Three days of silence.
Three days of hiding in Blaze's apartment like a fugitive from my own life, curtains drawn tight against the world outside, phone abandoned on the kitchen counter like a ticking bomb I'm too afraid to defuse.
I can't bring myself to look at it anymore. Can't face the endless stream of notifications that started the moment that video went live and haven't stopped since.
My parents' messages pile up unread—dozens of them, probably, each one a potential devastation I'm not ready to process, my teammates' texts go unanswered, my agent's calls get sent straight to voicemail.
The outside world has been reduced to a threat I'm not equipped to handle. Blaze has been my anchor through it all.
He brings me food I barely touch, holds me through nightmares that jolt me awake in cold sweats, sits with me during panic attacks that leave me gasping on his bathroom floor.
He never pushes, never demands that I snap out of it or face reality before I'm ready. He's just present, steady, the only solid thing in a world that's been turned upside down.
"You should eat something," he says gently, setting a plate of toast beside me on the couch. "Real food this time."
I nod but don't move to pick it up. Haven't had much appetite since Tuesday night when everything exploded. My body feels disconnected from my brain, like I'm operating some kind of remote-controlled version of myself.
"The bread's still warm," Blaze tries again. "I put that honey on it that you like."
"Thank you." My voice comes out hoarse from disuse. "I will. In a minute."
Blaze settles beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth without him demanding anything from me. It's a careful balance he's mastered over the past three days—being available without being overwhelming.
On the third evening, just as the sun is setting and casting long shadows through the closed curtains, the doorbell rings.
My blood turns to ice instantly. Reporters. They've found me. Somehow tracked me down to Blaze's apartment, and now they're going to camp outside his door until I give them something quotable for their stories.
My chest tightens, panic clawing up my throat like a living thing. "Don't answer it," I gasp. "Please, just let them think no one's home."
"Okay," Blaze says calmly, moving toward the front door to check the peephole. "It's okay, I'll just…"
His expression shifts from caution to complete surprise.
"Ash," he says quietly. "It's your parents."
The words hit me like physical blows. "What?"
"Your mom and dad. They're standing right outside."
I stare at him in disbelief. My parents, who I haven't spoken to since the video leaked. Who I've been too terrified to call back, too afraid of what their voices might sound like when they finally had to confront the truth about their son.
They couldn't reach me by phone, so they came in person. Somehow found Blaze's address. Cared enough to track me down instead of just writing me off.
"I don't—I can't—" I start hyperventilating again, the familiar sensation of drowning in my own panic.
"Hey." Blaze moves to me immediately, hands steady on my shoulders. "You don't have to do anything you're not ready for. I can tell them you're not feeling well, that now isn't a good time."
The doorbell rings again. Then a knock, soft but persistent.
"Asher?" My mother's voice carries through the door, muffled but unmistakably worried. "Sweetheart, we know you're in there. We just want to talk."
The sound of her calling me sweetheart, the same endearment she's used since I was five years old, breaks something open in my chest.
"Let them in," I whisper.
Blaze searches my face. "You sure?"
"No. But do it anyway."
He opens the door to reveal my parents standing in the hallway, both of them looking older than I remember.
My mother's eyes are red-rimmed, probably from crying. My father stands slightly behind her, his usual commanding presence tempered by something that looks almost like nervousness.
"Hi, baby," Mom says, her voice gentle in a way that makes my throat close up.
"Hi, Mom."
They step inside, and I brace myself for the conversation I've been dreading my entire adult life. Blaze moves toward the kitchen, probably planning to give us privacy, but my mother stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.
"Please stay," she says. "Both of you should hear this."
We settle in the living room—my parents on the couch, Blaze and me in the chairs across from them. The silence stretches for a moment that feels like an eternity.
"We've been trying to call you for three days," Dad says finally.
"I know. I just... I couldn't."
"We understand," Mom says quickly. "This can't be easy."
I wait for the other shoe to drop. For the disappointment or anger or religious condemnation I've been expecting since I was old enough to understand what being different meant in our family.
Instead, my father leans forward, his expression more vulnerable than I've ever seen it.
"We want you to know that we love you," he says, the words coming out careful but sincere. "That despite everything, despite any mistakes we might have made along the way, you're our son. Nothing changes that."
My vision blurs instantly. "Dad…"
"We regret that you didn't feel like you could trust us enough to tell us sooner," Mom continues, her own eyes filling with tears. "That you carried this alone for so long when you should have known we'd support you no matter what."
"I was scared," I whisper, the admission ripping from somewhere deep in my chest. "I was so scared that you'd hate me."
"Oh, sweetheart." Mom moves to sit beside me, pulling me into the kind of hug I haven't had from her in years. "We could never hate you. Never."
I break down completely then. Twenty-six years of suppressed fear and shame pour out in ugly, gasping sobs that leave me shaking in my mother's arms.
But for the first time since this nightmare started, the tears are born from relief instead of terror. From hope instead of despair.
The people I feared losing most are choosing to stay.
My parents remain for dinner, asking gentle questions about Blaze, about our relationship, about what comes next. They want to know him properly, to understand the person their son loves enough to risk everything for.
It's awkward at times, decades of careful avoidance don't disappear overnight, but there's love underneath it all. Genuine effort to bridge the gap that fear created between us.
We're clearing the dinner dishes when my phone rings, the sound jarring in the domestic quiet we've created. Ryan's name flashes on the screen.
"I should take this," I say, stepping into the hallway. So much has changed since the last time we spoke. Ryan has probably seen the news, as has absolutely everyone around me.
I pick up the phone and before I can even think of what to say, Ryan stuns me: "I'm back in town," he says without preamble, his voice tight with urgency. "We need to talk about Jackson. I have something you need to hear."
My pulse quickens. "What exactly are you talking about?"
"Not over the phone. Can you meet me? Tonight?"
I glance back at my parents, at Blaze cleaning up in the kitchen, at the fragile peace we've managed to build in this apartment.
"Where?" I ask finally.