Asher’s POV
I scroll Instagram mindlessly. Thumb moving on autopilot.
Not really seeing anything. Just killing time and avoiding thoughts. Pretending the silence in my apartment doesn't feel like a tomb.
Then I freeze.
Blaze's mother posted a photo. I don't even follow her—the algorithm served it up because I've searched Blaze's name too many times. Pathetic.
The image loads slowly. Family dinner table. Warm lighting. Expensive wine glasses catching candlelight. Everyone smiling like a catalog advertisement for perfect families.
And Sophie. Beaming beside Blaze. Her hand resting on his arm like she belongs there. Like she's always belonged there.
The caption reads: "So wonderful having our son home. And his wonderful girlfriend Sophie—we already love her like family!"
Girlfriend. The word hits like a bullet to the chest. My lungs go empty, as air leaves in one brutal punch. The phone nearly slips from my numb fingers.
I stare at the photo until my vision blurs. Sophie's perfect smile. Blaze's parents gazing at her with warmth and approval.
The same parents who disowned him for being bisexual. Who pointed at the door and told him he wasn't their son. Who let nine years of silence stretch between them without a single attempt at reconciliation.
Now they're welcoming him home with open arms. Posting family photos on social media. Treating Sophie like she's already part of the family.
All it took was a woman on his arm. All it took was the appearance of heterosexuality. The promise of grandchildren and a "normal" life and everything they wanted him to be.
The family Blaze lost, suddenly restored. Because he brought home a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend. Because he brought home someone who wasn't me.
I hurl my phone across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack. Then I reach for the whiskey.
The first glass burns going down. The second goes smoother. By the third, I've stopped bothering with glasses entirely.
Straight from the bottle. Like the disaster I've become.
The alcohol doesn't help. Doesn't touch the hollow ache spreading through my ribs like rot. Just makes the edges fuzzier while the core pain stays sharp.
He went home to his parents. He took Sophie. He let them believe she was his girlfriend. He's choosing her. Choosing the easy path. Choosing a life that doesn't require hiding or fear or constant terror of discovery.
Choosing everything I can't give him.
Hours blur together and the bottles go empty. My thoughts spiral darker with each passing minute. Eventually, I find myself standing, grabbing my keys and walking out the door without any plan except escape.
I end up at a dive bar across town. The kind of place I'd never normally go. No celebrities. No sports fans who might recognize me. Just neon lights and sticky floors and people drowning their problems in cheap beer.
No hat. No hood. No careful anonymity.
I'm past caring.
Let someone recognize me. Let the tabloids splash my face across their pages. Let the whole fucking world know that Boston's captain is falling apart at the seams.
What does it matter anymore?
I order whiskey. Once that one’s finished, I order another. Then a man approaches. He’s attractive, dark hair, and a nice smile. The interested look in his eyes is obvious. Unmistakable.
"Buy you a drink?" he offers.
Sober me would decline. Politely. Carefully. Retreat to safer ground.
Drunk me smiles back. "Sure."
We talk. Or he talks—I barely listen. Something about his job, his apartment, how he's never seen me here before.
I don't tell him who I am. Don't think he recognizes me. Just another face in a dive bar on a Tuesday night.
He moves closer. And I let him. His hand lands on my knee. I don't pull away.
"You want to get out of here?" His voice drops. Suggestive.
I lean in. Place my hand on his chest. Feel the warmth through his shirt.
"Maybe I do."
The impulse was brazen and reckless. In front of everyone. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could have their phone out.
I don't care. Want someone to see. Want to burn everything down because the alternative is drowning alone. Then a hand clamps down on my shoulder. Firm. Familiar.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Jackson. Materializing from nowhere like a ghost I can't escape.
He pulls me back from the stranger. Steps between us with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry, buddy. My friend's had too much. Time to call it a night."
The man looks between us. Shrugs. Retreats to find easier prey.
Jackson rounds on me. His expression is somewhere between furious and terrified.
"Are you completely insane?" He keeps his voice low. Controlled. "You're about to torpedo your entire career. In public. Where anyone could see."
"So?"
"So? Think about what people will say. Think about the media, the sponsors, your parents."
The old fear flickers. Instinctive. Conditioned. Years of hiding, reasserting themselves even through the alcohol haze.
I almost listen. Almost let Jackson guide me toward the exit like a naughty child being led away from trouble.
Then I see them across the bar. Near the pool tables. Illuminated by the glow of a Budweiser sign.
Blaze and Sophie. Together. Here. In Boston. At the same random dive bar in a city of millions.
The universe has a sick fucking sense of humor.
Sophie's laughing at something. Her hand on Blaze's arm. That same casual intimacy from the Instagram photo.
Blaze isn't laughing. He's staring at me.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room. A silent war erupts in the space between us. Hurt and accusation and jealousy and want. Everything we can't say, screaming through a single look.
He sees the stranger I was just touching. Sees Jackson's hand on my shoulder. Sees exactly what I was about to do.
Good. I hope it burns.
I hope it tears through him the way that Instagram photo tore through me. I hope he chokes on the hypocrisy of bringing his "girlfriend" to a bar while judging me for seeking comfort in a stranger.
Something shifts in his expression. Pain. Betrayal. The same emotions I saw in that service corridor when he held me through my panic attack.
I should feel guilty. Should remember the way he whispered "together" against my hair.
Instead, I feel rage. Without letting myself think, I grab Jackson's hand.
His eyes widen. "Ash, what—"
I pull him toward the back hallway. Toward the shadows where the bathrooms hide and couples disappear for quick hookups. Deliberate. Demonstrative. Making sure Blaze sees every step.
Jackson follows, confused but willing. Always willing. Always ready to take whatever scraps I offer. I don't look back.
But I feel Blaze's gaze burning into my spine. Feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
Good. Let him watch.
Let him understand exactly what he drove me to. Let him see what his "girlfriend" and his perfect family photo and his easy choices cost us.
Let him know that if he's choosing Sophie, I'm choosing destruction.
If I can't have him, I'll burn everything else down.
Including myself.