Chapter 11
Jason
The Thai place is called Siam Garden, and it's tucked into a strip mall about ten minutes from the library.
Not fancy—fluorescent lights, plastic tablecloths, a fish tank by the register with a single bored-looking goldfish—but the kind of place that has amazing food.
I can tell before we even sit down from the way the kitchen smells.
Real lemongrass. Fresh galangal. The particular sweetness of good fish sauce.
"How'd you find this place?" I ask as Ash holds the door for me.
"I've been coming here for years. Robin said you like Thai food, so." He shrugs like it's nothing, guiding me toward the back with a hand on my lower back, casual and possessive at the same time.
We slide into a booth near the back corner. Ash takes the side facing the door, which I'm starting to realize is a habit. Military thing, probably. Always knowing where the exits are, always able to see who's coming.
The waitress comes by—a tiny woman in her sixties who takes one look at Ash and raises an eyebrow but says nothing—and we order. Drunken noodles for me, massaman curry for him, spring rolls to share. When she leaves, there's a moment of awkward silence.
"So," Ash says.
"So."
"This is the part where we're supposed to talk, right? Get to know each other?"
"That's generally how it works."
He drums his fingers on the table, a restless rhythm. "I'm not good at this."
"At talking?"
"At... civilian conversation. Small talk. The stuff normal people do on dates." He looks genuinely frustrated with himself. "In the field, communication is about information transfer. Mission parameters, threat assessment, tactical updates. Clear, precise, functional. This is different."
"It's not that different." I reach across the table and put my hand over his, stilling the drumming. His fingers are warm under mine. "You're just transferring different information. Stuff about yourself. Stuff you want to know about me."
"What if I say something wrong?"
"Then I'll tell you, and you'll know for next time." I squeeze his hand. "This isn't a test you can fail. It's just... talking."
He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. "Okay. Information transfer." He takes a breath, squaring his shoulders like he's preparing for a mission. "What should I know about you?"
I think about it. How do you summarize yourself for someone? What matters, what doesn't?
"I'm twenty-four. I've been with Knox's pride since I was nineteen—about five years now.
I like cooking, building bikes, and terrible reality TV that I pretend I'm watching ironically but actually get invested in.
I cry at sad movies and sometimes happy ones.
I've never had a relationship last longer than three months. "
"How'd you end up with Knox?"
"Grew up in a pride in Nevada, but it never really felt like home.
My family's fine, we just... don't have much in common.
They're all accountants and lawyers, very practical, very serious.
Good jobs, sensible investments, early bedtimes.
I wanted to work with my hands, build things, cook things.
Be messy sometimes." I shrug. "When I turned eighteen I started looking for a pride that fit better.
Met Vaughn at a bike show in Reno—he was there looking at parts for the garage.
He introduced me to Knox, and that was that. Found my people."
"You just... left your family?"
"We still talk sometimes. Holidays, birthdays. They send money on my birthday that I don't need but can't figure out how to refuse without hurting their feelings." I shrug. "But Knox's pride is my family now. The pack is my home."
"That makes sense." Ash nods slowly. "Finding people who get you."
"Exactly. Your turn. What should I know about you?"
"Former Green Beret, five years of classified ops I can't talk about without committing federal crimes. I don't do relationships—or didn't, before you. I hate sweet things, I'm obsessive about my bikes, and I haven't cried at a movie since Bambi when I was eight."
"Robin mentioned Bambi."
"Robin has a death wish." But he's almost smiling. "What else... I have nightmares sometimes. Bad ones. If I wake up swinging, it's not about you."
"Okay." I file that away, keep my voice neutral. "Anything else?"
"I don't know how to do this." He gestures between us. "Dating. Being someone's boyfriend. I've never wanted to try before."
"What changed?"
He's quiet for a moment, thumb tracing circles on my palm. The touch is gentle, almost absent, like he's thinking through his words carefully.
"You. The way you looked at me. The way you wanted to feed me." He meets my eyes. "No one's ever taken care of me before. Not like that. Not because they wanted to, not because they were getting something out of it."
"That's what I do. Take care of people."
"I know. But you wanted to take care of me specifically. Before you had any reason to."
