Ashcroft Family Home
 

Edit soon

The backyard had settled into its quieter version of itself—the kind that only arrived once most of the guests had drifted out. Paper plates were stacked near the back door. A sweater had been abandoned over the arm of a chair. Vinyl hummed low from inside the house, something warm and familiar, barely louder than the cicadas.

Cleo stood near the fence, barefoot against the cool concrete, a joint burning slow between her fingers. She wasn’t hiding. She had just chosen a place that didn’t require conversation. She exhaled toward the jasmine, watching the smoke thin and disappear into the string lights above her. Her shoulders loosened. The night felt manageable again.

Inside, Phoebe and Jax had disappeared somewhere down the hallway—voices muffled, laughter fading behind a closed door. The house held them easily. It always did.

Then the rhythm of the evening shifted.

Not louder—just different. Voices redirected. Someone called a name. That subtle recalibration people did when someone arrived late and mattered.

Cleo didn’t turn right away. She didn’t need to.

Ben’s laugh reached the yard before he did—familiar, a little rough around the edges from touring. He greeted Cleo’s uncle first, then her mother, then someone she didn’t recognize. He moved through the space with practiced ease, careful not to dominate it, careful not to seem unsure. It was a version of him Cleo knew well.

She kept her eyes on the fence. On the glow of the ember between her fingers.

It didn’t work.

At some point—she was never sure when—her gaze lifted. And his was already there.

The moment landed between them, quiet but undeniable.

Cleo didn’t look away fast enough. Ben didn’t pretend he hadn’t been waiting.

He finished the conversation he was in, said his goodbyes with the people still lingering, then crossed the yard toward her. His steps were unhurried. Intentional. Like he wasn’t sure what he’d be allowed when he reached her, but willing to find out.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, Cleo lifted her arm slightly and extended the joint toward him, the ember glowing soft in the dark. A casual offering. Familiar. Unceremonious. Her gaze stayed elsewhere—toward the house, toward the light spilling out of the kitchen window—as if this wasn’t something she needed to watch him accept.

Ben stopped in front of her. For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he took it from her fingers.

Their hands brushed—brief, accidental, unavoidable.

He didn’t say her name. He didn’t ask how she was. He didn’t comment on the smoke or the quiet or the fact that they were standing alone in her parents’ backyard like this was something that had always belonged to them.

He took a slow inhale, exhaled toward the dark, and stood beside her instead of in front of her.

The music inside kept playing. The night stayed still. Somewhere in the house, Phoebe laughed again, Jax answering her softly. Life continued in all the ways it always did.

And Cleo let him stay there.

Ben didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t need to.

The joint between his fingers burned steady, the taste familiar enough to anchor him, but it wasn’t the smoke keeping him still—it was her. The slope of her shoulder in the porchlight, the way she kept her gaze just off-center like she didn’t care he was there but hadn’t moved away either.

He watched her in the corner of his vision, tried not to stare. She was barefoot. Of course she was. Hair pulled back like she hadn’t meant to impress anyone tonight, which meant she looked better than half the women he saw on tour who tried too hard. Like always, she looked like home and defiance all at once.

Ben let the silence stretch a little, not because he didn’t have anything to say—but because it felt sacred, this quiet she’d let him into.

He offered the joint back, a sideways motion without pressure, like: if you want it, it’s yours.

And then, softer—low and easy, like the music drifting out of the house—he said, “Didn’t think I’d catch you out here.”

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t even surprised. Just honest.

He shifted his weight, thumb grazing the edge of the filter before letting his arm drop again. His voice stayed casual, but something in it had gone gentler—gravel dipped in honey.

“Thought maybe I’d missed you.”

Another beat passed. Another cicada cry in the distance. Vinyl crackled behind the screen door.

Ben swallowed once. Quiet. Thoughtful.

“I hate that we do that now,” he added, glancing toward the same kitchen window she’d been watching. “Miss each other on purpose.”

His eyes flicked toward her—not heavy, not insistent. Just enough to see if she’d flinch, or fold, or throw one of those emotional grenades she kept stashed behind her ribs. He didn’t brace for it. Not this time. He wasn’t trying to fight her. He was just… here.

Letting her decide what came next.

Cleo took the joint back when he offered it, fingers brushing his just long enough to register and then gone again. She didn’t look at him when she did—kept her eyes on the yard, on the dark stretch of fence like it held something worth studying.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said, finally.

