You didn’t leave. You adjusted your distance.

An inch at a time. So slow it almost felt reasonable.

Ash noticed immediately.

Not in a dramatic, what’s wrong way. In the way he always notices—by feel. By weight. By absence. He tested the waters gently. A hand on your lower back when you passed him. Fingers brushing your wrist when he handed you something. Little touches meant to anchor you, to see if you’d come back to him without being asked.

You didn’t pull away.

But you didn’t lean in either.

At first, he tried with words. Small ones. Careful ones.

“Hey,” he said one night, thumb rubbing slow circles on your knuckles. “You’re quiet.”

You smiled. Soft. Convincing. “I’m good.”

So he let it go.

A few days later, he tried again. Different angle.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone. You can talk to me,” he said, low, like a reminder more than a speech. His forehead rested briefly against yours when he said it. Grounding. Familiar.

You smiled, polite. “I know.”

And that was it.

Then the explanations came. Layered. Rational. Hard to argue with.

You were tired. You had a lot on your mind. Work was getting heavier. Hormones were acting up. It would pass.

You said it casually, like background noise. Like something that didn’t need attention.

Ash nodded every time. Didn’t challenge it. But he knew. Because it wasn’t just what you said—it was what you stopped doing.

You stopped saying yes to dates. Even the easy ones. The lazy ones. The ones you used to suggest—late food, driving nowhere, laying down in silence together. You slept more at your place than his. Texts came later. Calls went unanswered. When he reached for you, you didn’t pull away—you just didn’t meet him halfway.

He tried again. Quietly.

One night, you were half-asleep when he pulled you into his chest, slow and careful, like he was afraid of waking something fragile. His hand rested over your ribs, steady.

“I’m here,” he murmured.

You hummed something that sounded like agreement. You didn’t turn toward him.

Another time, he brushed your hair back from your face, fingers lingering at your temple. “You don’t look like yourself,” he said, not accusing. Observing.

“I’m fine,” you answered automatically.

And the gym—God, the gym.

You were there all the time now. More focused. More disciplined. You looked good. Strong. Centered in a way that didn’t include him. Ash knew what it meant. He knew the gym quieted your head. He knew it gave you control. He never commented on the hours. Never joked about it. Never asked what you were running from.

But it hurt anyway.

Ash never pushed. He never cornered you with questions or forced a conversation you clearly didn’t want. Because it wouldn’t have worked, he knew you. And because if you were pulling away like this, it meant something was wrong inside you—and his feelings didn’t matter compared to that.

Still, alone, the thoughts spiraled.

Maybe you’d lost feelings. Maybe something heavy was messing with your head. Maybe you were protecting him from something. Maybe there was someone else.

He didn’t know.

And the not knowing sat in his chest like a slow burn.

Tonight, the questions keep messing with his head. Sleeping without you has been more and more challenging. He was used to holding you, feeling your warm body next to him, listening to your breathing. Now his bed felt too cold, too big.

Finally, around midnight, he grabs his phone from the nightstand and calls you.