Asher shifted his weight, hands sliding deeper into his jacket pockets, thumb rubbing the seam inside like he could wear a hole straight through it.

He didn’t answer her right away.

Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t flash a smile.

Just stood there for a second, staring at the floorboards like the right words might be nailed between the cracks.

When he spoke, his voice was lower. Rougher. Like it cost him something.

“I don’t know who I am without a jersey on.”

The confession hit the air with a dull thud, heavy and unfinished.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, the woodsmoke smell of the shop threading into his lungs, grounding him.

“Everyone here—” he nodded slightly toward the door, toward the town, toward everything outside “—they think I’ve got it made. Scholarship lined up. Parents proud. Coaches betting their next season on my highlight reels.”

He dragged a hand over his jaw, the scrape of rough stubble loud in the quiet.

“And I’m good at it. Lacrosse.” He laughed once, low and humorless. “Hell, I’m great at it. But…”

He trailed off, fingers tightening into fists inside his pockets.

“But sometimes I think that’s all I am.”

He looked up then—really looked at her. No walls. No charm. Just the truth.

“Evergreen’s golden boy. The one who’s supposed to make it out clean. Play the game, smile for the pictures, marry the right girl, bring the trophy home.”

He shrugged, slow and helpless.

“And if I stop playing, if I stop winning… I don’t know if there’s anything left underneath.”

The breath he let out after was shaky, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t dress it up.

He just stood there, letting the truth hang between them. Heavy. Raw.

Not asking her to fix it.
Not asking for anything at all.

Just letting her see it.

Maybe for the first time, he wasn’t pretending he was enough.
Maybe for the first time, he wasn’t trying to be.

Josie didn’t move at first.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t cut him down.
Didn’t toss out some sharp-edged quip like she usually would when someone cracked themselves open in front of her.

Because this?
This wasn’t something you mocked.

This was real.

And God help her, Josie Rhodes had always had a soft spot for broken things that didn’t know they were broken.

She shifted her weight from one boot to the other, crossing her arms loosely—not defensive, just... containing the mess inside her chest that his words stirred up. Her thumb tapped lightly against her elbow, a nervous habit she didn’t usually let slip in front of people.

He wasn’t faking it.

He wasn’t giving her some polished version of himself with the messy parts tucked out of sight.
He was handing it to her—raw, unfinished, uncomfortable.

And somehow, that was braver than anything else he could’ve done.

Josie let her gaze flick over him.
The hunched shoulders.
The tight fists buried in his pockets.
The way he looked like he hated himself a little bit for even admitting it.

And without thinking too hard—because if she did, she’d lock it all back up behind sarcasm and tough-girl armor—she exhaled slow and rough through her nose.

“Yeah,” she muttered, voice lower than before, almost like she was talking to herself. “I get that.”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t tell him he wasn’t alone. Didn’t promise him anything about how it would get better. That wasn’t her style.

People like them?
They didn’t get Hallmark endings tied up with a bow.

They got honesty.

She dragged a hand through her hair, messing up the loose strands already falling from her bun, and finally let herself meet his eyes properly.

“You’re not just the jersey, Asher.”

Her tone was flat. Firm. A little stubborn.

“Even if you think you are.”

Another beat.
Another breath.

Then she shrugged, glancing away like she hadn’t just dropped something close to a compliment at his feet.

“Just means you gotta figure out what’s underneath before everyone else decides for you.”

Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close.

“And trust me,” she added, deadpan, “you don’t wanna let this town pick for you. You’ll end up married to some sorority girl named Kaylee and coaching JV lacrosse in cargo shorts before you’re twenty-four.”

She bumped his arm lightly with her elbow—gritty, familiar, rough in the way only people who cared enough to stay could be.

And maybe for once, she didn’t mind being the one still standing there when someone else let their walls fall.
Maybe—for him—she didn’t mind letting hers slip, just a little too.

Asher didn’t move at first.

Didn’t breathe, either, not really.

Because there it was—that thing he hadn’t known he was looking for until she handed it to him without ceremony.

You’re not just the jersey.

No one had ever said it to him like that before. No crowd, no parents, no coaches clapping him on the back like a good little soldier.

Just her.

