Chapter Thirty-One
Troy
The brewery thrums with the loud churn of machinery, the sound ricocheting off the brick walls.
The steady roar drowns out my thoughts and demands my full attention.
Most nights I like it this way. After the taproom closes and the last of my employees heads out, the place settles into a familiar rhythm of organized chaos—fermenters ticking, refrigeration units humming steadily, the faint scent of yeast and malt hanging in the air.
Tonight the whole building smells like autumn.
I lean over the small stainless test kettle, slowly stirring the cooling wort. The toasted malt has already deepened the color to a rich copper, and when I lift the spoon to smell it, there’s a warmth to it—caramel, a hint of brown sugar.
The door in the alley thumps softly. A second later the hinges creak, and a gust of cool night air slips into the brewery along with the familiar sound of boots on concrete.
“Ashton?” I call.
“Who else would it be?”
I grin before I even see him.
He pushes the door closed behind him and crosses the room, the faint moonlight outlining him for a moment before he steps into the harsher glow of the overhead lights. His flannel hangs half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair tucked beneath a backward cap.
He closes the space between us and leans in to kiss me. It’s quick, soft, familiar enough that my shoulders loosen before I even realize they were tight.
“How’s it going?” he asks when he pulls back.
“Good,” I say automatically, turning back to the kettle. “Working on something new.”
He leans against the counter beside me, bumping my shoulder lightly. “Yeah, I could smell it from outside.”
I snort. “That bad?”
“No.” His eyes drift to the steam rising from the kettle. “Actually smells pretty great.” He watches me stir for a moment before adding, “I just wanted to stop by and check on you. Haven’t heard from you all day.”
I glance down at my watch, my stomach sinking when I see the time.
Nearly midnight.
“Sorry, baby,” I murmur, squeezing his arm. “Lost track of time.”
He smiles softly and reaches up to brush the dark hair out of my eyes. “It’s fine. I know what that’s like,” he says gently. “Getting so caught up in your work you forget the rest of the world exists.”
I glance over at him, the corner of my mouth lifting. “You wanna come back to my place when I’m done here?”
Ashton’s eyes narrow in playful suspicion, a teasing smile dancing across his lips. “Are you just trying to get me in bed with you?”
I gasp, clutching my chest like he’s just wounded me. “Of course not,” I say, scandalized. “Cryptid just misses you. He hasn’t seen you in, like, three whole days.”
He gives a small laugh before nodding. “Sure. I’ll come over.”
“Great.” I clap my hands together once and turn back toward the kettle. “Let me just get the fermentation going, and then we can head out.”
I start moving with the familiar routine—hoses, clamps, valves. The wort’s cooled enough now, so I transfer it carefully into the fermentation tank, the amber liquid rushing through the line with a steady slosh.
Across the room, Ashton leans against the brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest, just watching me. His eyes track my every move, steady and full of admiration.
Once the tank’s filled, I grab the yeast and toss it in, giving the valve a final adjustment before sealing everything up.
“So,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel as I glance over at him. “What were you up to today?”
Ashton shifts slightly. It’s subtle, but I catch it—the way his shoulders stiffen for half a second before he answers.
“Not much,” he says. “Just relaxing.”
I snort. “Yeah, right. You’ve never relaxed a day in your life.”
His mouth twitches. “Okay, fair,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “I was… working on something.”
“Oh yeah?” I step a little closer, tilting my chin up to look at him. “What kind of something?”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost sheepish. “Just sketching. Planning some stuff.”
“For?”
“The barn,” he says simply.
My brows lift. “For the wedding venue?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, his gaze drifting toward the fermentation tank instead of me. “I was just messing around with some blueprints. Seeing how it might look if I opened the space up more. Added lighting. Maybe a loft area.”
He says it dismissively, like it’s just a random thought he jotted down on a napkin.
But I know Ashton.
When he sets his mind on something, it demands his full attention. Ever since he first admitted he wanted to fix up the barn, I’ve seen the gears turning in his head—that same intense focus he brings to the orchard. The way ideas sink their claws in and refuse to let go.
And beneath it all, I see the hesitation too.
