Oh, she was dangerous.

Not in the obvious way. Not in the fights-in-bars or drives-too-fast or carries-a-flask-under-her-coat kind of way (though honestly, with Josie, any of those were still possible).

No, Josie Rhodes was dangerous because she looked at you like she was going to ruin your life—and then did it so slow you thanked her for the privilege.

Asher didn’t flinch when her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Didn’t blink when her elbow brushed his.

Didn’t move when she leaned in, all heat and velvet and war.

He just let her do it.

Let her flirt like it was a knife fight. Let her smirk like she hadn’t fractured him in the best and worst ways possible. Let her throw barbs wrapped in heat and sarcasm and the exact cadence of her voice that always, always wrecked him.

Then—once she sat back and called him second place to a glitter eagle?

He let the grin stretch.

Didn’t rush it. Didn’t force it.

Just let it grow slow and knowing and full of shit.

Then he dragged his eyes over her—top to boots, unapologetic—then landed squarely on hers again and murmured:

“You always this mouthy when you want someone to kiss you, or am I special?”

His voice was low. Real. The kind of careful he only used with her, like he knew what they were really doing here—pretending it was just banter so they didn’t have to admit they’d never stopped thinking about each other.

Then he tipped his chair forward. Let the legs slam down again, solid and final, like he’d made a decision and wasn’t backing off it.

“Look,” he said, arms resting on his knees now, tone quiet but stubborn. “You wanna keep throwing sass, fine. I can take it. You wanna keep pretending I didn’t show up that night already knowing you’d ghost me the second things got real? Cool. I’ll play along.”

His eyes locked on hers, no grin this time.

“But don’t sit there and act like I imagined the whole damn thing.”

He let it hang. Just for a second. Then—voice softer:

“You kissed me like it meant something. And I don’t forget shit like that.”

Then, because he couldn’t not be Asher:

He leaned back again, hands raised in mock surrender.

“But hey—if you really think I lost to a stuffed eagle in a flag bikini, I guess I can go challenge it to a rematch.”

A pause. Crooked grin returning.

“…I do have more jackets.”

And yeah—he was smiling.

But his chest was still wrecked.

Because no matter how good she was at playing it cool?

She was still here.

And so was he.

Which meant maybe—just maybe—they hadn’t burned this down yet.

Josie’s breath caught. Just a beat.
Sharp. Silent. Completely infuriating.

Because she’d come here armored—Pop-Tart jokes, jabs about height, boots laced tight and sarcasm sharper than ever. She was ready for banter. Ready to dance around him. Ready to stay in control.

But she hadn’t been ready for that.

“You always this mouthy when you want someone to kiss you, or am I special?”

Jesus.

She’d walked right into that one. And he knew it. Knew exactly how to weaponize that low, too-casual tone of his. Knew how to lean in with heat and honesty like he wasn’t afraid of what lived under her deflection.

Her mouth curved. Not a smile. Something meaner. Softer. Dangerous.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, voice like a drawl and a dare, “you’re not special. You’re just—persistent.”

But her knee bounced. A tell. She stilled it.

Because the truth?
He was special. And it scared the ever-loving hell out of her.

Then came the other part.

The real part.

That drop of weight in his voice when he stopped trying to be cute. When he sat forward and looked at her like he wasn’t going to let her hide.

“You kissed me like it meant something. And I don’t forget shit like that.”

Her throat tightened before she could stop it.

Because she remembered. Of course she did. Every second. Every breath. The way his hands had lingered at her jaw like she might vanish. The way she’d wanted—needed—him to hold her like that. Like she was still worth wanting even when she didn’t believe it herself.

But instead of saying any of that, she huffed a laugh. Short. Breathless.

“Damn,” she muttered, “that glitter eagle’s really got its work cut out for it, huh?”

She didn’t meet his eyes at first. Just stared at the pavement between them like maybe if she looked hard enough, it’d swallow her whole.

Then—finally—she glanced up. Met his gaze.

Steady.

Unflinching.

Her voice, when she spoke again, wasn’t as sharp. Still rough around the edges, but quieter now. Honest.

“I didn’t ghost you because it didn’t mean something,” she said. “I ghosted you because it did.”

A beat.

“Because you’re the only guy dumb enough to see the mess and still call it a blueprint.”

She shook her head, looked away again—but not far. Just to the side. Just enough to breathe.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she added, tone flickering toward a smirk. “But you’ve got good taste in Pop-Tarts and bad timing, so I guess I’ll allow it.”

Then, reaching out casually—like it didn’t mean everything—she flicked the hem of his sleeve.