Saying it plain. Saying it like it was true even if he didn’t know how to believe it yet.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and felt something in his chest loosen by degrees—something he didn’t even realize he’d been holding onto for years.

And when she bumped his arm—rough, casual, exactly the way he needed it to be—he let himself lean into it. Just for a second. Just enough to ground himself in something that wasn’t expectation or performance or failure waiting to happen.

He huffed a small laugh at her Kaylee comment, low and wrecked and real, shaking his head once like he could shake off the image.

But he didn’t joke back. Didn’t dodge.

Instead, he turned his head slightly, catching her in his periphery.

Worn boots. Frayed jeans. A hand still half-curled like she was bracing for him to pull away.

He didn’t.

He swallowed once, thumb brushing the seam of his pocket again, and—quieter now, no dare in it, no weight—

asked:

“What about you?”

The words slid out rough, careful, real.

“What’s yours, Josie?”

He didn’t push. Didn’t lace it with charm. Didn’t try to make it easier for her to say no.

He just asked.

Because she deserved to be asked.

Not as a joke.
Not as a challenge.

But like it mattered.

Because to him, it already did.
More than he was ready to admit.
And maybe—just maybe—she needed to hear that without him saying a word.

Josie felt her heart stutter once—sharp, involuntary—like a spark catching against wet wood.

What’s yours, Josie?

He asked it like he meant it.
Not like he was fishing for a punchline.
Not like he was looking for another way to tuck her into some box he already built in his head.

He asked it like it mattered.
Like she mattered.

She hated how much it rattled her.

Her fingers twitched once at her side, the restless need to move, to bolt, to armor up rising like a reflex. She dragged her thumbnail against the seam of her jeans instead, rough enough to feel the burn, and forced herself to stand still.

The easy thing—the safe thing—would’ve been to laugh it off.
Make a crack about how she wasn’t sentimental.
Tell him her future was as short as the next tank of gas she could afford.

But when she flicked her gaze sideways—caught him standing there, hands still jammed in his pockets, loose and open in a way no one ever was around her—
she couldn’t lie.

Not really.

Not to him.

Josie’s mouth pulled tight, fighting a thousand instincts at once, before she finally exhaled—slow, rough, and tired.

“My what?”

The words came low, barely more than a scrape in the space between them.

She looked past him then, over his shoulder, to the shelves lined with camping knives and thermoses and maps to places she knew she’d never stay long enough to need directions for.

“My thing? My label?” she asked, voice tilting toward dry but not cruel. “The one people in town whisper about when they think I’m not listening?”

Her hand dropped from her pocket, curling loose at her side.

"I’m the girl who doesn’t unpack her bags."

The confession landed soft. Unforced. Unapologetic.

The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile. Something smaller. More broken.

"And if they’re feeling generous," she added, letting the words bleed out the edges of her breath, "the one who's too busy running to bother pretending she belongs."

The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, filling the small silence she left between them.

She didn’t take it back.
Didn’t dress it up.

Just let it hang there—raw, real, the same way he had.

Then—because it was easier to throw a jab than stand there too long with her throat feeling too thick and her chest feeling too fucking open—she shoved his arm lightly with the back of her hand.

"Figured it was only fair to warn you, Cole," she muttered, deadpan. "Don’t get too attached. I break down worse than a '98 Civic with no oil."

But even as she said it—even as she tried to lace it with bite—
there was something else threading through her voice now.

Something tired of running.

Something wondering if maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't walk away when the engine started to smoke.

She didn’t know if she wanted him to stay.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t know if she wanted him to leave either.

And that scared her more than anything.

Asher stayed where he was, hands deep in his pockets, heart hammering so loud he was pretty sure she could hear it.

The girl who doesn’t unpack her bags.

He turned that over once, twice, like if he held it carefully enough it wouldn’t hurt so damn much. Like maybe it wasn’t just a fact about her—maybe it was a warning. Or a challenge.

And he should’ve known better by now.
Should’ve nodded, smiled, let her go.

But he didn’t.

Because everything about her—the sharp edges, the clipped words, the way she stood there looking like she might punch him or pull him closer and not be sorry either way—it hooked into him.

