Chapter 7 - OLIVE #2
Like he didn’t just take care of me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. Like he didn’t pick the exact ring I would have chosen myself—because somehow, he knows me that well.
And the worst part? He’s not even trying.
He doesn’t see this as romantic. Or complicated. He’s just taking care of a friend, I remind myself.
***
That same evening I feel a million times better and suddenly realize I’m ravenous. It’s sometime after midnight when I shuffle into the kitchen, barefoot, craving water and something carb-heavy and delicious.
The house is quiet—resting in that strange, sacred silence where every sound feels ten times louder.
I’m too tired to be fancy, so I go straight for white bread, mayo, and a haphazard stack of cheese and turkey slices that would make Margot cry. I don’t even bother with a plate. Just slap it together, lean on the counter, and take a massive bite like a raccoon who’s lost all shame.
It’s glorious.
I’m halfway through when I hear footsteps.
I turn around, mouth full, only to find Ash standing in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up.
He looks… off. Pale. Uneasy. His jaw’s tight. Shoulders tense. Not his usual cocky, I-own-this-room posture.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey,” he answers, voice gravelly. A flicker of something raw crosses his face—just for a second—before he smooths it away.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, swallowing fast and trying to wipe mayo off my chin like a functioning adult.
He hesitates. Then shakes his head. “Bad dream.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. It’s quiet. But not casual.
I fill a glass, then lean against the counter across from him. “You okay?”.
He just shakes his head.
My sandwich suddenly feels less important.
“You want to sit?” I nod toward the couch.
He hesitates—just for a beat—then follows me into the living room.
We settle into opposite ends. I tuck my legs beneath me, clutching what’s left of my sandwich. Ash leans back, head tipped against the cushions, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s not quite ready to come back down from wherever his mind went.
“I used to get them all the time,” he says quietly. “But they’ve been coming back lately. Louder.”
I nod, chewing slower. “What kind of dream was it?”
He swallows. Then shifts forward, elbows on knees, hands dangling between them.
“It was two years ago. Dublin. Sold-out show, high security. Everything felt normal.” His voice is too steady. Like it’s been sanded down.
“I’d just finished the set. I was in the green room alone. Changing my shirt. One minute I was pulling it over my head, the next—he was there.”
He glances at me. His knuckles are white against his knees.
“Some guy. Massive. Early twenties. Said he bribed a crew member to get in. Called himself my number one fan.”
A chill races down my spine.
“I tried to play it cool. Said we couldn’t hang, offered him a signed poster just to get him out. But he didn’t want that. He wanted… something else.”
“What did he do?” I ask, barely breathing.
Ash swallows. “He started ranting. Said I’d ‘abandoned him.’ That my music saved his life, so I owed him. Screamed that I wasn’t who I used to be, that I was fake now. When I told him to leave, he snapped.”
Ash’s voice drops to a whisper.
“He grabbed me by the throat.”
My whole body goes rigid.
“Slammed me back into the wall. I hit my head. Everything rang. He had a bottle—shattered it against the counter. Held the neck like a knife.”
I cover my mouth.
“Security burst in maybe twenty seconds later. Tackled him hard. I was bleeding. Not badly, but enough to scare the label. They cleaned it up. Buried it. Told me never to mention it again.”
He shakes his head. “You should’ve seen the statement they wrote. ‘An overenthusiastic fan breached backstage protocol.’ Like it was a scheduling error. Not a guy who tried to carve my face for being ‘too commercial.’”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear lands on my hand.
“Ash…”
“I still feel it,” he says quietly. “His hand on my throat. The sound of the glass. That split-second where I thought—this is it. This is how I die.”
I set my sandwich down and shift closer.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat.
Then, quietly, “I hate that it still messes with my head.”
“It doesn’t make you broken,” I whisper. “It makes you human.”
He finally looks at me, and it hits me like a wave—how tired he is. Not just physically, but underneath. Like he’s been carrying this for too long, too quietly.
I reach out and rest my hand over his.
He flinches at first—just a breath—but then his fingers settle under mine.
He turns to me then. His eyes look different now. Raw. Wide open.
“I didn’t want to tell anyone,” he says. “But tonight… I just needed someone to know.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
He leans back against the cushions, eyes closing.
I don’t know how long we sit there—just the two of us, wrapped in silence, his hand in mine like a lifeline.
Ash hasn’t said another word since he told me. But his body speaks plenty.
When I shift the tiniest bit, he follows—leaning in, like the gravity between us has changed.
And when I move my hand to his chest, gentle and slow, just to rest it over his heart, he exhales for the first time in what feels like forever.
Then, without a word, he moves with me.
We lie down together on the couch—awkwardly at first, limbs tangling, the leather creaking beneath us—but then he settles. Wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in close.
Closer than I expected.
His head rests just above mine, chin near my hair. His breath is warm against the top of my head. And his hold on me is steady. Strong.
Not crushing. But… intentional.
Like he needs this. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, something inside him might unravel completely. So I let him hold me.
My eyes start to drift closed.
I should pull away. I should move. Say something light to break the tension.
But I don’t want to.
I like the way he holds me. Like I matter.
And somewhere between his soft breath and the quiet hum of the night, I feel sleep pulling me under.
***
Morning light is stretching through the curtains in soft golden stripes, warming the edges of the room. I blink awake to the feeling of warmth. Solid. Heavy. Comforting.
And male.
Ash’s arm is around me. We’re spooning. Fully clothed. But very, very close.
His breath brushes the back of my neck in slow, steady exhales. One of his hands is splayed low over my stomach, and my entire body is tense—not from discomfort, but from awareness.
And then I feel it.
Oh.
Oh no.
He has a hard-on. A very real, very unmistakable boner pressed up behind me.
My breath catches.
I don’t move. I can’t move.
Because the worst part isn’t that he’s hard—that’s just biology, right? It’s that I like it. The press of him. The heat. The way his body instinctively curves around mine, protective and possessive in a way that makes my insides melt.
For one wild second, I imagine turning in his arms. Kissing him awake. Letting the whole thing spiral into something real.
But I shove the thought down—hard.
He’s gay. Not into me.
I close my eyes again and try to ignore the way my skin is buzzing.
Get it together, Hart.
You don’t get to want this. You don’t get to imagine what it would feel like if he kissed you awake and whispered your name like it meant something.
This is fake.
And this—whatever this is—is just a sleepy accident.