“I heard you,” I manage, “and I’m ignoring you.”
“No,” he says, soft and sure, “you’refeelingit.”
“Rafe,” I mutter, fighting a smile that refuses to die, “I mean it.Stop.”
He taps his knuckle lightly against my knee, and I canfeelhim winding up. He’s ready to really go for it, the line that’ll finish me. So I beat him to it. I turn, fully. Knees brushing, face angled toward him. I look him dead in the eyes.
“Your dimple comes out when you think you’ve won.”
He blinks. “What dimple?”
“That one.” I point to it, the faint crease breaking through his cheek. “I notice every time it happens.”
He goes absolutely still, caught mid-breath.
“Your eyes…” I tilt my head, studying him the way I’d study a fundus photo. “Those gold flecks were the first thing I noticed when you signed my CD. Sixteen years old, hovering like an idiot, and there they were.”
He swallows, no comeback anywhere in sight.
“They were the same in my exam room,” I add softly. “Same warmth. Same… softness you pretend isn’t there.”
A stunned, betrayed little inhale leaves him.
I lean back, victorious. “You were saying something?”
“What—what, no?” he mutters, flustered beyond repair.
I grin, slow and satisfied. “Who’s blushing now, Ashton?”
He lifts a hand to his cheek like he can physically catch the heat spreading there.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
I laugh, loud, helpless and he drops his face into his hands, shaking his head.
“Unfair,” he groans through his fingers. “That was unfair.”
I nudge his shoulder. “You started it.”
He peeks out, completely undone. “Do it again.”
“Not a chance.”
He groans and sinks back into the chair, but he’s smiling, brighter than the porch light. I can see it, that little chest rise, the breath he can’t quite get under control. Now he’s the one trying to recover and I don’t even pretend I’m not pleased about it.
Inside, the cabin feels smaller with the door closed, the silence almost too complete. He finds another bottle tucked away, soju this time and lifts it triumphantly like a small treasure.
“Didn’t think I still had this,” he says. “Guess I’m more prepared for emergencies than I thought.”
“Emergency being what?” I ask, watching him rummage for shot glasses.
“Existential dread, artistic crisis, general insomnia.” He grins. “You?”
“Endless charting,” I say. “And people who thinkGoogleis a medical degree.” I turn towards him, “We’re going to end up alcoholics at this rate,” I say.
He leans against the counter, eyes glinting. “Maybe, at least we'll be—is it a depressant? Or a stimulant? I forget.”
“Depressant,” I answer automatically. “Shocking that I know more about drugs than you do.”
