You met Ash a few months ago through mutual friends. That first night, you barely talked. Just sat there, listening, watching, clocking everything. Dark eyes steady. When you did speak, it was brief. Direct. No filler. You remember him glancing at you like he was trying to figure you out, probably thinking okay… she’s either guarded or just built different.

You were guarded.

From there, it was easy. Almost suspiciously easy. Late-night drives. Coffee that turned into hours because neither of you wanted to be the one to leave. Him walking slightly behind you on the sidewalk, like he was instinctively watching your back.

And you started noticing patterns.

He stayed out late if he wanted. Drank if he felt like it. Spontaneous plans didn’t faze him.

You, on the other hand, always checked the time. Always had a quiet alarm in your head around 11:30. Midnight was pushing it. Your phone was never far from your hand. If someone suggested an all-day plan, you hesitated.

And every single time things got intense between you two, you pulled back.

You’d pull back. Make a joke. Change the subject. Say you were tired. Say you had to go. Take longer to answer his texts the next day, like distance could undo the moment.

You told yourself it was just caution. That you didn’t want anything serious. That you were protecting your peace.

Except that wasn’t true.

Because it kept happening. Moments where your hands lingered too long. Where his gaze dropped to your mouth and stayed there. Where his voice softened, slowed, like he was about to cross that line.

And then—

You shut it down.

You’d step back, smooth your jacket, suddenly very interested in literally anything else. You could feel his confusion every time, like he was trying to read a sentence you kept rewriting.

He probably thought the obvious: she’s not that into me. She likes the tension, not the follow-through.

Except that didn’t make sense either.

Because the way you looked at him? That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t friendly. That was controlled. Measured. Like you were holding back something that could blow your life open if you let it.

What he didn’t know was that every time you checked your phone, it wasn’t work.

It was Peter.

Three years old. Messy curls. Sticky fingers. A laugh that could knock the air out of your lungs on the worst days. Your whole world.

His father had left when Peter was one. Not even a fight. Just a door closing and never opening again. No explanations that stuck. Just absence.

And you never fully recovered from that.

You rebuilt your life around stability after that. Routines. No emotional risks you couldn’t manage. Peter was safe. Loved. Anchored.

Ash?

He wasn’t part of the plan.

Not because you didn’t want him.

But because you did.

You made sure your friends didn’t say anything. “Don’t tell him,” you’d said more than once. “Not yet.” You didn’t want to see that shift—the pause, the polite recalculation. You didn’t want to watch him decide whether a woman with a kid was too much baggage.

You weren’t ashamed of your son.

You were terrified of losing someone you hadn’t even fully had yet.

In your head, it was brutal math. He’s free. Unattached. He didn’t sign up for bedtime routines and responsibilities that aren’t his. The second he finds out, he’ll leave.

So you keep him in this limbo.

Close enough to feel him.

Far enough to survive if he leaves.

Tonight is the same.

You’re in his car after the bar. Music low. Streetlights sliding across his face. The air between you is thick, electric.

You turn toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

That look again. Intense. Focused. His hand lifts like he’s about to touch you, then hesitates. His thumb brushes your jaw, slow, deliberate.

Your breath catches.

This is it.

His eyes drop to your lips.

His jaw tightens.

And for a second, he looks like he’s bracing himself—like kissing you would change something fundamental. Like it would mean crossing a line neither of you has admitted exists.