The spring rolls arrive, giving us both an excuse to look away from the intensity of the moment. We eat in easy silence for a few bites, the crispy shells and fresh vegetables a perfect combination.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Anything."
"Robin said you had someone. Overseas. Someone you lost."
Ash's hand stills halfway to his mouth. He sets the spring roll down carefully. "Robin talks too much."
"You don't have to tell me."
"No, it's—" He exhales slowly. "His name was Brennan. Wolf shifter, part of my unit. We weren't supposed to be anything, but... combat does things. Proximity does things. We were together for almost two years."
"What happened?"
"IED. Took out half our convoy. He was there, and then he wasn't."
"Ash, I'm so sorry."
"It was two years ago." He picks up the spring roll again, takes a bite like it's a tactical maneuver. Something to do with his hands. "After that, I decided I was done letting anyone matter. Easier to keep people at arm's length. Safer."
"But you're not keeping me at arm's length."
"No." He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. Unguarded. "I tried. You made it impossible."
"Good." I lean across the table and kiss him, quick and soft. "I'm glad I'm impossible."
The food arrives—huge steaming plates that smell amazing—and we dig in. I watch Ash's face when he tries the curry, the way his eyebrows rise slightly, the way he takes another bite immediately.
"This is really good," he admits.
He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Speaking of Robin talking too much, he told me you made four batches of vindaloo. To get it right for me."
I flush, heat rising up my neck. "He shouldn't have told you that."
"I'm glad he did." Ash reaches across the table to touch my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "No one's ever tried that hard to make me happy before."
"Get used to it. I plan to keep trying."
His expression shifts—soft, almost wondering. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We eat and talk, and it gets easier. He tells me about growing up with Robin, about their parents' messy marriage and revolving-door relationships, about learning to be the stable one because someone had to be.
I tell him about growing up in a pride full of serious, practical people, about the first time I cooked a meal for my family and realized food was how I showed love, about finding Knox's pride and finally feeling like I belonged.
"I'd like to see that someday," he says during a lull. "You shifted."
"Really?"
"You've seen all my sides. The scary ones, the awkward ones." He shrugs. "Seems fair I should see yours."
"My lion isn't exactly impressive. I'm on the smaller side for a male."
"I don't care about impressive. I care about you."
The words land somewhere in my chest and stay there. Simple, direct, the way Ash says everything. No games, no subtext. Just truth.
"Okay," I say. "Sometime. When you're ready."
"I'm ready whenever you are."
The check comes and Ash grabs it before I can reach. "I said I'd get the next one—"
"You can get the one after." He's already putting his card down. "Let me do this."
I let him. Watch him sign the receipt with his neat, precise handwriting. Watch him slide out of the booth and hold his hand out to help me up.
"Come back to my place?" he asks. "We don't have to do anything. I just... I want more time with you."
"Okay."
His face lights up—surprised and pleased, like he wasn't sure I'd say yes. Like anyone would say no to more time with him.
"Okay," he repeats. "Good. Let's go."
We ride our bikes back to his house, my Harley following his Kawasaki through the residential streets. The afternoon sun is warm on my back, and I'm so happy I feel like I might burst with it.
This is really happening.
We're really doing this.
When we pull into his driveway, he's off his bike before I even have my helmet off. He pulls me close, kisses me hard, and I melt into him.
"I'm glad you came today," he says against my mouth.
"Me too."
"I'm glad I said the boyfriend thing. Even if it came out weird."
"It didn't come out weird. It came out perfect."
He pulls back to look at me, searching my face. "You really mean that."
"I really do."
He kisses me again, softer this time. "Come inside. I'll make coffee."
"You know how to make coffee?"
"I know how to push buttons on a coffee maker. Same thing."
I laugh, and he smiles at the sound—a real smile, one that reaches his eyes.
"I like that," he says. "Making you laugh."
"Then keep doing it."
"I will."
We go inside, and true to his word, he makes coffee. It's decent—strong and hot, nothing fancy. We sit on his couch, which is new since the last time I was here, and I curl up against his side while we drink.
"This is nice," I say.
"Yeah. Just... being here. Being with you. Not having to perform or impress anyone."
"You never had to impress me." He kisses the top of my head. "You care about people without expecting anything back. That's rare."