Chapter 7 - OLIVE
OLIVE
Hard-On
Living with Ash Ryder is shockingly… easy.
Once you get past the part where he’s a rock god with a smirk that could melt glass and a face so symmetrical it feels personally offensive, he’s actually kind of chill.
He cooks. Like, actually cooks. The house is weirdly tidy—though, more likely, that’s thanks to Margot being an absolute whiz.
And he never—not once—makes me feel self-conscious when I wander into the kitchen in mismatched pajamas or an oatmeal face mask.
Which is honestly a miracle, considering I once bumped into him wearing nothing but a bath mat.
Still, I think the best part is… I don’t have to try.
I don’t have to flirt. I don’t have to pretend to be sexier or cooler or less weird than I am. I can just… be.
Because he’s gay.
So yeah. He’s safe.
Totally, completely safe.
And maybe that’s why I’ve gotten comfortable enough to wander around the house in skimpy shorts or oversized, worn-out T-shirts.
Although… sometimes he looks at me funny.
Like looking at me physically hurts. Or like he’s trying to solve a math problem with no solution.
It always happens during the small things—when I’m dancing around the kitchen with a toothbrush in my mouth, or sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by construction paper, prepping crafts for the kids.
It’s not a mean look. Just… intense. And fleeting.
But whatever. I don’t overthink it.
Most of the time, he looks completely normal. Like he’s trying not to laugh. Like he’s rolling his eyes and secretly enjoying every second of trying to figure me out. He puts up with me.
We’ve fallen into a comfortable rhythm.
In the morning, I tiptoe through the house on my way to work while Ash is still asleep. I try not to imagine him sprawled shirtless across his absurdly large bed, one arm thrown over his eyes.
I head to the kindergarten, where my day is chaos and glitter and sticky hugs.
And then I come home.
Ash is usually in the kitchen or on the couch when I get in. Sometimes he’s cooking—barefoot, sleeves pushed up, humming softly while chopping garlic like a rock god who moonlights as a husband in a domestic daydream.
Other times, we eat whatever Margot’s prepped, leaning against the counter, talking about nothing. Or everything.
He always asks about my day. Sometimes I tell him more than I mean to.
After dinner, I usually curl up on the couch with a book—romance, of course—and Ash teases me. Endlessly.
“Is this the one where the guy with the jawline saves her from a snowstorm and confesses his love in a canoe?”
“Do they cry during sex again? Is that a thing in this one too?”
But even when he’s teasing, he stays close. He’ll stretch out beside me, strumming something low on his guitar while I read, the sound threading through the pages like a heartbeat. And some nights he drifts to the piano, picking out the same gentle melody until it feels like home.
He doesn’t ask to join me. He just does.
Eventually, he disappears into his studio—his private world of soundproof walls and midnight chords.
Sometimes I will catch a melody drifting into the halls. A lyric repeated. Rewritten. Fragments of something beautiful.
He doesn’t know I wait for them.
He also doesn’t know what I do in my room when he’s not around to see it. Of course, no one knows. Not Liam. Not Nina. And certainly, not Ash.
Because I write. I write like a woman possessed—like it’s the only thing that brings me any real release these days.
And my blog readers love it. From a small corner of the internet that was supposed to be my creative outlet, it’s grown and grown over the last year.
Now there are thousands of subscribers. Dozens of comments on every post. Readers who leave messages like “You put into words what I feel but can’t say” and “I come here to feel less alone.”
And it makes me feel less alone, too.
They don’t know who I am. Just that I love stories, and I have a lot of feelings about pining and groveling and first kisses that feel like home.
I write at night, after Ash leaves for the studio.
Curled up in bed, laptop glowing, while his music drifts faintly through the walls.
Tonight’s blog post is supposed to be fun. Light. Silly. A little spicy.
I titled it “Five Steamy Book Scenes That Live in My Head Rent-Free.”
But somewhere between scene two and scene three, I realize I’m in trouble.
Because every time I close my eyes, the hero I’m writing about doesn’t have green eyes or a Scottish accent or a pirate scar anymore.
He has tattoos. Messy dark hair. A voice like velvet and sin.
And he calls me Hart in a low, infuriating tone that curls somewhere low in my stomach.
Still, I type:
Scene 3: The one where the grumpy MMC teaches the sunshine-y FMC how to throw a punch in a back alley and then ends up pinning her to a brick wall while whispering, “You talk too much.”
Yeah. That one’s… fine.
