Asher didn’t answer right away.

He could’ve.

Could’ve cracked a joke—something low-risk and deflective. Could’ve smirked, leaned into the charm everyone expected, fed her back something easy like bonfires and backseat makeouts and being just reckless enough to remember in the morning.

But she hadn’t asked for that.

Not really.

She was giving him the kind of moment that didn’t come with a safety net. And Asher Cole, for all his golden-boy armor, knew better than to treat it like a game.

So he didn’t look at her when he answered.

Just watched the fire. Felt the heat on his skin. Let her words echo a few more seconds before he spoke into them.

“My definition?” he said, quiet, like he was still tasting it.

A breath.

Then:

“It’s not the parties. Or the noise. Or the high school shit people cling to like it means something.”

He shifted his weight, knocked the toe of his shoe lightly against the dirt.

“It’s that feeling when everything slows down for a minute and you’re not pretending.”

His voice stayed low. Honest. A little surprised by itself.

“When you’re not trying to be the version of yourself everyone already decided on. Not the athlete. Not the ex. Not the guy who’s always fine.”

He finally turned his head.

Looked at her.

Not to read her. Just to see her.

“And not the girl who walks like a warning.”

That part came softer. Not a jab. Not a dig. Just a truth.

“You let people think they’ve got you figured out. That you don’t need anyone. That they wouldn’t survive the fire if they got too close.”

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t try to make it sweet.

“But I think the real version of you—the one that lets someone sit here and breathe beside her without burning for it?”

He tilted his head, eyes still on hers.

“That version’s the kind of fun I don’t wanna mess up.”

A pause.

Then, lighter—just enough to break the weight:

“So yeah. My definition? Sitting still. Talking real shit. Getting your beer without a death threat attached.”

A grin ghosted at the corner of his mouth. Quiet. Careful.

“I’d say we’re doing alright so far.”

He nudged her shoulder with his.

Gentle. Warm.

No pressure.

Just a little reminder that he was still there.

Still choosing to be.

And maybe—if she kept letting him—he’d stay a little longer than she expected.

She felt it again—
that thing he did.
The way he said something too real and then softened the landing just enough to make it bearable.

He didn’t reach for her.
Didn’t try to score points or kiss away the quiet.

Just saw her.
Said the things no one dared to.

Josie kept her gaze fixed on the fire.
Sharp-edged. Silent.
But her grip on the cup eased.

The words hit harder than she liked.
Because yeah, maybe she did walk like a warning.
Maybe that was the whole damn point.
But he wasn’t running.

And that?
That was dangerous.

So she cleared her throat once—quick, light.
Like she could cough the feeling out.
Like she was ready to call off the deep end before she started swimming in it.

Then she looked at him.

Not long.
Just enough.

Just a glance.
Just a flicker.
Just a hint of something like reluctant affection slipping past her ribs before she could catch it.

“Truth or dare, Cole?”

The smirk that followed was effortless.
But the flicker behind it?
That wasn’t armor.

That was her letting him back in—
on her terms.
In her language.
With her kind of fun.

Because Rick told her to let loose.
And this wasn’t it. Not yet.
Not fully.

But it was a start.

And if anyone could handle her kind of chaos without burning out?

It was the boy who saw her and didn’t flinch.

She tipped her head, letting the firelight catch on the sharp line of her jaw.

“You game or what?”

Asher’s lips parted into a grin, slow and crooked—like it was pulling itself from somewhere deeper than his usual charm.

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t crack wise.

Just let the heat of her voice settle into his spine, right where the tension had lived all night.

Truth or dare.

Josie Rhodes was letting him back in—on her terms. That smirk of hers wasn’t a weapon this time. It was an invitation, thinly veiled as a challenge. And God help him, Asher had never wanted to say yes to something more in his life.

He leaned his shoulder a little closer to hers, not brushing—just hovering.

Right there.

Letting her feel the answer before he gave it voice.

“I’m game,” he said, tone low but steady, eyes flicking to hers like he already knew this wasn’t just a question. “Always am.”

He let the beat stretch—long enough to make it count, short enough not to scare her off.

Then, with a grin that didn’t ask for anything it wouldn’t give back, he added:

“But if you’re asking, you go first.”

And this time?

He didn’t hide the flicker of intrigue in his voice.

Didn’t try to sound casual.

Because this wasn’t just banter anymore.

This was her cracking the door—and him, choosing to walk through.

Josie tipped her head back, just a little. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just loose.
The kind of movement that came when something inside you started to finally… unclench.

