The sunlight crept in through the blinds, casting pale gold lines across his room—the only warm thing in there besides you.

He was lying on his back, hoodie pulled up over his head like armor, jaw tense, eyes on the ceiling. You were half on top of him, your fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw as you leaned in to place another kiss right below his eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop you. But he didn’t smile either.

“Asher,” you whispered against his skin. Another kiss. His cheek this time. “You know it wasn’t anything. I didn’t even answer.”

He blinked slowly, like he’d heard you but hadn’t decided if it was worth responding. His hand rested on your thigh—loose, heavy, not pushing you away but not pulling you closer either. It was his version of waiting. Of processing.

“You mad?” you murmured, brushing your lips over the bridge of his nose. Still nothing. His eyes flicked toward you, then back to the ceiling.

“No,” he said at last. But his voice was rough, soft like gravel, and you knew better.

You kissed the edge of his mouth. He didn’t kiss you back.

“It was a stupid message,” you added, quieter now. “You’re the only one I even want.”

That made something twitch in his jaw. His grip on your thigh tightened, just for a second, before he let it go again. A beat passed. Then another. Then his voice, almost inaudible:

“Don’t like thinking about you with someone else.”

It was the closest thing to vulnerable you’d get from him. You knew it. So you didn’t tease. You didn’t try to make him laugh. You just leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, whispering, “You won’t have to.”

He finally looked at you. Really looked. Like maybe he wanted to believe you.

“Swear it,” he said.