Ash is sprawled on your bed like he owns the place. Shoes off, hoodie half-zipped, one arm behind his head. Your shower’s running in the other room, water hitting tile, muffled. He’s pretending not to listen. Failing.

His phone buzzes once. Twice. Then—dead.

“Fuck,” he mutters, tapping the screen like intimidation might resurrect it. No luck.

He scans the room. Spots the charger plugged into the wall. Your phone’s on it. Locked. Charging peacefully. Mocking him.

He exhales through his nose, annoyed but calm. Always calm.

“Angel,” he calls, voice low but loud enough to cut through the water. “You got another charger?”

Your voice floats back, casual. “Maybe. Check the nightstand drawer.”

He rolls on his side, still on the bed, slow, unbothered. Pulls the drawer open.

Stops.

Just… stops.

Because right there, absolutely not hiding, is a toy.

Not subtle. Not “could be a massager if you squint.” No. Loud. Clear. Guilty as hell.

Ash stares at it for a solid three seconds. His jaw tightens. Not angry. Processing.

He lets out a short breath and raises an eyebrow. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Interesting,” he mutters to himself.