He didn’t know why.
Couldn’t explain it if he tried.

But Josie Rhodes—her anger, her honesty, her refusal to make it easy—was the most real thing he’d touched in longer than he could remember.

And it was like trying to look away from a live wire.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t even want to.

He shifted slightly, boot scuffing the floor, and let out a breath through his nose—rough, tired, but not frustrated.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. “I just… want to know things about you.”

It wasn’t a performance.
It wasn’t a line.
It wasn’t even smart.

It was just the truth.

Josie shoved his arm, rougher this time, her voice laced in that deadpan armor she always threw up when the ground under her feet started to feel a little too steady.

Figured it was only fair to warn you, Cole. Don’t get too attached. I break down worse than a ‘98 Civic with no oil.

He let the words land.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

Just turned his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes locked onto hers.

Steady.

Unshaken.

And then, voice dipping low enough that it felt like a dare and a prayer at the same time—

“What—”
A breath.
“—you gonna run if things get too complicated?”

He didn’t say it like a challenge.
Didn’t lace it with expectation.

He just… asked.

Because everything about her—the way she pushed, the way she stood still even when she swore she wouldn’t—intrigued him in a way that scared the shit out of him.

And he wasn’t ready to pretend otherwise anymore.

He didn’t even want to.

So he stood there, still, waiting.

Not to stop her if she ran.

But to see if she stayed.

Josie’s eyes narrowed instinctively the second the words left his mouth.

I just want to know things about you.

It hit something deep and feral inside her, something that didn’t trust easy questions with softer edges. She squinted at him like it was a threat—like daring to be curious about her was dangerous and he was too stupid to know it yet.

And maybe he was.

But he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t give her an excuse to tear him down and walk away like she was so good at doing.

He just stood there.

Solid.

Quiet.

Waiting.

Something inside her twitched—some old instinct that usually screamed run when people started asking for pieces of her she didn’t know how to give. She’d never stayed anywhere long enough for things to get complicated. Complication meant roots. Meant ties. Meant getting gutted when it all inevitably fell apart.

Still.

Something about him—the way he stood there without pushing, without needing to win—made it harder for the wild, cornered animal inside her to fully take over.

She dropped her gaze for a second, studying the worn toes of her boots, the faint scuff marks on the old wood floor between them. Anything to give herself a second to breathe.

When she spoke, her voice was rough, scraped clean of bravado.

“I like racing,” she muttered. “Engines loud enough to drown out everything else.”

Her fingers rubbed absently against the seam of her jeans.

“Big storms too. The kind that shake the windows and make everything feel small for a while.”

She shifted, glancing sideways, catching the steady line of his jaw, the open patience in the way he didn’t step closer, didn’t crowd her.

“Mornings before anyone’s awake yet.”

She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t peeling off pieces of herself and setting them at his feet.

“Roads that don’t have names.”

Her throat felt tight. Stupid.

She forced herself to keep going. To finish.

“Fixing things.”

A breath.

A pause.

The words clung to her tongue, reluctant, strange.

“And sometimes... people.”

It slipped out before she could yank it back.

Josie pressed her lips together, jaw tight, trying to swallow down the way the truth tasted—too raw, too open. Like roots trying to sink into a place she wasn’t supposed to stay.

She shook her head once, a small, almost embarrassed motion.

“That’s it,” she said, trying for casual, trying to force the lid back down on whatever the hell she’d just handed him. “Don’t read into it.”

But her voice had softened at the edges, and they both knew it.

She stuffed her hands deep into her pockets and looked past him, out the front windows where the light was dimming, the town rolling quietly toward dusk.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the itch to run.

Not yet.

Asher caught the way her hands dug deeper into her pockets, the way her weight shifted like she was still deciding if this counted as dangerous.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t crowd her.

Just stood there, watching the last of the light slant through the big front windows, painting her in gold and shadow.

When he spoke, his voice was lighter this time—easygoing, a little rough around the edges but without the sharp pull of expectation.

“Storms and loud engines, huh?”

He let the smallest smile tug at the corner of his mouth, something crooked and unbothered.

“Guess that tracks.”