The beer was settling in now—softening her edges, loosening the grip she kept around her ribs.
Not enough to dull her.
Just enough to let her live a little.

Asher’s voice still buzzed faint in her chest, somewhere just below the collarbone.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t fold.
Didn’t play it safe.

He let her be the one to call the shot.
And then handed her the match.

So yeah—maybe she was still watching him out of the corner of her eye, still ready to shut this whole thing down if he made a wrong move.

But he hadn’t.

Not once.

And whether she liked it or not, he’d earned something tonight.

Her lips curled slow as she leaned back against the truck, spine hitting the cool metal, chin tilting toward him with the kind of ease she usually kept locked behind lock and key.

“Dare.”

It came out smooth. Solid.

Not a whisper. Not a bluff.

Just her.

Willing.

Her eyes caught his in the firelight, and there it was again—that spark that wasn’t all defense anymore.

She took a lazy sip of her beer, then arched a brow, voice dipping into something low and dry.

“Make it interesting.”

And beneath the smirk, the steel, the flirt—there was something warmer.

Because Josie Rhodes didn’t do cute.
She didn’t do safe.
She didn’t do stay.

But for now?
Here, beside this boy who didn’t try to tame her—who just sat there steady and didn’t run?

She could let herself play.

Not as armor.

But as choice.

As something that almost felt like… fun.

Asher let out the softest breath—more of a laugh, really—but low, under his breath. Like it had surprised him how much that word from her lips could hit like a punch to the gut and a pull to the chest all at once.

Dare.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way she said it. The ease. The challenge. The fact that she gave him the wheel and trusted him not to crash.

His knee bumped lightly against hers, intentional but casual, grounding himself. Testing the charge in the air between them. Yep. Still there.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, not cocky, not teasing—just honest. He watched her for a second, really watched her. The smirk, the tilt of her jaw, the way she held her beer like she wasn’t sure whether to sip or chuck it at someone’s head.

She was calm, but not unarmed. And he respected the hell out of that.

“Alright,” he said, leaning in just enough to lower his voice—just enough so only she would hear. “I dare you…”

His grin flickered, sharp but curious.

“…to tell me the last time you actually had fun. Real fun. Not chaos. Not adrenaline. Not ‘almost died but it made for a good story’ fun.”

A pause.

Then, with a little shrug:

“Just… joy.”

He didn’t pull back.

Didn’t soften the blow.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want a performance from her. He didn’t need the version of Josie Rhodes the town thought they knew.

He wanted the real thing.

Even if it came jagged.

Even if she hated him for asking.

And yeah, maybe it wasn’t the kind of dare she expected—but that was the point.

Because Asher Cole wasn’t here to play it safe.

He was here because she was.

And that was more than enough.

Josie stared at him.

Flat.
Dry.
Unblinking.

Like maybe she was reconsidering every single life choice that led her to this exact moment on this exact night beside this exact boy with the gall to hand her a loaded question and call it a game.

“That wasn’t a dare,” she said finally, voice low and even, but her brow arched with razor precision. “That was a truth dressed up like a dare.”

She took a sip of her beer. Didn’t look at him.

“That’s cheating.”

But she didn’t shut him down.

Didn’t shove him away or laugh it off or throw the cup at his chest with a scoff and a try again, golden boy.

She just let the silence roll in—long and flickering, filled with fire crackles and distant party noise and the sharp ache of memories she usually kept buried too deep to reach.

Because the thing was?

He wasn’t wrong.

She didn’t remember the last time someone asked a question like that and meant it.
Didn’t remember the last time she didn’t dodge it.

Her mouth pulled into something almost like a smirk. But it faded before it got comfortable.

“The last time?” she said finally, her voice quieter now. Not soft. Not raw. Just… honest.

“I was a kid.”

She blinked slowly, eyes on the flames, her shoulders settling just enough for it to be noticeable if you were watching—if you were him.

“We were living out of a motel in Nevada. One of those roadside ones with the fake brick walls and a vending machine that ate your change.”

A dry little laugh slipped out. She shook her head.

“But my mom got it in her head that we were gonna have a picnic. She dragged the motel comforter outside, laid it down right next to the pool with no water in it. Said we were somewhere fancy.”

Her thumb rubbed against the rim of her cup.

“She split a gas station sandwich and a can of Sprite like it was some gourmet setup. I had a disposable camera and took pictures of the sky like it was the most beautiful place I’d ever been.”

