The bar is loud, warm, packed, that kind of night where the table gets swallowed by noise and inside jokes. You’re wrapped up in the chaos with your friends, bouncing from one topic to another without even catching your breath.

Ash is there too, sitting beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight but unreadable. At first he just tries to get your attention the normal way—leans in, says your name quietly over the noise. You give him a quick glance, a half-smile, a small sentence and then dive straight back into your conversation.

He tries again. Fingers brushing your thigh under the table. You shift, laugh at something someone across from you said, completely missing the point. He gives a short, irritated exhale. No reaction.

He tries a third time—tapping your arm with his knuckles like he’s about to make a comment, something he actually wants to say—but you’re already answering someone else, eyes everywhere except on him.

You don’t realize you’re brushing him off. But he feels every single one of those little dismissals like a door closing in his face. His expression barely shifts—just a slight pinch in his brows, a subtle clench in his jaw—but inside he’s done. Not jealous, not needy… just pissed. Unwanted. Like he’s talking to a wall.

Ash doesn’t chase when he’s ignored. That’s not his style.

So after one last attempt—his hand on your lower back, you moving away because someone called your name—he pushes his chair back. Not dramatically. Just… enough to cut himself out of the situation.

He gets up, grabs his lighter, and steps outside.

The cold air hits him, calmer than the heat inside. He lights his cigarette, shoulders tense, leaning against the wall like he’s holding himself in place. Not sulking. Just… collecting himself before he says something sharp you won’t like.

Minutes pass.

You’re still talking, laughing… until it finally hits you that he hasn’t come back. You scan the table. Not here. You look toward the door. Still gone.

A little jolt hits your stomach. You stand, slip outside.

He’s exactly where you expect him. Back against the wall, smoke drifting past his jawline, eyes narrowed at some point far away. He doesn’t look at you when you join him, but you feel the shift—the way his shoulders tense, like he can already guess why you’re here.

“What?” he asks, voice flat, not angry but definitely not warm. Just… done.