Asher’s POV
The club's back exit smells like cigarettes and regret.
I lean against the brick wall, the world spinning pleasantly. The cold air helps. Clears some of the whiskey fog from my brain.
I slipped out without telling Jackson. Didn't even think to say goodbye. Just walked away while he was ordering another round.
Whatever's between us means nothing. The hookup was weeks ago. The "friendship" he's been cultivating. The concerned glances that feel more calculating than caring.
Jackson is a teammate. An assistant captain. Nothing more.
We'll never be anything more. Not friends. Not confidants. Not whatever he seems to be angling for with all his careful attention. I feel zero guilt about disappearing.
Headlights cut through the darkness. A familiar car pulls into the alley.
Ryan's car.
He steps out, face tight with worry. Crosses to me in three quick strides.
"Jesus, Ash." His eyes scan me head to toe. "You sounded wrecked on the phone."
"M'fine." I push off the wall. Stumble slightly when the ground tilts.
Ryan catches me instantly. Arm around my waist. Steadying me like it's second nature.
"Sure you are." No judgment in his voice. Just patience. "Come on. Let's get you home."
In the car, I slump against the window. Watch streetlights blur past like falling stars.
Ryan doesn't push for conversation. Doesn't ask why I called him at 2 AM sounding desperate. Doesn't demand explanations I can't give.
Just drives. Steady and patient. Like always.
He's too good for this. Too good for me. The thought drifts through my foggy brain and disappears.
My apartment building looms ahead. Ryan parks and helps me out. Keeps his arm around me as we navigate the lobby, the elevator, the hallway.
Inside, he guides me to the couch. Gets water from the kitchen. Presses the glass into my hands.
"Drink," he orders softly. "All of it."
I obey. The cold water helps. Settles my spinning head slightly. Ryan watches me finish. Takes the empty glass. Sets it on the counter.
"Okay." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You should sleep. I'll let myself out."
He turns toward the door. I grab his wrist.
"Stay."
Ryan freezes. Looks down at my fingers wrapped around his arm. Then up at my face.
"Ash, you're drunk." His voice is careful. "You should sleep it off."
"Don't want to sleep." I pull him closer. My other hand fists his shirt. "Want you."
It's a lie. I want Blaze. Want the corridor and the comfort and the promises I can't accept. But Ryan is here. Ryan is easy. Ryan doesn't ask for things I can't give.
"Please." The word scrapes out. "I need… I just need it. You."
Something flickers across Ryan’s face. Conflict. Concern. Lust. And of course, lust wins. He kisses me, soft at first and testing.
I don't want soft. Don't want gentle. I want to forget. Want to feel something other than the fear that's been choking me for weeks.
I deepen the kiss. Aggressive. Demanding. Push him backward toward the bedroom. We stumble through the doorway. Fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
I strip his shirt off. Then mine. Hands fumbling with buttons and zippers. Too impatient for finesse.
"Ash…" Ryan tries to slow down. "We don't have to—"
"Shut up." I silence him with my mouth. Don't want words. Don't want connection. Just want this.
I flip him onto his back. Straddle his hips. Grind down hard.
Ryan groans. His hands grip my waist. "Fuck."
"That's the plan."
I reach for the nightstand. Lube. Condom. Toss them on the bed beside us. No foreplay. No tenderness. I prep myself quickly—stretch and burn and exactly what I deserve.
Ryan watches with dark eyes. Breathing hard. "Let me—"
"No." I roll the condom onto him. Position myself. "Just lie there."
I sink down in one brutal movement.
The stretch burns. Good. I want it to hurt. Want to feel something physical instead of the emotional wreckage inside me.
I ride him hard. Set a punishing pace. Chase oblivion in the friction and the fullness.
Ryan's hands find my hips. Try to slow me down. "Ash, Jesus... You'll hurt yourself."
"Don't care." I slam down harder. "Don't fucking care."
His head falls back. Moans spill from his throat. At least his body is enjoying this even if his eyes hold too many questions.
I close my own eyes. Pretend the hands on my skin belong to someone else. Pretend the body beneath me is broader, more familiar.
Pretend it's Blaze.
The fantasy works. Heat coils in my belly. Pressure builds at the base of my spine.
"Close," I gasp. "Touch me."
Ryan's hand wraps around my cock. Strokes in time with my desperate movements.
I come with a strangled groan. Spilling over his skin. Clenching around him as the pleasure crests and crashes.
He follows seconds later. A quiet moan. A shudder. Nothing like the desperate sounds I wanted to hear.
Wrong sounds. Wrong voice. Wrong person.
The orgasm fades. Reality crashes back in. I roll off him and lie on my back as I stare at the ceiling with heavy silence and suffocation.
Ryan's breathing evens out slowly. I feel him looking at me. Feel the questions he won't ask.
"You can go," I say to the ceiling. Cold. Dismissive. "I'm fine now."
More silence. The mattress shifts as he sits up. I don't watch him dress. Keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Count the cracks I've memorized over years of sleepless nights.
Footsteps cross the room. Pause at the door.
"I'm here when you need me, Ash." Ryan's voice is quiet. Steady despite the hurt underneath. "But I'm not sure you actually see me."
The door clicks shut.
I lie in the darkness. Alone with the ghost of his words and the stale satisfaction of an orgasm that meant nothing.
Disgust crawls through me. Slow and poisonous. I used him. Again. Called him at 2 AM because I was drunk and lonely and too much of a coward to call the person I actually wanted.
Treated him like a body instead of a person. Like a placeholder for someone he'll never be.
Ryan deserves better. Deserves someone who sees him. Wants him. Chooses him on purpose instead of by default.
I'm becoming someone I hate. The kind of person who takes and takes without giving anything back. Who uses people and discards them when the need passes.
My father would be disappointed. My mother would cry. Blaze would look at me with those sad brown eyes and tell me I'm better than this.
But I'm not. Not anymore. Maybe I never was.
I curl onto my side. Pull the blankets over my head. Try to block out the shame settling into my bones.
I should stop. Should push Ryan away for his own good. Should stop dragging innocent people into my spiral of destruction.
But I can't. Don't know how.
The loneliness is too heavy to carry alone. And I'm too weak to face it without someone, anyone, to break the silence.
Even if I destroy them in the process. Even if I destroy myself.