Chapter 12
Ash
I'm doing dishes.
I don't do dishes. I've never done dishes voluntarily in my life.
Growing up, Robin and I had a chore wheel that I routinely ignored—let the dishes pile up until someone else caved, usually Robin because he couldn't stand the mess.
In the military, there were mess halls and MREs and the occasional local restaurant when we were somewhere civilized enough to have them.
At my house, I use paper plates because washing anything feels like admitting I live there permanently.
But Jason cooked dinner for the whole pack tonight—some kind of pasta thing with homemade sauce that took him three hours.
He made the noodles from scratch, rolled them out by hand, hung them on a rack to dry while he worked on the sauce.
Roasted tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic he minced himself because apparently pre-minced garlic is "a crime against cooking. "
Now he's leaning against the counter looking exhausted and happy, flour still dusted on his forearm, and the sink is full of pots and pans and mixing bowls, and somehow my hands are in soapy water.
"You don't have to do that," Jason says for the third time.
"I know."
"Seriously, I can—"
"Jason." I turn to look at him, soap suds dripping from my fingers. "Let me."
His face goes soft. Surprised. A little bit like he might cry. Like no one's ever offered to clean up after him before.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
From the main room, I hear Robin's voice carrying over the general noise: "Is Ash doing DISHES?"
"Appears so," Knox rumbles.
"I've never seen him do dishes. I've known him my entire life and I've never seen him do dishes. Not once. Not ever."
"Shut up, Robin," I call back.
"This is historic! Someone take a picture! Document this moment for posterity!"
"I will end you."
But Jason's laughing now, that bright sound that makes warmth spread through my chest, and that makes it worth it. Makes the soap and the scrubbing and Robin's commentary all worth it.
The bar is loud tonight. Knox and Toby are in the big armchair, Toby practically in Knox's lap as usual, Knox's hand possessively on his thigh.
Robin's sprawled on the couch critiquing something on TV.
Vaughn and Ezra are playing cards at a table, some complicated game with rules I don't understand, and Silas is in his corner with a book, occasionally looking up to watch the chaos before retreating back into his pages.
It feels like family. Not my family—my family was rotating boyfriends and girlfriends and screaming matches at two in the morning and one memorable Christmas where someone's car got keyed in the driveway while we all pretended not to notice.
This is different. People who actually like being around each other.
Who choose to spend time together. Who bicker and joke and share space without it feeling like a battlefield.
Jason moves around the kitchen, putting away the clean dishes I hand him.
We've developed a rhythm without discussing it—I wash, he dries, he puts things away because he knows where everything goes and I'd just shove them in random cabinets.
Domestic in a way that should feel suffocating but doesn't.
"You're good at this," he says.
"At washing dishes?"
"At being here. With everyone." He takes a pot from my hands, our fingers brushing in the transfer. "The first few times you came over, you looked like you were casing the place for threats. Checking exits, cataloging everyone's position, that thing you do with your eyes."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you're scanning for danger but trying to look like you're not." He smiles. "Now you're just... here."
"Should I be casing for threats?"
"Vaughn cheats at cards, but that's about it."
"I heard that," Vaughn calls from the main room.
"You were supposed to!"
I finish the last pan—the big pasta pot, heavy cast iron that took some real scrubbing—and drain the sink, drying my hands on a towel that has cartoon lions on it. Jason watches me with that soft expression that makes my chest feel too full, like there's not enough room for everything I'm feeling.
"Come on," he says. "Robin's about to put on a movie and he'll pout if we miss the beginning."
We settle on the couch—me in the corner, Jason tucked against my side like he belongs there. Which he does. He's my boyfriend who fits perfectly under my arm and smells like garlic and tomatoes and home.
Robin takes the other end of the couch, feet immediately landing in Jason's lap like they always do. "We're watching The Mummy."
"The good one or the bad one?" Toby asks.
"There's only one The Mummy and it stars Brendan Fraser, anyone who says otherwise is wrong and I will fight them."
No one argues.
