The Ridge Clearing

[Reputation]

https://i.ibb.co/qtrwh7y/file-000000006b58622f924077d9a567f3a1.png

The Ridge Clearing wasn’t on any map.

It sat tucked along a narrow, winding fire road that veered off from the Mountain Village outskirts—just past where the ski runs gave way to wild slope and old forest. The path there was uneven, barely wide enough for two trucks to squeeze through, and in the spring, it ran soft with mud from melting snow and mountain runoff. Most GPS signals dropped before you even reached the first switchback.

Which was exactly why the teens of Evergreen loved it.

The clearing itself opened up at the edge of a ridge, framed by a scatter of tall spruce and leaning aspens, their pale trunks catching the firelight like bones. The drop beyond the edge wasn’t sheer, but steep enough that anyone too drunk to watch their footing would think twice. At night, you could see the pinprick lights of Telluride far below, a glittering constellation tucked into the dark valley.

Someone had hauled a few half-rotted logs and lawn chairs out there over the years. A ring of charred stones marked the permanent fire pit, blackened from a hundred past parties. Empty bottles, old bottle caps, and broken lighters were half-buried in the dirt if you looked close—relics of late nights and louder mistakes.

The air was thinner up there. Cooler. Wrapped in the quiet hush of altitude and pine. It smelled like woodsmoke, damp moss, and leftover snow even in late May.

To the Evergreen crowd, this place was earned knowledge. You didn’t stumble on it by accident. Someone had to bring you. You had to prove you were worth trusting—not because of rules, but because this wasn’t a party spot.

It was a rite of passage.

Where people kissed under flannel blankets. Where breakups happened with beer still in hand. Where golden boys lit joints with blowtorches and girls dared each other into the woods with flashlights and screaming laughter.

Where everything felt a little more dangerous. A little more free.

[Josie Rhodes]

The bonfire wasn’t small.

It sprawled halfway down the old quarry clearing, flames kicking and spitting against the dark, fat with heat and the smell of burning pine. Pickup trucks were parked in a rough half-moon around the edges, tailgates dropped, music thumping from battered speakers like some heartbeat too stubborn to die.

Josie (https://i.ibb.co/mCNX7Y4Y/file-00000000ac8c622fbc4955902eed58a6.png[/img) coasted in late, engine rumbling low beneath her.

She cut it a few feet back from the others, keeping her baby tucked against the tree line—an escape route, if (when) she needed it.
Always plan the out.
That was rule one.

She slid out of the driver’s seat, boots hitting the dirt with a familiar thud, and shook her arms loose once before walking toward the fire.

Cut-off denim shorts, worn soft and slung low on her hips.
A black tank top, simple, ribbed.
A flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
Her work boots, scuffed and stubborn, kicking up little clouds of dust with every step.

Practical. Dependable.
Maybe a little cute, if you squinted hard enough and ignored the permanent grease stain on one thigh.

Josie wasn’t here for a scene.
She wasn’t here to make friends.
She sure as hell wasn’t here to get picked apart by drunk boys with backward caps and sticky fingers.

She was here because Rick—old, cranky Rick, with his busted knuckles and don't-fuck-with-me scowl—told her she needed to unwind.
And when Rick said something, you didn’t argue.
Not unless you wanted your next shift to feel like boot camp.

She spotted Jeremy—the younger guy from the shop, the one who invited her—waving her over near the keg setup.
He looked stupidly hopeful, a red solo cup already sloshing in his hand, a practiced half-smile on his face like he thought he had a shot.

Josie didn’t even slow down when he shoved the cup toward her.

She gave him a lazy once-over, one eyebrow lifted just enough to make him flinch, then brushed past him, grabbed an empty cup, and poured her own.
No way in hell she was drinking anything already handed off.

"Trust issues," she'd once told Rick with a shrug.

"Good," he'd said. "Keep 'em."

