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There it was.

The question I had avoided in Vegas because answering it meant admitting that whatever existed between us had already gone far beyond sex. It was also the question that should have required a truth I still hadn't given him, because how could I ask Ash to choose this—to choose me—when he didn't even know what I was?

For one reckless second, I wanted to tell him everything.

Instead, I stood there trying to find an answer that wasn't another lie.

“I’m trying not to run.”

Ash went completely still.

I kept going because stopping would have been easier, and I was beginning to think easy choices were what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

“I don't know what this looks like next week, and I don't know how to make promises I'm not sure I know how to keep yet. There are things I still need to tell you, and I know that's not fair when I'm standing here asking you to trust me, but I also know what I've been doing hasn't worked. I spent weeks trying to make you believe I didn't want you because I thought that would keep everything simple, and all it did was hurt both of us.”

Ash swallowed before asking, “So what changes?”

“I stop doing that.”

His gaze searched mine. “Does that mean no more women?”

The question was quiet enough to nearly break something in me.

“It means no more anyone else.”

A little of the tension around his mouth eased. “You sure? Because Keegan’s very pretty.”

Despite everything, I almost smiled. “Drake would kill me, and Keegan would talk during sex.”

Ash's mouth twitched. “He absolutely would.”

“For the entire time, and he'd probably provide commentary.”

“Followed by a performance review.”

“That too.”

Ash laughed again, quieter than before but real, and some of the pressure in the room eased with the sound. I moved the final step between us and touched his face, slowly enough to give him every opportunity to pull away.

He didn't.

My thumb brushed along the edge of his jaw, and his eyes closed for just a second.

“I’m trying.”

When he opened them again, some of the fear had gone. “I can work with trying.”

I kissed him.

It wasn't Vegas.

There was no desperation, no anger, and no collision of years of wanting and denial. This kiss was slower and somehow more frightening because there was no crisis to blame it on. Ash rested one hand against my chest, not pulling me closer at first, simply leaving it there as though he needed to feel that I was real.

When I drew back, he stayed exactly where he was.

We ended up back on the couch with a hockey game neither of us cared about playing quietly on television while Ash stretched his legs across my lap and argued with me about whether a call had been interference. At some point I got up and found ice cream in the freezer, and he mocked me for owning exactly one spoon that wasn't part of some expensive matching set Marguerite had bought me for Christmas.

He found the baking show by accident while scrolling through the recordings, and the moment the title appeared on the screen, I knew I was in trouble.