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I gave a soft laugh while handing it over. He didn’t waste time unwrapping the cap and taking a swig.
With a long, drawn out, and frankly sexual groan, he leaned back onto the tower of pillows and closed his eyes like things were finally good again.
“Are you an alcoholic?” I asked him honestly. “You’re probably on meds that you shouldn’t mix with too much alcohol.”
“Fuck, you’re worse than your mother,” he drawled, though his lips were curved into a comfortable smile. “Stop being a worrywart and join me.”
Ashton took another pull, then held it out to me.
“You sure?” I asked, taking another step into his room.
It felt weird, and forbidden in an odd sort of way. I was a grown woman, but it still made me feel like a kid, the way his presence filled a room.
“Girl, don’t make me ask again,” he said, wiggling the bottle a little until a small splash of whiskey jumped out the open top and onto his soft blue comforter.
I took one more step until I was standing by the side of his bed, finally catching a glimpse of the old-school show he was watching.
“What’s that?” I asked, taking the bottle while I pointed with my empty hand.
His eyes turned from me to the black and white show, the volume so low you could barely hear it.
“You never watched The Andy Griffith Show?” He raised a brow at me like I was crazy.
“It looks familiar, but let’s be honest, I didn’t exactly grow up watching black and white TV, old man.”
He snorted.
“How old do you think I am? You think I grew up with black and white shows? Everyone knows this show because it’s a classic. Say it with me class-ic.”
I giggled into the mouth of the bottle, taking a second swig.
He wiggled his fingers at me, wanting the bottle back, and I gave it easily.
“You’re what, eighty-three?” I asked, putting on my best innocent face.
“Fuck you.” He snorted a laugh, taking another shot.
I grinned at him and my eyes swooped back over to the show.
“What are they saying?”
He shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. Besides, I didn’t want to wake everyone up just because I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
He shook his head, not meeting my eyes while he took a deep draw from the bottle.
I could respect that he didn’t want to talk about it with me, but I hoped maybe he’d talk to Dad about it. If having spent so much time around military people most of my life taught me anything, it was that there was an abundance of trauma that needed to be worked through, no matter what happened.
“You ok?”
He lifted his brow again, still not meeting my eyes.
“Not your problem, kiddo.”
I prickled at being called kiddo.
