Asher's POV
I wake with a heavy knot of guilt sitting in my stomach like something I swallowed but can't digest.
The ceiling of our bedroom stares back at me, familiar and accusing. Our bedroom—where I slept alone last night while my husband took the couch. The memory feels wrong, like a betrayal of everything we've worked to build together.
We promised each other honesty, partnership, a love that wouldn't repeat the hiding and distance of our past. And last night, we broke that promise with harsh words and separate rooms.
The sound of running water reaches me through the bathroom door. Blaze is awake, already showering, probably trying to wash away the residue of our fight the same way I'm lying here wishing I could take back half the things I said.
This is my chance. My opportunity to begin repairing the damage before the distance between us hardens into something permanent.
I slip out of bed and cross to the bathroom, not bothering to knock. Steam has already fogged the mirror, the air thick and warm with moisture.
Through the glass shower door, I can see Blaze's silhouette—the familiar lines of his body, shoulders tense with lingering hurt, head bowed under the spray.
He doesn't turn when I enter, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.
I strip quickly, leaving my clothes in a pile on the tile floor, and slide open the shower door. The warm water hits my skin as I step inside, but I barely register it.
All my attention is focused on the man in front of me—my husband, who I've been failing without even realizing it.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, wrapping my arms around him from behind. My lips find the wet skin of his neck, pressing soft kisses there. "I hate how we left things last night."
For a moment, Blaze remains rigid in my embrace. Every muscle in his back is coiled with tension, and I can feel the hurt radiating from him like heat.
I've done this. I've made him feel small and unimportant, and no amount of apology can erase that completely.
But then, slowly, he relaxes. Just slightly. Just enough to lean back into my chest, to let his head tip against my shoulder.
"I hate it too," he admits quietly. "I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
My hands begin to roam over familiar territory—the planes of his stomach, the ridges of his ribs, the sensitive spots I've memorized over years of loving him. I turn him gently to face me, cupping his jaw in my hands so he can see the sincerity in my eyes.
Water streams down his face, and I can't tell if the moisture in his eyes is from the shower or something else.
"Let me show you that you're still my priority. That nothing has changed about how much I love you."
The air in the bathroom is thick with steam, clinging to our skin like a second layer, amplifying every touch, every whispered word. Blaze’s eyes linger on mine, questioning, unsure, but I don’t give him the chance to doubt me.
My lips crash into his, soft at first, apologetic, but then the kiss deepens, hungry and demanding. My tongue slips between his lips, tasting him, claiming him, and he lets out a low, ragged moan that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Ash,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice rough, raw with need. “We should… talk.”
“Later,” I growl, pulling back just enough to see the desire flickering in his eyes. “Right now, I need you to feel how much I’ve missed you. How much I want you.”
My hands slide down his chest, tracing every muscle, every scar, every inch of skin I’ve been neglecting. His body tenses under my touch, and when my fingers brush over the curve of his hip, he sucks in a sharp breath.
I can feel the heat of him pressing against me, his cock already hard, straining against the fabric of his boxers.
“Fuck, Ash,” he gasps, his hands gripping my shoulders, digging in with desperation.
I drop to my knees without hesitation, my hands sliding down his thighs, pushing the soft fabric of his boxers down. His cock springs free, thick and full, the tip already glistening with precum.
I don’t waste a second. My tongue darts out, licking a slow, wet stripe from base to tip, savoring the salt and musk of him.
“Yes,” he hisses, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I wrap my lips around the head of his cock, swirling my tongue around the sensitive ridge, teasing him. His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper into my mouth, and I let him, swallowing him down until my nose brushes against the coarse hair at his base.
My throat constricts around him, and he groans, a low, primal sound that vibrates through both of us.
“God, your mouth,” he pants, his voice trembling. “Feels so fucking good.”
I pull back slowly, savoring the way his cock throbs against my tongue, then take him deep again, setting a rhythm that has him clutching at me like he’s drowning.
My lips are tight around him, my tongue working him relentlessly, and I can feel his body tensing, his thighs trembling as he gets closer to the edge.
“Ash, I’m—” he starts, his voice breaking, but I don’t let up. I suck him harder, faster, until he’s thrusting into my mouth, his cock pulsing as he comes with a ragged cry, his release flooding my throat.
I swallow every drop, my lips still wrapped around him, milking him until he’s spent, his body sagging against the wall.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his chest heaving, his hands still tangled in my hair. “You’re… incredible.”
I smirk up at him, licking my lips, savoring the taste of him. Then, just as I’m about to stand, my phone rings, the sound cutting through the steam-filled air like a knife.
"Ignore it," Blaze breathes, his fingers threading through my wet hair.
I press another kiss to his skin. The ringing stops. Silence returns, broken only by the rush of water and Blaze's unsteady breathing. I rise to my feet, ready to continue what we started, ready to show him that he still comes first.
Then the phone starts again.
Blaze's eyes close, frustration and resignation warring across his features. "Of course."
"I'm sorry," I say, though every fiber of my being wants to stay. "If they're calling twice…" I reach past the shower curtain for my phone on the bathroom counter, and Chad's name flashes across the screen.
"Carpenter, thank God." His voice is tight with urgency before I can even finish my greeting. "Emergency practice. Coach called it twenty minutes ago. Some kind of strategy crisis with tomorrow's game. You need to get here now."
My eyes close. I can feel the moment slipping away completely, everything we were rebuilding dissolving into the steam.
"How soon is now?"
"Ten minutes ago, preferably. The guys are already on the ice. I'll stall as long as I can, but Coach is asking for you specifically."
"I'll be there."
I end the call and turn back to Blaze. The hurt in his eyes is unmistakable—worse than last night, because now it's layered with disappointment over hope that briefly flickered before being extinguished.
"This is exactly what I was talking about," he says quietly, his voice carefully controlled in a way that tells me he's working hard not to explode. "Even this, even us trying to fix things, gets interrupted by work."
"It's an emergency, babe. I wouldn't go if it wasn't—"
"You always have a reason." He steps out of the shower, reaching for a towel. "It's always urgent, always important, always something you can't miss. And I'm always the thing that gets sacrificed."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He wraps the towel around his waist, not looking at me. "Just go, Asher. We both know you don't really have a choice."
The resignation in his voice is somehow worse than anger would be. I want to argue, to explain that this really is different, that Coach wouldn't call an emergency practice unless it was genuinely critical.
But we both know the pattern too well—my career will always find a way to intrude, no matter what I promise.
"I'll make this up to you," I say, the words feeling hollow even as I speak them. "Tonight. I swear."
Blaze doesn't respond. Just walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing alone in the cooling water.