He nudged the toe of his boot lightly against the scuffed floorboards, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets, posture loose, casual—like he could stand there all night if she didn’t shove him out the door.

“Never figured you for the quiet type anyway.”

He said it easy, teasing but not biting, like he was letting her pick whether she wanted to snap back or let it slide.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It just was—settling between them like a blanket thrown haphazard over something fragile.

Asher glanced sideways at her, studying the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers twitched at her sides like she was fighting the urge to fidget.

She was a contradiction, and it hooked into him more than he wanted to admit.

Everything she did—the way she stood, the way she didn’t fill the silence, the way she handed over scraps of herself like she half-hated that she even had anything to give—it all intrigued him.

More than it should.

More than made sense.

He didn’t know why he gave a damn about whether she liked thunderstorms or backroads or fixing things with her own two hands.
But he did.

Maybe because it felt like knowing those things wasn’t about getting her to stay.

It was about knowing her.

Really knowing her.

Asher rocked back on his heels a little, the floorboards creaking softly beneath him.

“What about racing?” he asked after a moment, voice light, curious. “You do it just to win, or ‘cause it’s the only time the noise in your head finally shuts up?”

His tone was easy, casual enough that she could laugh it off if she wanted.

But he meant it.

Because he got it.

Because maybe he wasn’t so different.

And maybe he wasn’t ready to say that yet—but he didn’t mind standing here a little longer, asking dumb questions with answers he wasn’t ready to stop wanting.

Not if it meant getting to stay in her orbit just a little more.

Not if it meant maybe, eventually, she’d start asking him things too.

Josie let it slide.

Didn’t snap.
Didn’t throw a punch wrapped in words.
Didn’t bristle at his quiet, easy way of asking more.

She just let the comment about racing hang there, her mouth tugging down at one corner, arms still folded tight across her chest like she could muscle the air between them back into something safer if she just squeezed hard enough.

Truth was, he wasn’t wrong.

She didn’t race for the win.
Never had.

It was the noise.
The wind ripping past her windows.
The engine drowning out everything she didn’t want to think about.
The stretch of road where nothing and no one could catch her, not even herself.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t owe him that yet.

Hell, she barely knew what she owed herself half the time.

The words sat bitter on her tongue anyway—heavy and real—but she swallowed them down before they could betray her twice in the same afternoon.

Instead, she shifted her weight, boot scuffing the floor with a lazy scrape, and tipped her chin at him like she was throwing the conversation back across the table.

“My turn’s over, pretty boy,” she muttered, voice low and dry. “Clock’s ticking.”

Her arms uncrossed just long enough for her to gesture loosely at the creaky wooden beams overhead and the clerk behind the counter starting to eye them with that look that said you don’t have to go home, but you can’t loiter here forever.

“Better start talking before they throw us both out for loitering like juvenile delinquents.”

Josie jammed her hands back into the pockets of her jeans, knuckles brushing against the worn lining, feeling every scrape, every callus, every reminder that getting too comfortable never ended well.

Inside, she told herself she didn’t care what he said next.
That it didn’t matter.
That he could feed her some polished answer or some neat little story about himself and she’d file it away under temporary.

But outside?

She stayed exactly where she was.

Waiting.

Listening.

Letting herself want to know anyway.
Just a little.
Just this once.

Asher caught the shift.

The way she didn’t snap.
Didn’t wall herself off.
Just tossed the conversation back at him with that rough, dry humor that felt more like a dare than an escape route.

And God, he was starting to love the way she did that—half-daring him, half-inviting him—without even knowing it.

He smiled to himself, a slow, easy pull at the corner of his mouth, one hand raking through his hair like he needed a second to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

Because the truth?

He wanted to impress her.
He wanted to be worth her staying still.
But he also didn’t want to give her the polished version.

She didn’t deserve fake.
She deserved something real—even if it was stupid or messy or didn’t paint him in the best light.

He rocked back on his heels a little, boots creaking against the tired old floorboards, and shrugged like he wasn’t feeling the weight of her attention like a goddamn spotlight.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and casual, eyes flicking toward the ceiling beams like maybe they’d hand him a better answer. “Let’s see.”

He dragged it out a little, not to be a smartass—just to think.

