Blaze's POV
The wedding invitations glow on my computer screen like tiny accusation notes, cursor hovering over the send button.
My hand hovers over the trackpad, frozen in place. Send Invitations.
Two words, one click. The final step that makes this real, makes it official, makes it impossible to pretend this is all still theoretical.
My finger won't move. The doubts I keep burying claw their way back up, wrapping around my throat like vines.
Every conversation with Asher. Every moment at the cottage where honesty bled through our careful walls. Every night I lie awake next to Sophie, wondering if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life.
The doorbell cuts through the silence like a knife.
I minimize the browser window and make my way to the front door, expecting a delivery or maybe one of Sophie's friends dropping off more wedding planning materials.
Instead, I find Asher standing on my doorstep, looking more wrecked than I've ever seen him. No carefully constructed walls. No armor of indifference. Just raw, desperate vulnerability that makes my chest tighten with recognition.
"Blaze," he says, my name coming out cracked and broken. "I have no one else to turn to. I'm in deep shit."
Every instinct tells me to close the door. To protect myself and Sophie and the fragile stability I've been building. To not let him back into my life when I'm finally starting to move forward.
Instead, I step aside. "Come in."
Asher moves into my living room like he's walking through a minefield, taking in the wedding planning materials scattered across the coffee table. Fabric samples, catering menus, venue contracts—the physical manifestation of the life I'm building without him.
"I'm sorry," he says, not sitting down. "I know I have no right to be here. I know this is selfish and fucked up and probably the last thing you want to deal with…"
"What happened?"
The story spills out in fragments—Jackson's betrayal, the manufactured threats, years of psychological manipulation designed to isolate and destroy. I listen with growing horror as the scope of Jackson's scheming becomes clear.
The fake investigation, and the attempts to make the uninvolved person look responsible, the way Jackson positioned himself as Asher's savior while systematically tearing him apart.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe when he finishes. "How long?"
"Years, probably. Maybe since we broke up, maybe longer." Asher's hands shake as he runs them through his hair. "I trusted him completely, told him everything. He knew every vulnerability, every fear, every way to get under my skin."
"Have you confronted him?"
"Not yet. I need to figure out how to prove it first, how to expose him without destroying myself in the process." Asher finally sinks onto the couch, looking defeated. "He's been playing chess while I've been playing checkers. I don't even know what his endgame is."
I study his face—the exhaustion, the paranoia, the way his hands won't stop shaking.
"Look, this is fucked up and Jackson needs to pay for what he's done. But you'll get through this. You're stronger than you think, and once it's all out in the open, you can rebuild, start fresh."
Something shifts in Asher's expression. The professional crisis bleeds away, leaving something rawer underneath.
"Start fresh," he repeats, voice hollow. "Right. Like you did. Must be nice being able to just move on, when everything works perfectly for you and your life doesn’t collapse with each day."
“Asher, that’s not what I’ve—”
“I’m glad it’s all so easy for you, but I’m actually in a really deep shit here.”
Something snaps inside my chest. The word comes out jagged, sharp enough to cut. "Easy? You think this is easy for me?"
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, chest heaving with three years of suppressed anguish. "You think I just flipped a switch and stopped loving you? You think I don't lie awake every night wondering if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?"
Asher stares at me, eyes wide with something that might be hope.
"It fucking tears me apart every single time. Seeing you in person, catching your face on sports coverage, pretending I don't still dream about you every goddamn night. You want to know the truth?”
We stare at each other across the living room, years of careful distance crumbling in the space between us.
“Sophie is lovely and kind and everything I should want, but she's not you. She'll never be you."
"Then why…" Asher starts.
"Because loving you nearly destroyed me the first time. Because I can't keep breaking my own heart hoping you'll be brave enough to let me love you properly."
"I want to be brave enough."
"Wanting isn't enough, Ash. It never was."
The silence between us is thick with years of unsaid shit—regret, anger, that fucking ache that never went away. And now? Now there’s electricity in the air, crackling like a live wire under my skin.
Asher moves first. Or maybe I do. Doesn’t matter. Our mouths crash together like we’re starving for it—teeth clashing, tongues tangling, all wet heat and desperate need.
His lips are rough against mine, his stubble scraping my jaw raw as I yank him closer by his stupidly expensive shirt.
"Fuck," he growls into my mouth, his hands already clawing at my belt like he can’t wait another second. "You still taste the same."
I shove him back against the wall, my fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to make him hiss. I grind my cock against his thigh, letting him feel just how fucking hard I am.
"Sophie—" he gasps against my lips.
"Won't be back for hours." My hands are already tearing at his clothes, buttons popping as I wrench his shirt open. His chest is just as I remember—broad, fucking perfect, the one I used to lick my way down.
Now there’s new scars, a jagged line across his shoulder from some bullshit hockey injury, and I trace it with my tongue, savoring the way he shudders under me.
I'm pulling him toward the hallway, toward the bedroom where I've spent months trying to build a life that doesn't include him
Asher’s pants hit the floor next, then mine, until there’s nothing left but skin. I push him onto the bed, watching as he sprawls out—all muscle and golden skin and that thick, leaking cock curving up toward his stomach.
"Jesus," I groan, crawling over him. "Still fucking perfect."
His hands grab my hips, dragging me down until our cocks slide together, hot and slick with pre-cum. "You gonna talk all night," he growls, "or are you gonna ride me like you used to?"
I laugh, low and dirty, before sinking my teeth into his collarbone. "Patience, asshole."
Then I’m moving down, tracing every inch of him with my tongue—the dip of his hip, the rough trail of hair leading to his cock, the thick vein pulsing under my lips as I finally take him into my mouth.
He arches off the bed with a curse, his fingers tightening in my hair. "Fuck—just like that."
I suck him deep, hollowing my cheeks until his thighs tremble. His taste floods my mouth, salt and musk and pure fucking Asher, and I groan around him, vibrating his cock just to hear him lose it.
"Goddamn it," he snarls, yanking me up by my hair until our mouths crash together again. "Need to be inside you. Now."
I don’t argue. Just reach for the lube in the nightstand (because of course I still keep it there) and slick my fingers fast before pushing one inside myself.
His eyes go black as he watches me stretch, his cock twitching against his stomach like he’s about to explode.
"You always did love watching," I pant, working a second finger in.
"Fuck yeah I do," he growls, grabbing my hips again. "But I’m done waiting."
Then he’s flipping me onto my back, spreading my legs wide before driving into me with one brutal thrust.
I swear my vision whites out for a second. He’s big, always was, and it’s been so long that the stretch burns in the best fucking way.
"Shit—tight—" he grits out, his forehead dropping to mine as he bottoms out.
I claw at his back, dragging him deeper. "Move."
He does. Hard and fast and perfect, just like I remember—every thrust punching a moan out of me as he hits that spot inside me over and over.
His hips snap against mine, skin slapping skin, sweat dripping between us as we fuck like we’re trying to erase every second we spent apart.
"Fuck, fuck." he grunts, his rhythm faltering as he gets close. "Gonna come."
I wrap my hand around my own cock, jerking fast and rough until I’m right there with him. "Do it," I snarl. "Fill me up."
He groans like I’ve ruined him—and then he does, spilling inside me with a shudder that wracks his whole body. The feel of him pulsing deep is enough to tip me over, my own release streaking across my stomach as I clench around him.