Beer in hand, she turned toward the bonfire, the heat licking her skin even from this distance.

That’s when she saw him.

Asher.

Propped against the side of a truck bed, laughing with a few lacrosse boys and girls wearing too much perfume and too little clothing.
One of the girls clung to his arm, giggling into his shoulder like he was already hers for the night.

Josie didn’t blink.

Didn’t frown.
Didn’t react.

She just let her eyes catch his across the fire—quick, dry, unsmiling.
A look that said I see you.
Hello.
That’s it.

She didn’t move closer.
Didn’t dare step into the radius of those shiny, shallow kids who wouldn't know real if it punched them in the throat.

Instead, she leaned a hip against a pickup's fender, solo cup in hand, the fire painting her boots and legs in wild, flickering gold.

Jeremy sidled up beside her, trying to be casual, trying to stand a little too close without making it obvious.
Josie caught him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t shift.

Let him dangle.

Let him think he had a chance for one whole minute.

Then—
when he slung his arm across her shoulders like he was claiming something—
she moved.

Quick, sharp, efficient.

She shrugged him off hard enough to make him stumble half a step back, beer sloshing over the rim of his cup.

Josie didn’t say a word.
Didn’t spare him a glance.

She just stared into the bonfire, her jaw set, her pulse steady.

She wasn't anyone's arm candy.
Wasn't anyone's prize for showing up.

And if they thought they could tame her just because she showed up for the free beer?

They were about to learn real fast they had no idea who the hell they were dealing with.

[Asher Cole]

Asher (https://i.ibb.co/JWMysFBc/01-AABA5-E-DA3-D-430-A-B580-26094-F3246-CA.png) saw her before he saw her.

Felt her, almost—like the air shifted before she ever came into view.

The bass from the speaker thudded against the back of his teeth, the fire cracked too hot against one side of his face, and someone—probably Lexie—was laughing way too close to his ear.

He didn’t move.

Not until headlights cut briefly across the clearing and his gaze snapped toward the tree line without thinking.

There.

He knew it was her the second the engine cut.

Before he even saw the boots hit dirt.

Josie Rhodes, stalking into the firelight like she’d been dropped here by accident and was already planning the fastest way out.

No swagger.
No pretense.
Just… presence.

A black tank top, cutoffs slung low, boots that looked like they could knock someone flat, and a flannel rolled to her elbows like she’d dared someone to comment on it and won.

She didn’t scan the crowd.
Didn’t toss her hair.
Didn’t give anyone a damn thing to work with.

Except him.

For one heartbeat, her eyes caught his across the flames—flat, dry, unreadable.

Not a challenge.
Not an invitation.

Just I see you.

Then it was gone.

She turned away like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t matter, and something in his chest pulled tight enough to snap.

He barely heard Lexie say something at his side. Something stupid and syrupy, thick with the perfume of beer and entitlement.

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He watched Josie instead—watched the way she poured her own drink, the way she leaned against that truck like she wasn’t staying long. Like the ground wasn’t allowed to hold her for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then Jeremy—fucking Jeremy—tried to slide in beside her.

Too close.

Too casual.

Like he didn’t know he was stepping into a storm.

Asher didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

He just watched.

And when Jeremy slung that arm across her shoulders like he’d earned it—like she was some kind of decoration—Asher saw it coming.

The way her body snapped tight.

The way she moved before the kid even knew he’d made a mistake.

Quick. Efficient. Clean.

Jeremy stumbled back, beer spilling down his front, a half-stupid apology already dying on his tongue.

Josie never looked at him.

Never said a word.

She just kept staring into the fire like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t just declared herself untouchable without making a sound.

And Asher?

Asher felt the back of his neck go hot.

Not with jealousy.
Not with pride.

With something deeper.

Something messier.

Something he didn’t have a name for yet.

Because she wasn’t trying to be impressive.

Wasn’t trying to be noticed.

And still—he couldn’t stop watching her.