Her voice was calm. Not sharp. Not soft either. Settled somewhere in between, like she’d practiced saying it without letting it tip one way or the other.

She took a small drag, exhaled slowly. The smoke curled between them, thin and unbothered.

“I usually win that bet.”

She shifted her weight, shoulder brushing his arm—not an accident, but not an invitation either. Just enough contact to say she was aware of him. Just enough to remind him she hadn’t moved away.

When he said he thought he’d missed her, something in her posture loosened despite herself. Not much. A fraction. The kind of tell only someone who knew her would catch.

“That’s on you,” she replied, dry but not unkind. “You’re the one who keeps showing up late.”

She finally turned her head then, just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye. His profile. The familiar line of his mouth. The way his voice had softened without him meaning to.

At his last words—Miss each other on purpose—she went still.

Not frozen. Just… quiet.

She lowered the joint, let it burn out against the concrete by her bare foot, the ember dying with a faint hiss. A deliberate choice. One less thing between them.

“I don’t miss you on purpose,” she said. “I just don’t chase you anymore.”

Her gaze lifted to his then, steady and unflinching. Honest in the way she only ever allowed with him.

“That’s different.”

Another beat passed. The music inside shifted to the next track. Someone laughed, distant and unaware.

Cleo leaned in then—not fully, not enough to collapse the space—but enough that her shoulder settled more comfortably against his arm. Familiar. Easy. Something she allowed because she trusted herself to pull back if she needed to.

Her voice dropped, quieter now. Not defensive. Just real.

“I stay where I can breathe,” she added. “If you’re there… great.”

A pause.

“If you’re not, I don’t drown looking for you.”

She held his gaze a second longer than necessary. Not daring him. Just telling him the truth.

And then she looked away again—back toward the house, toward the light—like the decision was still hers to make.

Ben felt it land—not like a blow, not like a rejection either. More like the careful setting down of something fragile between them and trusting it wouldn’t shatter.

He didn’t move away when her shoulder settled against his arm. Didn’t lean in further, either. He stayed exactly where he was, steady as a fence post, like he knew better than to tip the balance she’d just told him she’d fought to earn.

For a second, he watched the spot on the concrete where the joint had gone out. The faint curl of smoke that was already gone. Cleo had always been good at knowing when to let things burn and when to kill the flame.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just… accepting. “I know.”

He finally turned his head enough to look at her properly. Not searching her face for permission. Just taking her in. The calm in her eyes. The way she stood like someone who had learned exactly how much space she needed to survive.

“I never thought you should drown for me,” he added after a beat. His voice stayed low, roughened a little by the night and everything he hadn’t said. “If you ever did… I’d have failed you a long time ago.”

His fingers flexed once at his side, like muscle memory wanting to reach for her and stopping itself in time. He’d learned that too. When to hold back. When love meant restraint instead of possession.

“I won’t lie,” he went on, honest because anything else with her felt useless. “There are days I wake up in some city I can’t pronounce, and I think—yeah. I wish she was still my girl.”

He said it without expectation. Without weight. Just truth laid bare and left there.

Then, softer: “But wanting something doesn’t give me the right to ask you to be smaller for it.”

He let out a breath through his nose, half a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “You always knew how to breathe better than I did.”

The music inside swelled for a moment—something old, something warm—and Ben glanced toward the house before looking back at her.

“I like that you stay where you can breathe,” he said. “And… I like that sometimes that place still has room for me.”

He didn’t ask her to look at him. Didn’t ask her to choose. He stayed beside her, shoulder warm against hers, present without claiming.

Whatever came next—distance, closeness, nothing at all—he’d meet it the same way.

Still here. Still respecting the line she’d drawn. Still caring enough not to cross it.

Cleo listened without interrupting. She always did with him—let the words finish finding their own shape before deciding what to do with them. Her shoulder stayed where it was against his arm, the contact quiet and intentional, like punctuation rather than emphasis.

When he said I know, she breathed out through her nose. A small thing. Relief, maybe. Or just recognition.

She followed his gaze to the dark spot on the concrete, where the joint had burned itself out, and nodded once. Not in agreement. In acknowledgment.

“I learned early,” she said softly, “that letting things keep burning just because they’re familiar doesn’t make you brave. It just makes you tired.”

She didn’t look at him yet. She didn’t need to. His presence was steady enough to orient by.

