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.”
