found the recipe on your board. Hope that's okay."
"It's fine. It's—" I swallow around the sudden tightness in my throat. "Thank you."
"I got here early. Robin let me in. Told me where everything was." He's watching me carefully, like he's trying to gauge my reaction to every word. "I wanted to do something. Make something you'd like."
"You made my own recipe for me."
"Seemed safer than trying to improvise." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't want to fuck it up."
There's weight in the way he says it. Like he's not just talking about popcorn.
"You didn't," I tell him. "Fuck it up, I mean."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods and turns back to face the TV.