At I never thought you should drown for me, something in her chest tightened—not painfully, but deeply. She shifted then, just a fraction closer, her upper arm pressing more fully into his, grounding herself in the contact she was choosing.

“I know you didn’t,” she said. “That’s why this is hard. If you’d been careless with me, it would’ve been easier to walk away.”

She finally turned her head then, not fully—just enough to see his jaw, the familiar line of his mouth. Enough to let him know she was here, hearing him.

“When you say that thing about waking up in cities you can’t pronounce…” She paused, searching for the right honesty. “I don’t hate that you think it. I just can’t live inside it.”

Her eyes lifted to his now. Calm. Open. No flinch.

“I don’t need to be your girl to matter to you,” she said. “And I don’t need you to stop wanting me for me to stay standing.”

She watched his hand flex at his side and didn’t reach for it. Didn’t need to. The restraint was its own language, and she spoke it fluently.

“You’re right,” she went on, quieter. “Wanting something doesn’t mean you get to ask it to shrink. And loving you doesn’t mean I should.”

The music inside swelled, familiar and warm, and she smiled—not at the song, not at him. Just… at the truth of it.

“I like that you’re here,” she said. “Like this. No pressure. No promises we can’t keep.”

Another beat. Cicadas. Vinyl crackle.

“And I like that you don’t make me feel guilty for needing air.”

She leaned her head briefly—just briefly—against his shoulder. Not to stay. Not to signal anything beyond what already was.

Then she straightened again, easy, unbothered.

“If there’s room for you,” she added gently, “it’s because you know how to stand in it without taking over.”

She looked back toward the house, toward the light and the life continuing without them.

“That’s not nothing, Ben.”

The music inside dipped, then swelled again, and the back door creaked open just enough to spill warm light across the porch.

Phoebe stepped out first, laughing at something low and private, her fingers already laced with Jax’s. He followed easily, like he always did—close, familiar, unthinking. They paused on the top step, heads tipped together, a picture so settled it almost felt permanent.

Cleo watched them for a second longer than she meant to.

There was no bitterness in it. Just awareness.

She let out a quiet breath and turned back to Ben, one corner of her mouth lifting—not quite a smile, not quite resignation.

“It also makes it harder to hide from you,” she said, nodding her head toward the porch, “when those two are still… well. Yeah.”

She didn’t need to explain it further. The way Phoebe fit so easily into Jax’s side. The way their history refused to untangle itself from hers and Ben’s.

“They mean well,” she added, softer. “They just don’t know how to pretend we don’t exist in each other’s lives.”

Her eyes met his then—steady, a little amused, a little tired.

“And I don’t ask them to.”

She leaned back against the fence this time, creating just a hair more space between her and Ben, not as retreat but as recalibration.

“I tell myself I’m good at distance,” she said. “And I am. Mostly.”

A beat.

“But it’s harder to keep pretending this is accidental,” she admitted. “Harder to act like we just… keep bumping into each other.”

She glanced back once more at Phoebe and Jax, now descending the steps, still hand in hand, still easy.

“They’re proof that staying can work,” Cleo said quietly. “Which means I don’t get to pretend leaving was the only brave choice.”

Her eyes returned to Ben, open and honest.

“It was just the one I needed.”

She didn’t wait for him to fix it or reassure her. She’d already said what mattered.

And then, because she could, because she trusted herself to, she stepped back into the space between them—close again, familiar again, without giving anything away she couldn’t afford.

“Guess we’re not as invisible as we think,” she said, a little lighter now.

Ben let the silence hang for a beat after her last words—not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he did. And it felt like the kind of moment that deserved to breathe before he stepped into it.

His eyes flicked toward the porch, where Phoebe and Jax moved like a single breath, soft and synchronized and unaware of the way they mirrored a version of something Cleo and Ben had once tried to hold. He didn’t envy them. Not exactly. But there was a time when he might’ve reached for Cleo without thinking, the way Jax reached for Phoebe. That reflex had lived in his bones for a while.

Now, it lived in the spaces between them.

He glanced back to Cleo just in time to catch the faint lift at the corner of her mouth, that dry honesty laced with something softer. The way only she could do.

His voice came quiet at first. Measured. Real.

“Well,” he said, “I’d apologize for being the human version of a ghost pepper—unavoidable and a little painful—but I think I’d be lying. I kind of like haunting you.”