I squirm slightly in my chair and take a long sip of water before moving on.
Scene 4: When the buttoned-up librarian finally lets go and kisses the reformed bad boy in the middle of a rainstorm. Bonus points if he cups her face and says, “You undo me.”
I pause.
Scene 5: The kitchen counter scene. You know the one. Tension snaps. Hands in hair. “Tell me to stop” and no one ever does.
I stare at the screen, heart thudding.
I’m not thinking about fictional characters anymore.
I’m thinking about a man who made me carbonara at midnight. Who stands too close. Who watches me like he’s trying to memorize something he’s not allowed to touch.
Ash Ryder isn’t mine. And I have no business imagining him in these scenes. But my traitor brain keeps putting him there anyway.
I finish the post, schedule it for tomorrow morning, and shut my laptop with a soft, guilty sigh.
Then I roll onto my side, bury my face in my pillow, and try not to think about Ash’s hands on the counter.
***
The next morning is a Saturday, and I wake up cramping and miserable. I feel bloated, and when I go to the bathroom—yep. Period.
I open my box of tampons and realize there’s only one left. Great.
I decide to treat myself to a lazy day on the couch with some comfort TV. So I shuffle into the living room and put on Friends, curling up like a human croissant, clutching a throw pillow to my stomach.
Ash breezes through the kitchen a few minutes later—shirtless, humming something criminally catchy.
I manage a weak wave before sinking deeper into my misery cocoon.
He pauses. Frowns. “You okay?”
“Just bleeding out,” I muttered. “Woman things.”
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Just nods, grabs his keys, and vanishes.
Twenty minutes later, the front door clicks open again.
I don’t move. Mostly because I can’t. The cramps have claimed me.
Then he appears in the doorway like some tattooed domestic fever dream, holding up a brown paper bag.
“I got you four different kinds,” he says, setting the bag gently on the coffee table. “Tampons. Pads. Organic. Ultra thin. I didn’t know which ones you preferred.”
I blink at him. “You bought me a tampon buffet?”
He shrugs. “Felt like the right move.”
And then—God help me—he disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a heating pad, a mug of chamomile tea, and chocolate.
I stare at him like he just proposed marriage again.
“Here,” he says, kneeling to plug in the heating pad like it’s no big deal. “Lie back. Put this where it hurts. Sip slow. And no, I didn’t poison the tea.”
“You’re being weirdly amazing about this.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You think I can’t handle a little blood?”
I snort. “Gross.”
He grins. “Truth.”
I settle back against the pillows, heating pad warm against my stomach, tea in hand, and chocolate already melting in my mouth.
Ash stands in front of me, suddenly a little nervous. “I, uh, actually have something else for you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny velvet box. Not the glossy black kind from a billboard—this one’s soft and old-fashioned, deep green like a library lamp. My heart trips. My mouth goes dry.
“Oh,” I say. Not exactly a sentence.
He sinks onto the coffee table edge, elbows on his knees, and holds the box like it might explode. He huffs out a breath. “I picked this up for you.”
He flicks the lid open.
The world goes quiet.
The ring inside is… beautiful. An oval diamond, candlelit instead of cold, set east–west on a thin gold band.
Two tiny marquise diamonds curve at either side like secret leaves, and the milgrain edging gives it the quiet dignity of something already loved.
It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted until right now.
“I—” The word evaporates. “Ash.”
He rushes into the silence. “It needs to look official. If you’re not wearing one, the tabloids will zoom in on your hands and start think pieces.
I don’t want them in your teeth if I can help it.
It’s insured. If you hate it, we’ll swap it.
Or return it. Whatever you want.” He’s babbling, and it’s strangely endearing to see him like this.
He lifts it from the box with ridiculous care.
The stone winks, the little leaf-shaped side stones catch and throw the light in quick, happy pulses.
He holds my hand like it’s a contract he wants to read twice, steady and warm, thumb settling in that place between my thumb and wrist where it calms me down without trying.
“Okay?” he says, soft.
I nod, because speech seems ambitious.
He slides it on.
The band settles like it’s been waiting. My finger feels heavier and somehow lighter, the way your chest does after a deep breath you didn’t realize you needed. It fits. It fits.
“Looks right,” he says before he can stop himself, and then he flinches like he’s said too much. “I mean—looks official.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, because I need him to know how much I love it. “Thank you.”
He clears his throat. “I’m just glad you like it.” Then he drops onto the far end of the couch, feet up, phone in hand, scrolling like this is just another Saturday.