The movie starts, and I let myself relax into the couch. Jason's against my side. Robin's providing running commentary about Brendan Fraser's arms and how Hollywood doesn't make them like that anymore. Knox is doing something to Toby's neck that I'm choosing not to look at directly.
This is good.
My phone makes a sound from my pocket.
That specific, distinctive sound that anyone who's ever been on the app knows. The little "bloop" that means someone's messaged you on Grindr.
The room goes silent.
Jason goes stiff against my side.
"Was that—" Robin starts.
"Yep." I'm already pulling the phone out. No point denying it when everyone in this room knows exactly what that sound means. No point making excuses or pretending it was something else.
Jason's not looking at me. He's staring at the TV, jaw tight, whole body tense where moments ago he was soft and relaxed.
I open the app, go straight to settings, delete my profile. Uninstall. Find Scruff, same thing. Sniffies. Gone. Every hookup app I've ever downloaded, wiped from my phone in thirty seconds.
"Sniffies?" Robin says. "Really?"
"When you get a boyfriend, we can talk about how fast you delete your apps."
"I'm never getting a boyfriend, so screw you."
"Then shut up about mine."
I set the phone on the coffee table, screen down. Jason still hasn't moved.
"Should've done that already," I say. "Forgot they were on there."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You forgot."
"Haven't opened them since before the garage. Haven't thought about them, haven't looked at them. Just... didn't think to delete them."
"But they were still on your phone."
"Yeah. They were." I don't make excuses. There aren't any good ones. I fucked up by not doing this sooner, and no amount of explaining will change that. "They're not anymore."
Jason finally looks at me. His expression is guarded, searching, like he's trying to figure out if I'm telling the truth. Then he pulls out his own phone, unlocks it, and hands it to me.
I look at him.
"Check," he says. "If you want."
I scroll through his apps. Nothing. No Grindr, no Scruff, no Tinder, no Hinge, nothing. Just normal stuff—weather, maps, some cooking apps with recipe bookmarks, a game with cartoon cats that he's apparently on level 847 of.
"Deleted mine the night you made popcorn," he says quietly.
He deleted his apps after movie night. Before the gun range, before the library, before I called him my boyfriend in front of witnesses. He was already all in while I was still carrying around old habits I'd forgotten about.
I hand his phone back. "We're good," I tell him. It's not a question.
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then his shoulders relax, and he leans back into my side.
"We're good," he agrees.
I press a kiss to his temple and pull him closer, tucking him firmly against me where he belongs.
"Oh thank god," Robin says loudly. "I thought we were going to have to witness a breakup in real time. Can we watch the movie now? Brendan Fraser is about to do the thing with the books."
"There's no thing with the books," Toby says.
"There's absolutely a thing with the books, he's in a library, there are books—"
The argument dissolves into the usual chaos. Jason settles more firmly against my side, his hand finding mine, fingers interlacing.
This is really good. But there are six other people in this room, and Robin keeps glancing over at us with that knowing smirk, and I want him somewhere that's just ours.
"Hey," I say quietly, mouth close to Jason's ear. "Want to get out of here?"
He tips his head back to look at me. "Yeah?"
"My place. It's quieter." I trace my thumb across his knuckles. "If you want."
His breath catches. "Yeah. I want."
We extract ourselves from the couch, and Robin immediately notices because Robin notices everything.
"Leaving already?"
"It's crowded," I say.
"There are literally seven people here."
"Like I said. Crowded."
Robin's grin turns knowing. "Uh huh. Have fun being 'not crowded.'"
"Goodnight, Robin."
"Use protection!"
"I'm going to kill you in your sleep."
"Love you too!"
Jason's laughing as we head for the door, and the sound settles the last of the tension in my shoulders. Outside, the night air is cool and quiet after the noise of the bar. Stars visible overhead, the kind of clear night you don't get in cities.
"Your bike or mine?" he asks.
"Mine. I'll bring you back tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Like it's already decided that he's staying the night. Like that's just how things are now.
He doesn't argue. Just climbs on behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chest against my back, and I kick the engine to life.
My place. My bed. My Jason.
Finally.