Chapter 2
ASH
A Truce
The bathroom door slams with the kind of force that says, "I would kill you if I were dressed."
I take another slow sip of my coffee and look around at the wreckage. Better clean up a bit before she comes back and maybe I can get back in her good graces.
I bend down and scoop up a squashed donut, shaking my head as I drop it into an empty takeout bag. I clean the frosting off the floor, wipe down the kitchen counter, until Liam’s small apartment looks back to its old self.
I glance at the bathroom door—still firmly closed. Locked, probably. If she had a deadbolt, I’m sure she’d use it.
Olive Hart. Sweet name. Not so sweet mouth.
She’s pretty—petite, but with curves in all the right places. Her eyes, green and ridiculously expressive, give her away before she can edit a single thought. And the freckles dusting her button nose do nothing for my concentration.
She introduced herself like she was charging a battlefield, not standing naked and armed with a bath mat.
And for some reason, I haven’t stopped smirking since.
She has no idea who I am.
Not even a flicker of “Oh my god, are you Ash Ryder?” No wide eyes. No awkward smile. No fumbling over which album was her favorite or asking if I’m the one who dated that pop star or trashed that hotel room in Berlin. Nothing.
She just looked at me like I was an intruder and a pervert—which, to be fair, from her angle, I probably was.
But it’s... refreshing.
People always want something from me—tickets, selfies, attention, headlines. They either put me on a pedestal or treat me like a tabloid circus act. But her?
She looked at me like I was a dumbass with powdered sugar on his shoes.
And I fucking liked it.
A little too much.
Especially when she started yelling. Especially when she got flustered. Especially when she didn’t back down even though she was naked, dripping, and wielding kitchen accessories as armor.
I should probably apologize when she comes back out.
I grin, sinking onto the couch, and strumming a few lazy chords on the guitar I’d left here last time I crashed with Liam. It’s half out of tune. I don’t fix it.
The bathroom door clicks open.
I glance up, already half-grinning, curious what kind of verbal weaponry she’s bringing this time.
She steps into the hallway wrapped in what can only be described as civilian clothes—leggings, an oversized hoodie, fuzzy socks, and a bun so aggressively defensive it’s basically a battle flag.
Her eyes lock on me.
She doesn’t speak. Just crosses her arms and stands there like she’s weighing whether I’m even worth the effort.
I hold up a donut, my mouth curving into something between an olive branch and a dare.
“How about a truce, Hart?”
She squints at the donut like it might be poisoned, then crosses the room slowly, arms still folded like she refuses to be seen lowering her guard.
With a little huff, she snatches the donut and drops onto the far end of the couch, curling her legs beneath her like she’s settling into enemy territory.
“I’m still mad at you,” she says, not looking at me.
“Noted,” I reply, strumming a lazy chord on the guitar. “But you took the donut, so technically, I win.”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and unimpressed. “You didn’t win. I’m just low on blood sugar and self-respect.”
That makes me grin.
I strum my fingers lazily along the strings of the guitar across my lap, not really playing—just giving my hands something to do that isn’t reaching for her hair to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
She licks a smudge of glaze off her thumb and wipes her hand on a napkin like she’s pretending she’s not being watched.
I am absolutely watching her.
She catches me staring and lifts an eyebrow. “Do you stare at all your friends’ sisters, or just the ones who accidentally flash you?”
I grin. “Only the ones who wear powdered sugar like it’s a fashion statement.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see the curve at the corner of her mouth.
“Seriously,” I ask, shifting the guitar off my lap and setting it aside, “how long are you staying at Liam’s?”
She hesitates just a second. “A while. I’m in between places.”
“Voluntarily, or…?”
“Depends how you define ‘voluntarily.’” She picks at the edge of the donut. “My old apartment was too expensive without my grandma. Rent’s a joke in this city. A cruel, cosmically sanctioned joke.”
I nod slowly. “That can’t be easy… And hey, I’m sorry about your grandma—Liam said you were close.”
Her shoulders ease—just a little, but enough. “Thanks.”
She shifts to face me more fully. “Okay, your turn. How did you and Liam meet?”
I lean back, draping an arm across the top of the couch. “Tour. Years ago. We were having a nightmare of a soundcheck—mic problems, feedback, a monitor that kept cutting out. Total chaos.”
She arches a brow but stays quiet, waiting for more.
“The show was about to start late, and then this guy with a man bun and a screwdriver shows up, fiddles with the board, and fixes everything in under three minutes.”
Her eyes widen. “That was Liam?”
“Yup. He wasn’t even on the crew—just filling in for someone. I liked him on sight, and we’ve been stuck with each other ever since.”
She smiles, clearly picturing it.
I take a sip of my drink, glance over at her, and ask—because I genuinely want to know,“So, I heard from Liam you’re a kindergarten teacher? Do you like it?”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Yeah. I mean… I do. ”She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking sideways like she’s bracing for a joke. “It’s kind of chaos, honestly. Tiny chaos. Sticky, emotional chaos. But yeah. I love it.”
I grin. “Sticky, emotional chaos. Sounds like most people’s nightmare.”
She chuckles.
“What made you choose it?” I ask. “Teaching, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” she says, thoughtful now. “It wasn’t a big calling or anything. I just always liked kids. I babysat, tutored. I like seeing the world the way they see it—everything’s big and possible and weird and magical. It was either that or becoming a writer.”
We fall into an easy quiet. I watch her over the rim of my glass. She’s not just good at what she does—she cares. You can hear it in her voice, see it in the way she talks.
“Liam said the kids adore you,” I say.
Her head tilts. “He did?”
I nod. “Told me you once built an entire cardboard castle for the reading corner… and then turned it into a fire-breathing dragon during story hour.”
