Chapter 104: Asher
She doesn’t speak for a long time.
Neither do 1.
The lights are low. The air’s cooled. Somewhere down the hallway a nurse whesis a cart gast,
bed. Her.
She’s lying still, barely moving, but I feel the buzz of her awareness. I don’t even have to look, i kore she’s long hand against mine, the rhythm of her breathing. Like a wire strung between us, pulled test
Her voice is quiet when it comes.
“Can you come closer?”
I almost miss it.
But when I hear it–really hear it–my chest tightens.
I don’t ask if she’s sure. I can’t trust my voice not to betray me.
I just shift, careful not to shake the bed as I lay down on it. I ease closer, until our shoulders nearly touch. Her hair brushes my arm. The
and blood and hospital linen, but beneath it is still her. Vanilla. Warmth. That impossible sweetness that turns me inside ont
Her breathing hitches once.
I stare at the ceiling. Fighting. Every. Urge.
Iwant to pull her into me. Wrap my body around hers like a shield. Bury my face in her hair and stay there. But she’s burt. Fragle. There’s a line a her was feeding clear liquid into her veins. Her lips are a little less pink than usual. There’s gauze near her temple.
And she’s still Tyler’s girl.
So I lie still.
I let silence stretch.
Until I can’t take it anymore.
“Penny…” I murmur. “Can I touch you?”
She turns her head. Her eyes find mine in the dark. Wide. Glassy. Unblinking.
She doesn’t speak. Just nods–once.
That nod? It unspools something in me.
But I still don’t move right away. I brace my hand on the bed between us. Ground myself. Remind myself not to be a fucking monster.
“If you want me to stop, you say so. Understand?”
She nods again.
I turn my body toward her, shifting onto my side, head propped on my bent arm,
And slowly–so slowly 1 swear I’m losing my mind–I reach for her.
My thumb brushes her cheekbone. Her skin is warm. Softer than I remember. She exhales, long and shaky.
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Chapter 104: Asher
I drag my thumb down, gentle, until it passes over her bottom lip. She trembles beneath it, but she doesn’t look away.
You’re gonna ruin me, I think. You already are.
My fingers trace lower–along her jaw. Down the curve of her throat, just above her collarbone. Her pulse is there, fluttering like wings ago my ch
I don’t press. I graze.
Like reverence. Like prayer.
Then I let my hand fall to her arm. I trail it down the slope of her bicep. Her forearm. Light, careful. Ghostlike.
She doesn’t speak. But her body responds. Her back arches just a little, like she’s chasing more.
I reach her hip. My palm flattens there, over the blanket, fingers curving around the side.
And then I stop.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
Because this is it. This is as far as I go.
Her breath is short now. I can feel it. Her chest rises against mine in shallow, hesitant movements. Like she’s just as scared of what happens next as I am.
I stare at her in the dark.
I want to pull you into my lap, Penny.
I want to press my mouth to every inch of your body and swear I’ll keep you safe.
I want you to know how I feel so I never have to be without you again.
But I don’t move.
Because she’s in a hospital bed.
Because her skin smells like antiseptic and pain.
Because there’s an IV in her arm and her boyfriend’s name still lives somewhere on her tongue.
I’m shaking.
My whole body’s tense with the restraint it takes not to let my hand move even a single inch lower. The weight of my desire is a living thing. Heavy. Hot. Coiled like something dangerous.
I’m not good.
But I want to be–for her.
I drop my forehead to her shoulder, just briefly. My breath ghosts across her collarbone.
And I whisper it into the hollow there:
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
She doesn’t answer.
But her hand–her small, bruised, perfect hand–rises.
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And the tangles her fingers with mine
I don’t move for a while. Just let that single point of contact ground me. Her hand in mine. Her body warm beside me. Bet palior sending by the second
She’s still breathing a little fast. Short and shallow, like she doesn’t trust her own lungs.
It makes me ache.
She shouldn’t be afraid. Not right now. Not with me here.
You’re safe.
I don’t say it out loud. I just… show her.
My hand slips from her fingers and moves slowly back to her hip. Then across her waist. I ghost over the small of her back, tracing the fabric of the hospital blanket, the subtle curve of her spine beneath it.
She exhales, slower now,
My palm glides over her thigh, down to her knee and back again–never urgent. Just present. Just there.
My fingers trail up her arm. Over the faint bruises. I pause at the IV line, careful not to disturb the tape, then continue across her shoulder, then her collarbone, then down again.
Over and over. A circuit.
It’s not about want anymore.
This is need.
Not sexual. Not even romantic. Just the animal part of me that needed her alive, and here, and whole. The part that couldn’t breathe until I touched every inch of her body and made sure it was still hers.
Still warm.
Still working.
Her breathing begins to even out. Longer inhales. Softer exhales.
She’s relaxing.
Good girl.
Still not asleep, though.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I start talking.
“One of my favourite places is the Hindu Kush,”
She hums–barely audible.
“There’s a valley there,” I say quietly, “where the light hits the snow like glass. It’s brutal to get to. The air’s so thin you think your lungs’ll crack. But when the sun’s just right… it looks like the mountains are made of crystal.”
She shifts slightly beside me. Not pulling away. Just listening.
“Or Kandahar,” I murmur. “After the sandstorms. The dust settles in layers. Looks like smoke hugging the hills. You can’t tell where the earth ends and the
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sky starts.”
Another slow breath from her. I feel it brush my shoulder.
“Okinawa in spring. Sea’s so blue it hurts to look at. There’s coral that glows pink under the waves. Locals call it ghost coral.”
She’s still now. Breathing even. Chest rising in rhythm with mine.
She’s asleep.
I don’t stop touching her.
I keep my hand low–on her hip now–fingers flexing slightly every so often, like my body’s reminding itself she’s real.
And when I’m sure she won’t hear me, when I’ve memorized every line of her profile against the pillow, I let it out. The thing I can’t say while her eyes are
open
“But none of it,” I whisper, barely breathing,
“was ever as beautiful as you.”
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