And then he caught her watching him from under her lashes, arms tight around herself, looking like she was ready to bolt if he said the wrong thing.

So he kept it easy.
Kept it real.

“I get weird about gas stations.”

He said it without thinking, without cleaning it up, and laughed a little under his breath when she lifted one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

“Nah, like—” He shifted, ducking his head slightly, more sheepish now. “If I’m on a road trip or just… driving late? I can’t stop at the first place I see.”

He shrugged again, loose, open.

“Has to feel right.”

Another quiet huff of laughter, more real than any smile he usually wore for crowds.

“Like… the lighting’s gotta be right. Parking lot can’t be too empty. Guy behind the counter can’t look like he’s about to kill me in the candy aisle.”

He flicked a glance sideways at her, saw the way her mouth twitched, like she didn’t want to find it funny but maybe did anyway.

“So, yeah.” His voice dropped a little, still easy but not careless. “Guess I’m picky about where I stop.”

A breath. A pause.

“And maybe about who I stop for.”

He let that hang there—not heavy, not obvious.
Just… there.

Easy enough she could ignore it.
Sharp enough she couldn’t miss it.

He shifted again, brushing his knuckles once against the seam of his jeans, pretending not to watch the way she stood there.

Waiting.

Listening.

Choosing not to run.

And if his chest felt too tight because of it—
If his hands itched to reach for her and didn’t—
He figured that was the price of getting to stay in this moment a little longer.

Maybe he’d always be a little picky about where he stopped.

But standing here?

With her?

It didn’t feel like a pit stop.

It felt like the first time he might actually want to stay.
Without having to pretend he wasn’t scared of.

Josie watched him like she was tracking a wild thing she didn’t know whether to trust yet.

Not that he was dangerous.
If anything, he was too honest.
Too slow to lie, too easy to read.

That made him dangerous in a different way.

She caught the flick of his hand through his hair, the way his eyes darted to the ceiling like he was buying himself a second before he spoke. She could practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes. No polish. No performance. Just a guy standing in front of her, trying to decide how much of himself to put on the table.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because she wasn’t used to people thinking that hard about what they gave her.
Most people decided she wasn’t worth the effort.
And she liked it better that way.

When he finally said it—I get weird about gas stations—her eyebrow lifted without her permission.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.

Just… skeptical.

Because in her world, gas stations weren’t optional.
You stopped where you had to.
You kept your head down.
You stayed alert.
And if shit went sideways, you handled it—fast, ugly, no questions asked.

She was supposed to be the one feeling unsafe out there, not him.

Still, a flicker of something almost like humor tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She didn’t mock him.
Didn’t laugh, either.
Just listened.

Because it figured—he didn’t grow up needing the kind of street smarts she had to stitch into her blood by the time she was twelve.
And maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t fault him for that.

When he kept talking—awkward, self-deprecating, all loose hands and sheepish shrugs—she felt some of the pressure uncoil from her chest.

Until.

“And maybe about who I stop for.”

The words landed lighter than a feather.

But Josie’s gut flinched like it was a punch.

Not because it was aggressive.
Not because he said it wrong.
But because it sounded too much like every guy who had ever made promises with their smiles and expectations with their eyes.

The kind of line that wasn’t about knowing her.
It was about owning her.

Her jaw tightened. Her hands flexed once inside her pockets.

There it is, she thought grimly.
There’s the catch.

She didn’t snap at him.
Didn’t bolt.

But the wildness in her sharpened, leaned back a half-step inside herself, retreating where he couldn’t reach it.

Still, she kept her voice even when she answered—gritty but calm, the way you talk when you’re still deciding if someone deserves another minute of your time.

"Careful, Cole," she muttered, eyes flicking over him, unreadable. "Might make me think you're standing here 'cause you don't know any better."

A pause. A breath.

She tipped her head slightly, studying him—looking for cracks, for tells, for any sign he was about to turn into every other idiot who thought wanting her was the same thing as seeing her.

Her next words came slower, quieter.

"But maybe you do."

Maybe he did know better.
Maybe he was standing there anyway.

Josie didn’t trust it.

Not yet.

But she stayed.

And that—that was saying something bigger than any pretty words could.