The doubt that creeps in every time he talks about it. The way his dad’s voice still lingers somewhere in the back of his mind, convincing him not to reach too far, not to risk failing—that he’s only meant to follow the path his family laid out for him.
“I’m excited for you, baby,” I admit softly. “It’s going to be amazing.”
He shrugs again, brushing it off. “I’ve just been sketching plans.
It’s not a big deal. It probably won’t even work out.
” He fiddles with his fingers, picking at a hangnail on his thumb.
“There’s still a lot to consider. Permits and zoning and all that.
And the wedding industry’s pretty competitive. ”
I reach up and catch his chin, tilting his head so he has to look at me. “Ash,” I say firmly. “It’s okay to take risks. Even if it doesn’t work out, it’s alright to fail. It’s not the end of the world.”
He lets out a quivering breath and shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “No, it’s not okay.”
“What’s the worst-case scenario? You lose some money?” I shrug. “So what? You’ll make up for it next harvest season.”
He shakes his head stubbornly. “Troy, you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
His face twists into a mixture of pain and fear. “If I fail, if I mess up, it doesn’t just hurt me. It hurts my family. It hurts everything we’ve built. And—shit. I can’t even imagine how my parents would react. They’d be so disappointed, so ashamed of me.”
His voice is wobbly and low. He doesn’t sound like himself.
“Ash—”
“I can’t—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut as his throat bobs. “I can’t disappoint them. I can’t ruin the Tremblay reputation. I can’t—”
His breath hitches.
At first I think he’s just frustrated. Then his chest rises too fast. His fingers curl in on themselves, knuckles going white.
“Ash?” I say more quietly.
He tries to inhale again, but it comes out wrong—short and sharp, like the air is lodged in his throat.
“Oh, shit,” I murmur.
His eyes fly open, wide and glassy. “I—I can’t—”
His words fracture apart as his breathing speeds up, turning into shallow gasps. Panic floods his face, his shoulders lifting with every frantic breath.
“Ash, hey. Look at me.”
I reach for him, but he’s already sinking to the cold concrete floor. His back bumps lightly against the brick wall, hands trembling as they clutch at the front of his flannel like he’s trying to tear it from his chest.
“I can’t—breathe—” he chokes.
I sit down beside him immediately and pull him against me.
“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.” I wrap an arm around his shoulders, pressing my palm firmly against the back of his head so he can tuck his face against my chest. His breaths are coming fast and ragged, each one sounding like it hurts.
He gasps. “It’s too much. I can’t—”
“Listen to me,” I say softly, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “We’re gonna focus on what’s around us, okay? Name five things you can see.”
He hiccups through his sobs. “Troy—”
“Five things, baby.”
He sniffles and pulls away from my chest. When he opens his eyes, they’re heavy-lidded and unfocused, the bright emerald dulled to a washed-out green.
He drags in a slow breath. “Your shirt,” he whispers.
I nod. “Good, baby. Four more things you can see.”
He rocks slightly where he sits on the floor, blinking hard as he scans the room. “The—um, tanks,” he says, voice trembling. He exhales through his nose. “The windows. The brick walls. The door.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Good. Now four things you can feel.”
His throat bobs as his fingers flex against his thighs.
“My jeans.” He drops his hands to the floor, palms brushing across the cool concrete.
“The floor.” His fingers drift toward my foot, twisting the lace of my boot around his pinky.
“Your shoes.” His thumb slides up to my ankle, brushing the strip of bare skin above my sock.
His touch is cold and clammy. “Your skin.”
I hum in approval. “Good job. Three things you can hear.”
“Your voice,” he says immediately.
I smile a little.
He closes his eyes and takes a deeper breath, concentrating. “The fermenter,” he murmurs. “The refrigerator… it’s humming.”
He grips the front of my shirt again, fists bunching in the fabric like I’m the only steady thing in the room. I don’t move.
“You’re doing great, blondie,” I whisper. “Two things you smell.”
He inhales slowly through his nose. “Beer,” he says, his eyelids loosening now instead of squeezing shut. His nose wrinkles slightly. “Cigarettes.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me. “Sorry, baby,” I say, remembering how much he hates when I smell like smoke. “Alright. One last thing you can taste.”
His eyes open again.
