Asher’s POV
Morning light filters through the cottage windows in soft golden streams, catching dust motes that drift lazily through the air. I'm curled up on the worn kitchen chair, phone in hand, coffee growing cold beside my untouched toast.
The domestic normalcy of it still feels surreal—waking up next to Blaze without fear, padding into the kitchen without checking over my shoulder, existing in this space like I have every right to be here.
Because I do. For the first time, I actually do.
I scroll through the morning headlines absently, not really expecting anything worth stopping for. The scandal has faded from front pages now that newer dramas have captured public attention.
Our names still surface occasionally, think pieces about athletes coming out, opinion columns debating privacy rights, but the feeding frenzy has passed.
Then a headline makes me pause.
JACKSON BLAKE PERMANENTLY BANNED FROM NHL, FACING CRIMINAL CHARGES
I read it twice to make sure I'm not imagining things. It's official—Jackson's hockey career is over. The league's decision is final, unappealable, effective immediately.
The criminal charges are extensive—harassment, fraud, invasion of privacy, with more counts potentially forthcoming as the investigation continues.
The man who spent years orchestrating our destruction, who smiled in my face while plotting to ruin everything I cared about, will now face consequences for every calculated cruelty.
I exhale slowly, and something tight in my chest finally releases. A knot I've been carrying for so long I forgot it was there, suddenly unwinding.
It's done. He can't hurt us anymore.
Footsteps pad across the wooden floor behind me, and I don't startle. I know the rhythm of Blaze's walk, the weight of his presence in a room.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, hair sleep-mussed and standing up at odd angles, wearing nothing but boxers and a soft smile that makes my heart do something embarrassing.
He crosses to me, dropping a kiss on the top of my head before reaching for the coffee pot. The gesture is casual, thoughtless, the kind of easy affection I never let myself imagine having.
His fingers brush my shoulder as he passes, and I lean into the touch without thinking.
"You're hogging all the good news without me?" He pours himself a mug, steam curling upward. "I wake up alone in bed, come out here, and find you glued to your phone like it contains the secrets of the universe. What's so important?"
"Jackson's done." I turn the phone so he can see the headline. "Permanently. Banned from the league, facing criminal charges that could put him away for years. It's actually happening, Blaze. He's not getting out of this."
Blaze pauses, coffee halfway to his lips. His expression shifts through several emotions—satisfaction, relief, something darker beneath that might be the lingering anger he'll probably always carry. Then he nods slowly, deliberately.
"Good. He deserves worse, honestly. After everything he did, a ban and some charges feel almost light. But I'll take it."
"The article says more counts might be coming. Other victims have been coming forward since Ryan's testimony.
Apparently Jackson's pattern goes back further than anyone realized—years of manipulation, people he targeted before us who were too scared to speak up."
"Makes sense. Men like him don't start with something this elaborate. They practice. They refine their methods. We were just the biggest targets he'd aimed for yet."
Blaze sets down his mug and moves to the stove, pulling eggs and butter from the fridge. I watch him crack shells into a bowl with practiced efficiency, whisking them into a frothy yellow mixture.
The domesticity of the scene wraps around me like a warm blanket—Blaze making breakfast, morning light spilling across the kitchen, the comfortable silence of two people who don't need to fill every moment with words.
I steal his coffee mug when he's not looking, taking a long sip. He catches me and narrows his eyes in mock accusation.
"That's mine."
"You snooze, you lose." I take another pointed sip, maintaining eye contact. "Should've moved faster."
"I'll remember this betrayal when I'm deciding how much cheese goes in your eggs."
"You wouldn't dare hold cheese hostage."
"Watch me."
We settle into comfortable silence after that—Blaze scrambling eggs and making quiet threats about dairy rationing, me stealing sips from his mug whenever he turns his back.
The radio plays softly from the living room, some morning show host discussing traffic patterns in a city far from here. It all feels impossibly normal. Easy. The kind of morning I used to think would never belong to me.
Then Blaze's phone buzzes against the counter. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts. Not alarm—something more complicated. Uncertainty mixed with something almost like hope.
"My parents called earlier." He sets down the spatula, giving me his full attention. "They want us for dinner tomorrow. At their house."
My stomach drops like I've missed a step on a staircase. "Both of us?"
"Both of us. That's specifically what my mom said—she wants to meet you properly, as my partner. Not as someone she's heard about secondhand or seen in tabloid photos, but actually meet you. Sit across a dinner table and have a real conversation."
The nervous energy is immediate, crackling between us like static electricity. I set down the coffee mug, appetite vanishing completely. My toast sits abandoned, cold and forgotten.
"Your father hates me. He's blamed me for everything from the beginning—for corrupting you, for ruining your career prospects, for turning his son into something he never wanted."
The words come out flat, certain.
"And now, after everything that's come out publicly, after your mom's post basically admitted they were wrong? He probably blames me even more. I'm the reason his perfect family image crumbled."
"He doesn't—" Blaze stops himself, sighing heavily. "Okay, honestly? I don't know what he thinks. My father has always been impossible to read, and we haven't spoken directly since the confrontation.”
Blaze’s smile eases something in my chest.
“But my mom's post was real, Ash. You read it yourself. She wants to try. She's reaching out, asking to meet you, extending an olive branch that cost her something to offer."
"And if it goes badly?" My voice catches despite my best efforts. "If we show up and your father spends the whole dinner glaring at me, or making comments, or trying to convince you that this is still a phase you'll grow out of? What then?"
Blaze abandons the eggs entirely, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of me. He cups my face in both hands, palms warm against my cheeks, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones in that way he has, that always makes me feel anchored.
"Then we leave, together. We thank them for dinner, we walk out that door, and we figure out the rest on our own. I would rather have a small life with you than a big one surrounded by people who can't accept who I love."
"You'd do that?" My voice comes out smaller than I intend. "Choose me over them? Your own family?"
"I already did." His forehead presses against mine, breath warm on my lips. "Years ago, the first time I realized I loved you more than I feared their disapproval. I'd do it again in a heartbeat, Ash. Every single time."
I breathe him in—coffee and sleep and something that's just uniquely Blaze. Terrified and hopeful and impossibly loved, all tangled together in my chest until I can't tell where one feeling ends and another begins.