Asher's POV
The commercial shoot was supposed to wrap two hours ago. Instead, I'm standing under blazing lights for the fifteenth take.
I’m trying to summon enthusiasm for a sports drink I've never actually consumed while the director calls for "just one more" with the desperation of someone who's lost control of their own production.
"Cut!" The director sighs heavily, consulting with his assistant about something I can't hear. "Let's reset for the hero shot. Five-minute break, everyone."
I step away from the mark, rolling my shoulders to release tension that's been building since morning. Kieran appears at my elbow almost immediately, tablet in hand, professional smile firmly in place.
"You're doing great," he assures me, guiding me toward the refreshment table. "The director's a perfectionist, but the footage looks incredible. Your fans are going to eat this up."
"Thanks." I accept a bottle of water, grateful for something to do with my hands. "I just want to get home at some point today."
"Missing your husband?" The question is light, casual, but something in Kieran's tone makes me glance at him more carefully.
"Always."
He hums noncommittally and begins reviewing footage on his tablet, standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and deliberately masculine.
"Come look at this. The lighting team really captured something special in the last setup."
I lean in to see the screen, and his shoulder brushes against mine. The contact feels deliberate, though I can't be certain. He doesn't move away.
"See how the camera picks up your eyes in this frame?" His finger traces across the tablet. "That ice-blue intensity. It's magnetic. The audience won't be able to look away."
"It's just good lighting."
"It's more than that."
Kieran tilts his head to study my face directly, his gaze traveling over my features with undisguised appreciation.
"You're a natural at this, Asher. The camera picks up on your authenticity. It's rare for athletes—most of you are too guarded, too afraid to let people see who you really are."
Heat creeps up my neck at the praise, and I find myself uncertain how to respond. The commentary feels personal in a way that goes beyond professional courtesy, but I've been wrong about these things before.
The memory surfaces unbidden—Chad's bewildered expression when I kissed him, the mortifying realization that I'd completely misread friendly behavior as romantic interest.
I'd been so certain of the signals, so confident in my interpretation, and I'd been catastrophically wrong.
That experience taught me to second-guess every interaction. To wonder if I'm imagining undercurrents that don't exist, projecting attraction where none is intended.
Maybe Kieran is just enthusiastic about his job. Maybe this is how confident gay men interact professionally, and my years of hiding left me unable to distinguish between flirtation and friendliness.
"I just try to be myself," I say carefully, stepping back to create more physical distance between us.
Kieran's smile sharpens into something I can't quite read—knowing, almost predatory. "That's exactly what makes you so appealing. Authenticity is incredibly attractive, especially when it comes in such a... compelling package."
My mouth opens, but no response emerges. Is that flirting? It sounds like flirting. But Chad's awkward rejection plays on loop in my memory, and I can't trust my own judgment anymore.
Before I can formulate a coherent reply, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out automatically, years of being on-call for Blaze having trained me to check every notification immediately.
The message preview shows his name, followed by a snippet of text: "Hey, what time do you think you'll be home? Was hoping we could have dinner at..."
Relief floods through me—a lifeline back to solid ground, away from whatever confusing territory this conversation has wandered into. I start to unlock my phone to respond immediately, already composing reassurances in my head.
But Kieran intercepts the motion smoothly, drawing my attention back to the tablet with practiced ease.
"Oh, before you get distracted—look at this shot."
He angles the screen toward me, and somehow his other hand ends up resting on my forearm. The touch is warm, deliberate, impossible to misinterpret as accidental.
"Look at the energy you're projecting in this take. The way you carry yourself in this frame—it's commanding without being aggressive. That kind of confidence translates beautifully on screen."
His thumb traces a small circle against my skin as he speaks, the gesture almost absent-minded except for the way his gaze flickers to gauge my reaction.
"Your fans are going to lose their minds over this," he continues, his voice dropping into something lower and more intimate. "You have no idea how many people watch your content just to see your face. The engagement metrics on your posts are through the roof."
"That's... good, I guess?" I manage, hyperaware of his hand still resting on my arm. "For the endorsements."
"For everything."
His smile holds promises I'm not sure I'm reading correctly.
"Visibility like yours opens doors you can't even imagine yet. I've worked with a lot of athletes, Asher, and most of them would kill for your natural presence. You have something special."
The director's assistant calls for everyone to return to positions, and Kieran finally releases my arm. But the ghost of his touch lingers, warm and confusing against my skin.
"Better get back to it," he says, still standing closer than necessary. "We'll review more footage after the next setup. I want to make sure we're capturing your best angles."
I nod automatically, setting my phone down on a nearby equipment case without thinking. The screen is still lit with Blaze's unread message, waiting for a response I haven't given.
The next hour blurs past in a haze of repeated takes and adjusted lighting and the director's increasingly frantic demands for perfection. Kieran hovers at the edge of my vision throughout, his presence a constant distraction I can't quite name.
Every time our eyes meet, he offers that knowing smile—the one that makes me feel both flattered and unsettled.
When we finally wrap, exhausted and relieved, I gather my things hastily, eager to escape the set's strange tension. It's only when I'm halfway to the car that I remember Blaze's text.
I pull out my phone and see the message still sitting there, marked as read hours ago, the little checkmarks confirming I'd seen it but never responded.
"Hey, what time do you think you'll be home? Was hoping we could do dinner at that Thai place you like. Let me know! Love you."
Guilt twists in my stomach. He'd reached out wanting to plan something nice, and I'd ignored him—left him waiting and wondering while I got distracted by Kieran's compliments and confusing touches.
I type back quickly: "So sorry, shoot ran way over. Just wrapped now. Still up for Thai? I can be home in 30."
The response comes almost immediately: "Sure. See you soon."
Two words. No emoji, no "love you" in return. The silence in that response says more than any accusation could.
I pocket my phone and drive home faster than I should, already preparing apologies for a husband who deserves better than being forgotten.