Her jaw clenched lightly. Not with anger. Just memory.

“And for maybe twenty minutes, I forgot we didn’t have anywhere to go next. I forgot the car was breaking down, and the rent was overdue, and she was already halfway out the door in her head.”

She swallowed, then finally glanced sideways at him. Not sharp. Not defensive.

Just Josie.

Stripped of the static.

“I really believed… for that minute… we were a happy little family.”

She didn’t let the silence stretch too long this time.

Turned her gaze back to the fire, lifted her cup again, voice back in her usual register.

“So congrats,” she muttered, dry again. “You got your truth, cheater.”

But there was no venom in it.
No heat.

Just a quiet edge of tired affection she didn’t mean to let through.

Because somehow, Asher Cole had earned that piece of her past—and for once?

She didn’t regret handing it over.

Asher didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe right for a second.

Because—damn.

He hadn’t expected her to actually answer. Not like that. Not with something that felt like it had teeth and history and sunlight baked into the edges.

He was expecting… maybe a sarcastic jab, a brush-off, another wall.

But what she gave him?

It was a window.

One so clear and startling he didn’t dare interrupt it.

So he just sat there, beer warm in his hand, watching her speak like she didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

And when she finished—when she called him a cheater with that quiet, exhausted affection that hit harder than any insult ever could—he finally let out a slow breath and looked at her.

Not like a boy with a crush.

Not like a guy trying to get laid.

Like someone who saw the weight of what she’d carried, and respected the hell out of her for still standing.

“…That’s a good answer,” he said, voice low, steady.

No teasing now.

No grin.

Just real.

And then—because the ache in her story hadn’t quite let go of his chest yet—he added:

“I think about stuff like that too sometimes. Those weird, almost perfect moments that shouldn’t have been. Where everything was kinda broken, but for some reason, you weren’t.”

He nudged her foot lightly with his.

“Not cheating, by the way,” he said, a little smile finally creeping in. “Just playing the long game.”

And then, after a beat:

“Thanks for telling me.”

He didn’t push it.

Didn’t ask more.

Just looked at her for a long moment—really looked—then tipped his head toward her with mock solemnity.

“Alright, Rhodes. Truth or dare?”

He smiled wider now. Easier. The firelight catching in his eyes.

“But if you pick truth, I am gonna cheat again.”

And this time, he was trying to make her smile.

Josie didn’t smile.

Not right away.

But her lips did twitch—just once, just enough—for him to know he’d landed the hit. That warm, ridiculous kind of hit that made her want to roll her eyes and lean closer all at once.

He called her Rhodes.
Said thanks like it meant something.
And didn’t flinch when she handed him a ghost wrapped in motel-sheet memories.

Dumbass.

Her beer sloshed a little in her cup as she shifted her weight, resting one boot against the front tire, gaze still pinned to the fire like it was holding the line steady for both of them.

“You don’t get to ask,” she said eventually, the words low and dry but laced with something lighter now. “It’s still my turn.”

She didn’t correct him for the truth/dare mix-up.

Didn’t call him out for talking too much or for getting too close.

Because truth was?

She didn’t mind.

She liked his voice when it wasn’t trying so hard.
Liked the quiet kind of reverence that sat in his chest when he listened.
Liked him, maybe, in that cautious, suspicious way that wild things sometimes circle firelight before settling in.

She tilted her head just enough to catch him in her peripheral.

“You dared me to get real,” she said, tapping her cup lightly against her thigh. “So here’s one back.”

She looked at him now—full on.

Not soft.

Not smirking.

Just steady.

“I dare you to take that dumb grin and march over there—” she pointed lazily toward the tailgate speakers and the rickety ring of partiers still howling at some drinking game gone feral— “and steal the aux cord.”

Her eyes gleamed. Not mean. Just dangerous enough to be fun.

“Put on a song that makes everyone stop and stare. I don’t care if it’s embarrassing or dramatic or makes them think you’ve lost your mind.”

A sip of beer. A casual shrug.

“But it has to be one you actually like. One that feels like you.”

Her tone didn’t dare him to impress anyone.

It dared him to be someone.

And maybe the beer was kicking in, or maybe the trust was—
but Josie Rhodes was enjoying herself now.

And for the first time in too damn long?

She wanted to see what someone like him did when no one told him who to be.

Asher stared at her like she’d just lobbed a live grenade in his lap and dared him not to flinch.

God, she was good.

Not just quick—with her mouth, with her timing—but precise. She didn’t throw punches for fun. She threw them to land. And this one?

