Asher’s POV
We don't move from the floor for a long time.
I'm not sure how long we sit there—me curled against Blaze's chest, his arms wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. The darkness of the apartment cocoons us, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights through the window.
My tears have dried, leaving my face tight and raw, but the hollow ache in my chest has faded into something softer. Something almost like peace.
"We should probably get off the floor," Blaze murmurs eventually, his voice rumbling through his chest where my ear is pressed.
"Probably." I don't move.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "That wasn't a suggestion to actually move."
"Good. Because I wasn't planning to."
We stay like that for another few minutes before Blaze shifts, pulling us both to our feet. My legs are stiff, protesting the sudden movement, but he steadies me with a hand on my hip. Always touching. Always anchoring.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asks, studying my face with concern.
I try to remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time has blurred together since I sent that email. "I don't know."
"That's not a good answer." Blaze steers me toward the couch, pressing gently on my shoulders until I sit. "Stay. I'm making you food."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He's already moving toward the kitchen, flicking on lights as he goes. The sudden brightness makes me wince. "I want to. That's the difference."
I watch him rummage through cabinets, pulling out pasta and a jar of sauce and whatever else he can find. The domesticity of it makes something twist in my chest—not painfully, but with a strange, unfamiliar warmth. Like coming home after a long time away.
"You really gave all that up for me?" The question slips out before I can stop it. I know the answer now—heard it through the door—but part of me still can't process it.
Blaze pauses, pot in hand. "I didn't give anything up, Ashy. I finally got what I actually wanted."
"But the scouts, the better program—"
"Were just hockey." He fills the pot, sets it on the stove. "You know what I actually gave up? Three years of my teammates trying to set me up with every available person on campus. Parties where people threw themselves at me. A parade of guys and girls who checked every box except the one that mattered." He turns, leaning against the counter. "I said no to all of them. Every single one. Because none of them were you."
My chest tightens. "You waited?"
"I didn't even realize I was doing it at first. Just kept finding excuses—too busy, too focused, not my type." His smile is soft, a little sad. "Took me a while to admit the truth. No one else ever stood a chance, Ash. It was always going to be you."
My throat tightens. "Same ice."
"Same ice." His smile is soft, achingly tender. "I never forgot, Ash. Not for a single day."
The pasta water starts to boil. Blaze turns back to the stove, and I watch him move around my small kitchen with easy familiarity—like he belongs here, in my space, in my life. Maybe he does. Maybe he always has.
"I thought about you too," I admit quietly. "After you moved. I used to dream about playing on the same team again. Wondered where you were, if you were happy, if you ever thought about me." I pause, the vulnerability scraping against my throat. "I didn't let myself hope you did."
Blaze glances over his shoulder. "I thought about you constantly. You were my first crush, you know. Before I even knew what a crush was." He laughs softly, shaking his head. "I used to get so nervous around you. Heart racing, palms sweating, the whole thing. I had no idea what it meant. Just knew I wanted to be near you all the time."
"You hid it well."
"I had to. We were kids. And then I moved, and I figured you'd forget about me. Find other friends, other people. Move on."
"I didn't." The confession feels enormous. I take a breath, pushing past the fear. "I dated Amelia for a year and never felt a fraction of what I feel when you're in the room. I told myself it was normal. Told myself that butterflies and racing hearts were just movie bullshit." I look down at my hands. "Turns out I was just waiting for the right person."
The pasta is done. Blaze drains it, adds the sauce, plates it with mechanical efficiency. But when he brings the food over and sits beside me on the couch, his hands are trembling slightly.
"Eat," he says, handing me a fork. "Then we'll talk more."
We eat in comfortable silence. The food is simple—just pasta and jarred sauce—but it's the first thing I've tasted in days that doesn't feel like ash on my tongue. Blaze watches me eat with quiet satisfaction, like feeding me is some kind of personal victory.
When the plates are empty and set aside, we shift on the couch until we're facing each other. Knees touching. Close enough to breathe the same air.
"Tell me about the years we missed," I say. "Everything. I want to know all of it."
So he does.
He talks about moving to the new city, the new school, the aching loneliness of starting over without his best friend. He talks about throwing himself into hockey—the only thing that made sense, the only place he felt like himself. He talks about Jackson—how they met freshman year, how Jackson latched onto him with an intensity Blaze mistook for friendship.
"I should have seen it sooner," Blaze admits, running a hand through his hair. "The way he controlled things. Decided who I hung out with, how I spent my time. I thought he was just intense. Competitive. I didn't realize he saw me as something to own."
"He's good at hiding it." I think about the parking lot—Jackson's cold eyes, his calculated words. "He seemed like your friend."
"Yeah, well. Turns out I'm a shit judge of character when it comes to him." Blaze reaches out, threading his fingers through mine. "But not when it comes to you. I knew the second I saw you again that you were still the same person I fell for when we were kids. Stubborn. Proud. Terrified of letting anyone in." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "But worth every ounce of effort it takes to reach you."
My eyes burn. I've cried more in the past week than I have in years, but these tears feel different. Cleansing instead of devastating.
"I'm scared," I admit. "Of needing you this much. Of what happens if I let myself have this and it falls apart."
"I'm scared too." Blaze squeezes my hand. "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you. That's not even a choice for me, Ash. It never has been."
We talk until the early hours of the morning—about the past, the present, the uncertain future waiting for us. About hockey and dreams and what we want our lives to look like. About the championship, the conversation with Wellington we'll have to navigate, the fallout from Jackson that's probably still coming.
But through all of it, our hands stay linked. Our bodies stay close.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe in years—I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"We should sleep," Blaze finally says, voice thick with exhaustion. "Big day tomorrow. Wellington won't be easy to convince."
"I know." I should be terrified. Should be spiraling about the confrontation ahead. But with his hand in mine, his warmth pressed against my side, the fear feels manageable. Survivable.
"Whatever happens," Blaze says, pulling me closer until my head rests on his chest, "we face it together. No more running. No more hiding. No more making decisions alone."
"No more making decisions alone," I echo. A promise. A vow.
His arms wrap around me like armor against the world. I listen to his heartbeat—steady, strong, unwavering—and let it anchor me.
Tomorrow, we fight for my place on the team. Tomorrow, we face Wellington and whatever consequences my withdrawal has caused.
Tonight, we rest.
My eyes drift closed. Blaze's breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that feels like home.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I fall asleep without fear.
Because I'm not alone anymore.
I never have to be again.