That’s the kind of person he is.
I shake the thought off with a soft smile and head into the kitchen, Cryptid trailing behind me with determined little steps.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, grabbing a can from the cabinet. “You’d think I never feed you.”
I crack the can open and scoop the soft food into his bowl. The moment it hits the dish, he starts digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days. I crouch beside him, running a hand gently down his bony back, feeling the soft rumble of his purr vibrate beneath my palm.
I stay crouched there for a moment, listening to the steady sound of him eating, before pushing back to my feet.
The bitter smell of grounds fills my nose as I scoop them into the filter. I grab the coffee pot, fill it at the sink, and switch on the machine. The familiar gurgle settles something in me as the coffee begins to drip, dark brown and rich.
When it’s finished, I pour two mugs, the steam curling up into the air, and head back toward the bedroom.
Ashton’s still exactly where I left him—sprawled across the bed, half-buried in the blankets, hair even messier now. He squints at me as I walk in, one eye cracking open.
“Coffee?” he rasps.
I nod, pressing the warm mug into his awaiting hands.
He takes it with a soft hum, immediately lifting it to his lips.
I climb back into bed beside him, settling against the headboard. The mattress dips under my weight, and Ashton shifts closer on instinct, his shoulder bumping mine as he takes a slow sip.
I glance over at him. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
“Mm,” he hums, dragging a hand through his wrecked hair. “Barn’s gonna look good.”
“It already does,” I say, nodding toward the window. “Especially with the orchard blooming like that.”
Staring at the blossoms that extend to the horizon, I see the promise of harvest and the long, grueling months of work ahead.
Cherry season always brings a different kind of pressure into Ashton’s life, but over the past couple of years, he’s learned to loosen his grip on the things he can’t control. Therapy’s helped his anxiety more than I ever could’ve imagined—and the new medication too. I couldn’t be prouder of him.
Ashton nods faintly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Weather’s on our side too. No rain. That’s a miracle.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
He snorts softly into his mug.
I take another sip, letting the warmth settle in my chest. “You nervous?”
He tilts his head, considering. “A little,” he admits. “We’ve done weddings before, but…” He trails off, shrugging.
“But this one’s different,” I finish.
He nods.
Two summers ago, when Mason Burke was in town visiting his sister, Ashton finally met up with him and explained what happened that day at the farmers market. He told him it hadn’t been personal—that the way he’d acted had everything to do with his own fear. Seeing Mason so open, so unapologetically himself with his boyfriend, had caught him off guard. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but because Ashton hadn’t known how to be that brave yet. And it scared the hell out of him.
Mason told Ashton he understood—more than he probably realized. That there’d been a time, not that long ago, when he would’ve done the same thing. When fear made him sharp around the edges too. They let it go after that. Started over. And they’ve been friends ever since.
And now, Mason wants Ashton to host his wedding.
For some reason, it feels bigger. Not more important than any other wedding we’ve hosted, just… heavier. Like there’s more riding on it. More pressure to get everything exactly right.
When Mason and Hunter first toured the barn, they fell in love with it immediately. I remember Hunter—who’s a botanist—absolutely lighting up the second he saw the orchard, launching into an excited ramble with Ashton about the cherry trees. The two of them went back and forth about pollination and plant diseases like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Mason didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to pull him away or smother his sparkle. He just stood there and watched Hunter with this soft, awed kind of smile.