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch her reaction out of the corner of his eye. No pressure. Just testing the weight of a smile between them.

“I mean, if bumping into me really was an accident,” he went on, easing into the thread she’d left, “then you’ve got the worst luck of anyone I’ve ever met. Statistically improbable, actually. Might be cursed.”

His hand lifted in a small, joking gesture like whoops, then dropped again to his side.

But his expression softened as he turned more fully toward her. Not playful now—just open.

“I know why you left,” he said, quieter now. “I knew it even then. Doesn’t mean it didn’t wreck me a little. But I didn’t want to be the reason you got small. I just wanted to be close to you.”

A pause.

“I didn’t get both. So I picked the one that didn’t hurt you.”

Ben looked down briefly, like the truth of it still knocked something loose in him, then back up with a faint, self-deprecating breath through his nose.

“And now I’m, like… what? The guy who shows up late, laughs too loud, and doesn’t make you feel guilty for needing air.” He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Honestly, it’s the best character arc I’ve had since I cut my hair.”

That got him a look, and he smiled—not wide, not smug. Just real.

He leaned back slightly against the fence, mirroring her posture, letting the distance settle the way she needed it to. Not as punishment. Just equilibrium.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s accidental,” he said after a beat. “You don’t owe me distance or closeness or anything in between. But if it helps—”

He turned his head, eyes on hers.

“I like seeing you when I’m home. Even if it’s sideways. Even if it’s like this.”

A beat passed. The wind shifted slightly, jasmine and warm air curling between them.

Then, with that crooked edge that always crept in just when things got too serious, he added:

“But I’m putting it on record that if Phoebe ever drags us into a group photo and we’re in the background making intense eye contact, I will deny all involvement and claim it’s just unfortunate timing.”

He gave her a look. One she’d seen a hundred times. One that said yeah, I’m kidding—but also I’m right here.

Ben let the moment settle again, then reached up with a lazy stretch, knocking his shoulder gently against hers.

“Anyway,” he said. “Now that we’ve covered emotional honesty, ghosts, and the statistical impossibility of me not being around—”

He nodded toward the house, where the music had shifted into something breezier.

“You want to go back in? Or should we stand here a little longer and make everyone unreasonably nervous about what we might be talking about?”

His tone was light. But his presence stayed steady.

No pressure. No promises they couldn’t keep.

Just Ben, exactly where she’d left him. And exactly where she’d allowed him to stay.

Cleo listened to him the way she always did when he got like this—when the humor softened into something truer underneath. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t deflect. She let the words land where they landed, even the ones that nudged old places.

At the ghost pepper comment, she let out a quiet huff of a laugh despite herself, eyes dropping to the ground for a second like she was annoyed he’d earned it.

“That’s not an apology,” she said, dry. “That’s a brand strategy.”

She glanced sideways at him then, catching the tilt of his head, the careful way he watched her without pinning her in place.

“And for the record,” she added, “I’m not cursed. I just have a very small tolerance for coincidence.”

When his tone shifted—when the joking peeled back and he said he knew why she left—she stilled. Not guarded. Just present. She absorbed it, shoulders relaxed, hands loose at her sides.

“I know it wrecked you,” she said quietly. No defensiveness. No guilt. Just acknowledgment. “I wouldn’t have stayed as long as I did if it hadn’t mattered.”

Her eyes stayed on his this time. Steady. Unflinching.

“And you didn’t make me small,” she continued. “The world tried to. You just… happened to be standing close when it did.”

At his summary of his current role—the late arrival, the loud laugh, the no-guilt-for-breathing—she smiled then. Really smiled. Small, but genuine.

“It’s a solid arc,” she said. “You’re more likable in this season. Less hair, more self-awareness.”

She shifted against the fence, mirroring him without thinking about it, the way bodies remember each other before minds do.

When he said she didn’t have to pretend it was accidental, something in her softened. Not collapsed—softened. Like a knot loosening, not unraveling.

“I don’t,” she said. “Pretend, I mean.”

She looked past him for a second, toward the dark stretch of yard, then back.

“I just don’t plan it either. I let it happen when it does. That’s how I know I’m not forcing anything.”

At the group photo comment, she snorted—actually snorted—and shook her head.

“Oh, Phoebe absolutely would,” she said. “And then she’d tag it something infuriatingly vague. Like family night.”

She bumped her shoulder back into his when he knocked into hers, light and easy, an answer rather than an escalation.