Couldn’t stop wanting to know what she was thinking when her jaw set that tight.
What she was burning off in the firelight.

And what it might take to get close without getting burned.

He stayed leaning against the truck, drink forgotten in his hand, the laughter around him turning thin and meaningless.

Josie hadn’t spared him another glance.

She didn’t have to.

Because something in him had already moved.
Had already chosen.

Even if he didn’t know what he was choosing yet.

Even if she never let him close enough to find out.

He was already in it.

God help him—he was already in it.

[Josie Rhodes]

She didn’t believe in fate.

Didn’t believe in soulmates, twin flames, or any of the sparkly, gut-punch promises the world liked to whisper to girls who should’ve known better.

But she did believe in timing.

And tonight?

The timing didn’t suck.

The fire roared in front of her, spitting embers like warnings, heat crawling up her shins and making her skin glow gold. Somewhere behind her, someone cranked the speaker louder, and bass rolled through the dirt like a second pulse. The keg hissed. Laughter rang out sharp. Someone yelled a name that wasn’t hers.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t care.

She just stayed leaned against the side of that rust-flecked pickup, nursing her drink, eyes half-lidded, limbs loose. Calm. In control.

But not unaffected.

Because he was still watching.

She hadn’t looked back immediately. Let him sit in it. Let him wonder.

Let him try to decide if what he was feeling was interest or instinct.

Now, finally, she turned her head just a fraction—and there he was.

Still posted up across the fire, still looking like he hadn’t taken a full breath since she walked in.

He wasn’t trying to be subtle anymore.

Not pretending to listen to Lexie or whatever name-brand girl had been hanging off his arm earlier. She was gone now, or at least, Josie assumed she’d peeled herself off once she realized she was talking to someone no longer paying attention.

Asher Cole had tunnel vision.

And Josie Rhodes?

She wasn’t about to blink first.

Their eyes locked.

Held.

That same steady burn from before, but now it had edges. Intent. A question neither of them wanted to say out loud.

You gonna come over here?

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t flirt.

She just arched one brow—not high enough to be mocking, not low enough to be submissive. Just enough to say your move, golden boy.

Then she did the most dangerous thing a girl like her could do.

She made space.

Subtle. Intentional.

Shifted a little to the side, just enough that the edge of the truck bed beside her was unclaimed. Unspoken invitation. One that said: You wanna sit? Sit.

But she didn’t say a word.

Because that would make it a request.

And she didn’t ask boys like Asher to come to her.

She let them decide whether they were brave enough to leave their little kingdoms behind.

Because if he did?

If he peeled himself off the safe side of that fire—left the pretty girls and beer-soaked loyalty behind—then he’d be doing it knowing exactly what it would cost him.

Those friends of his?

They’d whisper.

They’d nudge each other, cock their heads, crack jokes they thought were subtle. Maybe they’d think he was pulling some kind of stunt—flirting with the weird new girl just to stir the pot. Or maybe they’d be worse. Maybe they’d think he was serious.

Josie wasn’t sure which version would piss them off more.

And she didn’t care.

Not really.

Because this wasn’t about them.

It was about him.

About whether Asher Cole—the boy with the easy laugh and tired eyes—was just another glossy, golden liar…

Or something a little more interesting.

So she waited.

Quiet.

Collected.

The flicker of firelight in her eyes, the taste of cheap beer on her tongue, and her pulse drumming low and steady beneath her skin.

She didn’t move again.

Didn’t look back.

But she knew—knew—if he came over, it wouldn’t be for a stunt.

Wouldn’t be for a dare.

It would be because, in a clearing full of people trying too hard to matter, she was the only one not asking for anything at all.

And somehow, that made her the only thing real.

[Asher Cole]

Asher saw her the second she stepped out of that car.

Saw her before the firelight hit her thighs, before the music thumped louder, before anyone else seemed to notice that the air had shifted.

She didn’t belong here—not the way the others did—but God, she wore it better.