The frantic rise and fall of his chest has softened now into steady, even breaths.
He leans forward slowly and presses his lips to mine in a soft, lingering kiss. His tongue brushes my bottom lip, catching gently on the ring there.
“You,” he exhales, his breath hot against me.
I keep my arms around him, one hand resting on the back of his head, the other rubbing slow strokes along his rigid spine. His breathing has steadied now, but he still feels fragile in my arms, his body folded in on itself, like he’s making himself smaller.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
Ashton nods against my shoulder. “Yeah.” His voice is low and laced with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”
“Hey.” I pull back just enough to look at him. “Don’t apologize.”
He swallows, eyes flicking away from mine.
“I mean it,” I say gently. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
His shoulders slump.
I hesitate for a second before continuing. “I’m just… worried about you.”
He doesn’t answer.
“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”
His brow tightens.
I think back to that day at the farmers market, when he pulled me away from the crowd. The wind whipping around us, the dunes shielding us, the way Ashton went pale when everything between us finally surfaced. When he finally realized what he felt for me.
A broken sound tears out of him. He falls forward again, pressing his face into my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m pathetic.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I shake my head immediately, tightening my hold on him. “No. No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken, Ash.” I brush my thumb over the back of his neck. “But I think you might have anxiety.”
He pulls back slightly, giving a bitter little laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “My dad used to say anxiety was just an excuse for weak people who couldn’t handle real life.”
The words sit heavy in the air.
Something ugly twists in my chest. I picture a younger version of Ashton—quiet, sensitive, overwhelmed—and someone telling him his feelings didn’t matter. That they made him weak.
No wonder he fights himself so hard.
“That’s bullshit,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t argue. Just stares down at the floor.
“I think you should talk to someone,” I add carefully. “A therapist.”
His head snaps up. “No.”
“Ash—”
“I can’t do that.” His voice sharpens with panic. “People would find out. My dad would—”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
He shakes his head hard. “No.”
I study him for a moment, then let out a small sigh. “I went to therapy.”
That gets his attention.
His brows draw together. “What?”
“I was in a really dark place,” I admit. “During the divorce.”
He blinks down at me, his features softening. “Oh.”
“The betrayal I felt…” I rub the back of my neck. “It messed me up more than I like to admit. I was miserable for a long time. Thought my life had no meaning without my marriage.”
The memory makes my chest feel tight even now.
Ashton’s eyes soften, his hand squeezing mine.
“But therapy helped,” I continue. “A lot, actually. It didn’t fix everything overnight, but it gave me skills to cope. Helped me climb out of that hole.”
I reach up and cup the side of his face.
“Seeking help doesn’t mean you’re broken,” I tell him gently. “It means you’re strong enough to go looking for the tools you need.”
Ashton goes quiet.
His teeth catch his bottom lip, worrying it as he stares somewhere past my shoulder. I can practically see the gears turning in his head—the hesitation, the fear, his thoughts raging against his instincts.
Finally he mutters, “I’ll… think about it.”
I know it’s the most commitment I’m going to get from him right now.
“Alright.”
We sit there for another moment, the brewery humming around us, the air still warm with the smell of malt and spice.
“You still wanna come back to my place?” I ask.
He nods almost immediately. “Yeah.” A sheepish smile spreads across his lips. “I’d really like to cuddle.”
I snort. “With Cryptid?”
That finally pulls a real laugh out of him—soft and careful, like he’s still easing his way back into himself.
“With both of you,” he says, knocking his shoulder against mine.
I push myself to my feet and offer him a hand. “That sounds like a solid plan.”
He takes it, letting me pull him up. His legs wobble slightly at first, but he steadies quickly.
“And,” I add as we head toward the back door, grabbing my keys off the counter, “maybe we stop at the store and grab some ice cream on the way home.”
Ashton groans dramatically. “Oh my god. Ice cream sounds amazing right now.”
I chuckle and push open the alley door, cool night air spilling into the brewery.
As we step outside, I bump his shoulder with mine. “Alright, important question.”
He glances at me expectantly.
“What’s your favorite flavor?”
He snorts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Cherry. Duh.”
I laugh, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his temple.
“Of course it is.”