When he asked about going back inside, she considered it. Really did. Her gaze tracked to the house, the light, the music, the silhouettes moving behind the curtains.

Then she looked back at him.

“Let’s stand here a little longer,” she said. “I like the idea of making people uncomfortable for reasons they can’t confirm.”

A pause. A breath.

“And,” she added, quieter, “I like you like this. Here. Not asking for more than I’m offering.”

She tipped her head, the faintest tease returning.

“Besides,” she said, “if we go back in now, someone’s going to hand us a drink and expect us to socialize like normal adults. And that feels… ambitious.”

She stayed where she was. Shoulder warm against his. Space intact.

Still choosing.

Ben watched her the way you watch something you don’t want to startle—still, attentive, letting her set the pace without even meaning to. He felt the laugh before he heard it, that quiet huff she tried to pretend wasn’t one, and it tugged at something familiar in his chest.

At brand strategy, his mouth tipped up.

“Hey,” he said mildly, “if I’m gonna be emotionally vulnerable, I might as well monetize it.” A beat. “Ghost Pepper Ben. Very niche. Loyal fanbase. Limited merch.”

He glanced down when she did, then back up, eyes warm with the kind of amusement that didn’t need to win. When she said she wasn’t cursed, just intolerant of coincidence, he nodded like she’d confirmed a long-standing theory.

“Yeah, that tracks,” he said. “You’ve always been allergic to bullshit. Coincidence-adjacent bullshit included.”

But when she acknowledged that it wrecked him—said it without apology, without softness meant to cushion the truth—he went quiet again. Not withdrawn. Just present enough to let it matter.

“Fair,” he said after a moment. “I don’t need it rewritten. Just… named.”

Her words about the world trying to make her small landed deeper than he let show. He shifted slightly, shoulder still touching hers, grounding himself in the fact that she was here and steady and not folding in on herself for anyone anymore.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “The world’s got a real talent for that.”

At her comment about his arc—less hair, more self-awareness—he laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“Careful,” he said. “Compliment me like that and I’ll start thinking growth is permanent.”

He mirrored her against the fence without realizing it until they were already aligned, the familiarity of it sneaking up on him like muscle memory. When she said she didn’t pretend, didn’t plan it either—just let it happen—he nodded once, slow.

“That’s probably the healthiest thing I’ve heard all week,” he said. “Don’t tell my therapist. I pay her too much to feel replaceable.”

Her snort at Phoebe’s hypothetical caption got a real grin out of him, crooked and fond.

“‘Family night,’” he echoed. “Yeah. That tracks. Maximum chaos, zero clarification.”

When she bumped his shoulder back, he let it happen—didn’t exaggerate it, didn’t pull away. Just accepted it like punctuation, exactly as she’d meant it.

At her choice to stay out here, to linger in the unconfirmed, he exhaled slowly, like the decision settled something in him too.

“Good,” he said. “Because I was about three minutes away from pretending I had to take a very important call from my dog.”
A beat, dry. “And I don’t even have a dog.”

He glanced toward the house, then back to her, voice lowering just a notch—not heavier, just truer.

“And yeah,” he added, “I like me like this too. Standing where I’m allowed. Not trying to turn the room into something it’s not.”

He leaned his head back against the fence, eyes tipping up toward the string lights, the cicadas, the quiet that felt earned.

“And you’re right,” he went on lightly. “Going back in means drinks, eye contact, and someone asking what I’ve been up to lately like that’s a simple question.”

A beat.

“So we’ll stay here,” he said. “Be suspicious. Vaguely unresolved. A real gift to the rumor mill.”

He didn’t look at her when he finished, but his shoulder stayed warm against hers, easy and deliberate.

Still here.

Still not asking.

Still exactly where she’d chosen to let him stand.

Her mouth gave him away before she did—a faint curve, the kind she never meant to show and never quite managed to hide. When she spoke, it was measured. Soft, but present. The way she sounded when she wasn’t bracing for impact.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “You’d lean into it. You’d pretend it was ironic and then act surprised when people took it seriously.”

She glanced down as she said it, watching the smoke curl, the humor easing something tight in her chest. It felt good to let herself tease him without guarding the edges.

A beat.

“And you’d complain about the merch quality while secretly being proud it sold out.”

At the bullshit comment, she nodded once—slow, deliberate. That particular truth had followed her most of her life, and she’d stopped apologizing for it a long time ago.