“Jackets or not,” she said, “you challenge that eagle, you better win. I got a reputation to maintain.”

But her hand lingered.

Not long. Not obvious. Just enough.

And when she pulled it back, she didn’t shift away. Didn’t shove him. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t already sitting too close.

Because for the first time in weeks—

She didn’t want to pretend.

Asher didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink, even, for a second—because if he did, he was pretty sure she’d vanish again. Not physically. But in that other way. The way she slipped behind sarcasm like it was body armor. The way she could turn a smirk into a wall faster than most people could finish a sentence.

He’d seen it before.

Hell, he’d been on the receiving end of it more times than he could count.

But not now.

Now she was sitting still. Letting the air go soft. Letting the space between them mean something.

And he didn’t dare ruin that.

Not with a joke. Not with a comeback. Not even with a grin, tempting as it was.

Because what she’d just given him? That wasn’t small.

Josie Howard didn’t admit fear out loud. She didn’t explain herself. She didn’t reach out and linger—casually or not—unless some part of her wanted to be caught.

So he caught her.

Carefully.

Gently.

Without making a scene of it.

Asher let his hand drop from where it had been braced on his knee and covered hers—not possessive, not loud, just there. Solid. Steady. Warm.

The way she needed it to be.

His thumb brushed across her knuckles once. Then again. Not asking for anything. Just saying: I’m still here.

And finally—finally—he spoke.

Voice low. Sure. No teasing, no heat. Just the kind of grounded truth he knew she’d feel all the way in her ribs.

“You don’t scare me, Josie.”

A beat. His gaze never left hers.

“You never did.”

Another pause.

And then—because she’d given him honesty, real and raw and edged with that exact brand of vulnerable that made her eyes shine but her jaw clench—he gave her some of his own.

“I don’t care if you think you’re a mess. I like the mess. I want the mess. Hell, I kissed the mess and would do it again if you let me.”

His hand didn’t move. Neither did his eyes.

“But I’m not gonna chase a ghost,” he said, quiet but firm. “So if you’re here—really here—you don’t get to run again the second I see through the noise.”

A breath passed between them, thick and heavy and true.

And then, finally, the corner of his mouth tugged—just a little.

“And for the record,” he added, voice dipping just enough to count, “the glitter eagle never stood a chance. You should’ve known I’d win the second I showed up in corduroy and a vengeance.”

He felt her hand twitch under his and didn’t push it. Just held on.

Just stayed.

Because that’s what he did.

And this time—God help him—he hoped she’d stay, too.

Josie didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because his hand was still on hers.

And he wasn’t letting go.

Not like people usually did. Not like they were supposed to when she got quiet, when she got weird, when she stopped being the version of herself that could banter through anything.

He just… stayed. Solid. Steady. Warm.

Like he meant it.

Which was exactly the problem.

Because Josie Rhodes didn’t believe in things that lasted.

Not really.

Not when her whole life had been pit stops and broken promises. Not when she’d been the new girl in too many towns to count. Not when she knew—knew—how stories like this ended.

She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve cracked a joke or said something flippant or pointed out the absurdity of all this—the glitter eagle, the fair lights, the way his thumb was still brushing across her hand like it had a right to be there.

But she didn’t.

She just looked at him.

Looked at that open face and soft eyes and the stubborn tilt of his jaw like he actually thought they stood a chance. Like he didn’t care that she was already half-packed in her head, already imagining him at Harvard with shiny people and bright futures, while she went back to changing her oil and not asking anyone to stay.

She swallowed.

Her voice came out lower than intended.

“You really think this doesn’t end with me watching you leave?”

It wasn’t bitter. Just honest.

“You’re gonna be in Cambridge. I’ll be in…” she paused, shrugging. “Wherever I land next. You’ve got futures planned. I’ve got an emergency bag and a fully rebuilt transmission.”

She didn’t say we don’t fit.

Didn’t have to.

It hung there anyway, heavy and inevitable.

But then—as if the universe decided to spare her from finishing the thought—
a voice called out just outside the tent:

“Hey, sorry—uh, did anyone turn in a phone? It’s got, like, a watermelon sticker and cracked screen?”

Josie flinched slightly at the interruption, but it gave her an out. A sliver of breath.

She gently pulled her hand away, not with finality—but with a softness that said pause.

“I’ll check the bin,” she said, standing before he could ask.

Back turned. Spine straight. Voice calm.

Because if there was one thing Josie Rhodes knew how to do, it was control the exit.

Even when she didn’t want to take it.

Even when her heart—traitorous and loud—was still back there on that folding chair.