It landed.

Because this wasn’t just a dare.

It was a challenge.

Not to be cool. Not to win.

But to be honest.

To rip off the varsity-jacket charm, the golden-boy grin, and put something down that actually meant something. Something that had his name stitched into the beat.

And somehow, that was scarier than anything she could’ve dared him to do to her.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t laugh.

Just leaned his head back, exhaled slow through his nose, and let the firelight drag shadows under his cheekbones.

“That’s evil,” he muttered finally, shaking his head with the ghost of a grin. “You know that, right?”

No response.

Just her eyes, waiting—sharp and bright and unrelenting.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, stood, and rolled his shoulders like he was psyching himself up for a goddamn free throw.

Then he looked down at her—really looked—and there it was again: that flicker of something real, something unscripted, in her face.

It made him feel braver than he should.

“I hate you a little right now,” he said under his breath. “But like… respectfully.”

He turned toward the chaos, crossing the clearing with steps that weren’t cocky—just steady. Determined.

Lexie spotted him first. Said something like, oh my god, he’s back, and someone else laughed too loud like they were in on some joke.

But Asher didn’t stop.

Didn’t play to the crowd.

He walked straight up to the speaker like he owned the whole damn thing, knelt down, unplugged the aux from a guy who barely registered what was happening—and in one smooth, bold-as-hell move, swapped it out with his phone.

No hesitation.

Just one click. One breath.

And then—

Music.

Low at first.

Then louder.

Not a party banger. Not something ironic or cool or nostalgic enough to win the crowd back over.

A ballad.

Raw.
Slow.
Unapologetically emotional.

One of those tracks people kept in their headphones but never added to the pregame playlist. One with lyrics that felt like skin, like bruises and honesty and nights that weren’t about being seen, but felt.

The reaction was instant.

Heads turned.

Someone booed, half-joking. A girl squinted like she was trying to figure out if he’d lost a bet. Even the drinking game started to fizzle under the weight of it.

But Asher didn’t explain.

Didn’t defend.

He just straightened, hands in his pockets now, shoulders relaxed as the chorus spilled out over the clearing—clear and full and his.

Then he turned back.

Walked slow.

Every step a silent declaration: Yeah. I picked this. Let it hit you or don’t. But I’m not running from it.

When he reached her again, he didn’t sit right away. Just stood beside the truck, beer forgotten in his hand, letting the music trail behind him like a second heartbeat.

“Song’s mine,” he said quietly. “Picked it last summer. Played it on loop for a month.”

A pause.

Then:

“First time I ever stopped pretending I liked who I was supposed to be.”

He looked at her—not with expectation. Not with pride.

Just… level.

Open.

Real.

“So… how’d I do?”

Josie didn’t look at him right away.
She stayed still. Leaning against the truck. Boot planted, beer balanced loosely in her hand, eyes flicking toward the sky like maybe she needed a second to swallow whatever the hell just lodged in her throat.

Because the song?

It was terrible.

Overwrought. Melodramatic. One of those aching, open-wound ballads she would’ve mocked six ways from Sunday if anyone else had played it.

But he did.
And it meant something.
Not just the lyrics, but the choice.

The fact that he stood there in front of people who thought they knew him and said, no—you get this version tonight.

And somehow, that changed everything.

She took a sip of her beer, then finally glanced over at him—shoulders relaxed, eyes steady, standing like he wasn’t sorry for any of it.

And damn it.

Damn him.

Because Josie didn’t like people getting under her skin.
But Asher Cole was sitting in there now, just behind the ribs, grinning like he didn’t even know.

She smirked—barely.

“Zero out of ten,” she said flatly, voice deadpan. “Unforgivable taste.”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“But it’s my favorite thing I’ve heard all night.”

She didn’t explain.

Didn’t have to.

Because he wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t hiding. Not right now.

Josie tipped her head, met his gaze head-on, and gave a shrug that tried to look casual but didn’t quite land.

“Okay, Cole,” she said, voice soft but still hers. “Your turn to dish it out.”

She turned toward him fully now, letting the firelight catch in her eyes. Letting her guard sit back just far enough to make room for the part of her that still wanted to play.

“I pick dare.”

A pause.
Then, with the barest tug of a smirk:

“Only fair.”

And yeah—maybe this wasn’t the wild night Rick had in mind when he told her to let loose. But with Asher? This wasn’t nothing.

This was real.

And for once, she wasn’t running from it.