“It’s less an allergy,” she said, “more a long-term intolerance. Repeated exposure makes me tired.”

When he said he didn’t need it rewritten—just named—her expression stilled. The humor slipped away, replaced by something quieter and more careful. Naming things had always been her way of surviving them.

“I named it,” she replied quietly. “I just didn’t announce it. There’s a difference.”

She stayed where she was when his shoulder shifted, didn’t close the space or widen it. Let the contact mean exactly what it meant. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“The world’s loud,” she added. “It confuses volume for value.”

At the growth comment, she exhaled a small laugh—not dismissive, not indulgent. Just honest.

“Growth isn’t permanent,” she said. “But awareness helps. You’re… better at stopping yourself now.”

When he joked about his therapist, she finally turned fully toward him. Her eyes were warm, but clear—no illusions, no softness meant to blur the truth.

“I won’t tell,” she said. “But for what it’s worth, she’s not replaceable. You just had a moment of accidental insight.”

“She’d do it on purpose,” Cleo said. “And then act innocent when everyone asked questions.”

She didn’t comment when he accepted the shoulder bump—didn’t draw attention to it or retreat from it. Let it exist the way some things only could when they weren’t named.

When he mentioned the dog, her lips pressed together, fighting a smile.

“You should get one,” she said. “You’d be very good at overthinking walks.”

At his quieter admission—liking himself like this—something in her softened. Not the kind of soft that collapsed. The kind that allowed.

“I like you like this too,” she said. “It feels… honest. Contained.”

She followed his gaze to the string lights overhead, the cicadas, the quiet that felt earned. Then she looked back at him, steady.

“And you’re right,” she added. “That question isn’t simple. It never is.”

At his suggestion to stay—suspicious, unresolved—she let out a slow breath, the kind that meant she was choosing the moment instead of enduring it.

“Okay,” she said. “We can stay.”

A pause. The air settled.

“But if the rumor mill spins this into something dramatic,” she added lightly, the corner of her mouth lifting again, “I’m blaming you. You’re the recognizable one.”

She stayed where she was. Shoulder warm against his.

Cleo glanced down toward the concrete, then bent to retrieve the joint where it had gone out. She rolled it once between her fingers, already reaching into her pocket for the lighter.

The flame flared. She relit it, brought it to her mouth, and inhaled—slow, practiced, grounding. The smoke settled her shoulders as she leaned back against the fence again, eyes half-lidding as she exhaled to the side.

She held it there for a beat longer than necessary, then frowned faintly at the dry pull in her throat.

“…I am eventually going to need a drink, aren’t I?” she said, mildly annoyed, more at her own body than the situation.

She glanced at the joint, then at him, and gave a small, resigned huff.

“Cotton mouth,” she added. “Ruins every attempt at mystery.”

She tipped the joint toward him, unlit ember glowing again, the night still holding.

Cleo took another small drag, slower this time, like she was pacing herself on purpose. She exhaled toward the yard, then tipped her head back against the fence, eyes tracking the string lights overhead for a second before they drifted back to him.

“So,” she said, casual enough to pass if you didn’t know her. Which he did. “How’s the tour?”

She didn’t look at him right away when she asked it. That was the tell.

Her mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile—more like she already knew the answer and was bracing for the version of it he’d choose to give her.

“Big rooms,” she went on lightly, tapping ash from the joint. “Loud crowds. I’m assuming everyone’s very… enthusiastic.”

She finally glanced over then, eyes steady, open. No accusation in them. No edge. Just something careful and real.

It wasn’t curiosity for curiosity’s sake. It was familiarity. Knowledge. She knew what the lights did to him. She knew how easily attention blurred into obligation, how being wanted by too many people could hollow something out instead of filling it.

“Are you okay out there?” she asked, softer now. Truer.

The question carried everything she didn’t say—that she still noticed when his shoulders tightened, that she still clocked the difference between applause and connection, that she understood how exhausting it was to be desired in ways that never quite landed where they were meant to.

She didn’t need to ask about the women. About the hands, the looks, the assumptions. She already knew that part.

What she wanted to know was whether he still came back to himself when the night ended. Whether the noise left him space to breathe.

She held the joint out toward him again, an easy gesture, a familiar one.

Not prying.
Not claiming.

Just caring—quietly, deliberately—because she still did.