She groans. “That got wildly out of hand.”
I smirk. “Sounds like something worth seeing.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all,” I lie. “Okay, maybe a little.”
She snorts and leans back with a quiet smile, fingers curled around her mug. “Most people don’t really ask about it. Or if they do, it’s in that weird ‘aww, how sweet’ voice. Like it’s adorable I wipe noses for a living.”
“I don’t think it’s adorable,” I say softly. “I think it matters.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“Thanks,” she says, voice low and sincere. “That… means more than you probably think.”
I nod but don’t say anything else.
We keep talking like that for a while. I listen as Olive spins another story out of thin air—this time about a puppet show gone wrong and a kid dramatically yelling, “You’ll never silence me, Karen!” mid-naptime.
“You’re a good storyteller,” I say—more serious than I mean to be.
She pauses. “Thanks?”
“No, I mean it,” I say. “You’ve got this way of making things feel alive. Like… if you ever wanted to write a book or something, you totally could.”
At that, something in her shifts—subtly, but I catch it.
She laughs a little too fast. “Yeah, right.”
I lean back. “I’m not joking. Did you never pursue writing as a profession?”
“Well, I mean… no,” she says, suddenly very interested in a spot on her hoodie. “It’s not like that. I’m just a teacher, and I’m happy with the kids, so…” She trails off.
It’s a clear deflection. She’s hiding something she doesn’t want to share. But that’s okay. I don’t push.
The mood’s too good to ruin.
Talking to Olive is easy. She’s smart, sassy, quirky in a way that feels completely real. Even better? She still hasn’t figured it out.
No googling. No double takes. No Wait a second, aren’t you that guy who—?
Nothing.
She just thinks I’m some cocky, inconvenient houseguest who may or may not be a minor criminal.
I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.
And damn if that isn’t addictive.
I watch her closely, leaning back just enough to study her.
“So…” I say, slow and deliberate, “you really don’t know who I am?”
She looks up, unimpressed. “Should I?”
There’s no hesitation. No glimmer of recognition. She’s serious.
I grin. “Are you, like, an influencer?” she continues, squinting at me. “Or a shampoo model?”
I choke on a laugh. “A what now?”
She gestures vaguely at my face. “You have that whole ‘sulking in a fragrance ad’ thing going on. It’s the cheekbones. And the brooding.”
“Brooding?” I repeat, mock-offended.
“Positively moody,” she says, casually licking her finger. “You look like you journal in eyeliner.”
I lean in, lowering my voice just enough to make her shoulders tense.
“Worse,” I say. “I’m Liam’s best friend.”
“Well, I guess everyone deserves a friend. Even you.”
Her expression doesn’t budge. So I’m guessing Liam hasn’t mentioned me. That little bastard.
She keeps talking—something about Liam’s spice cabinet being a cry for help—but I’m not really listening anymore.
Because there’s a smudge of chocolate glaze on her bottom lip.
And suddenly, all the oxygen in the room is aimed straight at my chest.
I shouldn’t be noticing this. I definitely shouldn’t be staring.
But I am.
And now she’s stopped talking.
And she’s looking at me—like maybe she’s starting to notice, too.
"You’ve got something on your lip," I say, my voice lower than I intend.
Her hand lifts automatically, fingers swiping the corner of her mouth.
"Not there," I murmur, still watching her.
She freezes.
Our eyes meet, and the room goes silent—no more buzzing fridge, no more traffic outside, no more anything. Just her, and me, and the growing realization that neither of us is moving.
She should get up.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
And she doesn’t.
Instead, I shift forward—slowly, like I’m testing gravity—and lean in. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull back. Not even an inch.
Her lips are soft. Warmer than I expected. Still, I only mean it to be a moment—a brush. A question, not a demand.
But Olive doesn’t pull away.
She stills, her fingers twitching where they grip the edge of the pillow in her lap, and then—slowly—her lips move against mine.
It’s all the permission I need.
My hand finds her cheek, fingers threading gently into the wisps of hair escaping her bun. Her skin is warm, flushed. When I tilt my head and deepen the kiss, she lets out the softest sound—barely audible, but enough to make my pulse spike.
I should stop.
I know that.
I should pull back, make a joke, call this a moment of temporary insanity.
Instead, I kiss her harder.
She shifts, the pillow falling to the floor unnoticed, and suddenly we’re tangled—her legs half-draped over mine, her hand curled around the front of my T-shirt like she doesn’t trust me not to vanish.
I don’t blame her.
I don’t trust myself either.
My other hand slips to her waist, drawing her closer. She fits against me like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like we were built to crash into each other.
Her fingers graze the edge of my jaw, and I kiss her like I’m trying to memorize her mouth—every angle, every breath, every small, perfect noise she makes when I suck gently on her bottom lip.
She gasps.
And I’m gone.
She shifts, hips grinding against mine, and I groan—my hands tightening on her waist.
“Olive,” I growl, low and warning. Whether it’s meant for her or for me, I honestly don’t know.
Her hoodie bunches beneath my fingers. I’m not trying to undress her. Not yet. But my palms are hungry to learn the shape of her—soft in ways that undo me.
Curves. Warmth. Pure chaos wrapped up in a girl who still thinks I’m someone safe.
God help me.
I want her.
Her hand slides up my chest, curls around the back of my neck. Fingers tangle in my hair.
I kiss her again—deeper this time, slower. Her tongue brushes mine, tentative at first… then bold. Like she’s done pretending she doesn’t want this too.
I groan into her mouth.
She pulls back just enough, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.
Her eyes are dark and wild. Her cheeks flushed.
Her breath ghosts over my skin as she whispers, “Take off my shirt.”
I want to. I fucking want to. She has no idea.
But instead, I kiss her like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.