Rough. Unbothered. Solid as hell.

She moved through the party like she was on her way somewhere better and just happened to stop by for a beer. Like the whole night was lucky to have her.

Asher barely heard whatever Lexie was saying. Something about playlists. Or her ex. Or both. Didn’t matter. It all dissolved under the heat of that one look Josie gave him across the flames. That flat, sharp-edged I see you that didn’t ask for anything in return.

It hit something deep. Something that’d been rattling around in his chest for longer than he wanted to admit.

And now?

Now she’d shifted.

Just a fraction.

Enough to make space beside her like it didn’t matter—but it did. God, it did.

Because everyone else at this party wanted something from him. Laughed a little too loud. Leaned a little too close. Looked at him like a trophy they could win if they played their cards right.

But her?

She didn’t move like someone playing a game.

She moved like someone who’d already won.

And that was what intrigued him most.

He stepped away from the tailgate before he could second-guess it. Didn’t excuse himself. Didn’t say goodbye. Just moved—around the fire, through the noise, across the space like something invisible had snapped and he wasn’t going to be able to breathe right until he was standing beside her.

He didn’t sit right away.

Just came close enough that the fire painted gold across her cheekbones and lit up the sliver of amusement tucked at the edge of her mouth.

Not a smile.

Not an invitation.

Just that same challenge.

“You always make an entrance like that?” he asked, voice low enough to cut under the music, easy but edged. “Or just when you know someone’s watching?”

He wasn’t asking to win.

He was asking because every part of him wanted to know what she’d say.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t chasing a moment.

He was chasing her.

[Josie Rhodes]

He came.

Not right away—not like a puppy or a boy who didn’t know better—but deliberately.

Like someone making a choice.

Josie didn’t watch him cross the clearing. She didn’t have to.

She could feel it. The weight of his steps in the dirt. The subtle hush in conversation as a few heads turned. The way Lexie’s laugh dropped off into something colder and quieter once she realized her golden boy wasn’t behind her anymore.

Josie just kept her eyes on the fire.

Let it lick and twist and crackle like it had a secret to tell.

And then—

There he was.

Close.

Heat radiating off him now, too—not just from the flames.

He didn’t sit. Just hovered, watching her like she was some unsolvable thing. Like if he stared long enough, maybe he’d find a map tucked into the way she held her drink or where her boot tapped the truck tire.

"You always make an entrance like that?” he asked.
“Or just when you know someone’s watching?”

Josie turned her head slow, real slow, like she hadn’t been waiting for the sound of his voice.

She let her gaze flick over him—sharp and cool and just a little bit amused. Like maybe she was impressed. Like maybe he’d done something clever.

Like maybe he was the one on trial now.

"Depends on who’s watching,” she said, lifting one brow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You always abandon your fan club when someone doesn’t fall at your feet?”

She sipped her drink.

Didn’t break eye contact.

Didn’t let him off the hook.

“You can sit, you know,” she added after a beat, like it was an afterthought. Like he hadn’t already made the whole damn clearing buzz just by standing this close.
“Unless you’re worried what they’ll think.”

Her voice was light, dry. But there was an edge beneath it.

Not a dare.

A filter.

She wasn’t here for games, and she wasn’t here to be anyone’s secret rebellion.

She was here because Rick told her to unwind.

Because the beer was cold, the fire was decent, and out of everyone in this half-baked town, he was the only one who hadn’t bored her stiff.

She didn’t want promises.

Didn’t want poetry.

She just wanted a night where she wasn’t the only person who saw through the noise.

And if that person came with strong shoulders and something stormy in his eyes?

Well. She could live with that.

“So?” she said, tilting her chin toward the empty space beside her, the smallest glint of teasing flashing in her expression.
“You gonna sit or keep looming like a creep?”

And just like that, the corner of her mouth tipped up—finally—into something that almost looked like a smile.

Almost.

Because even when she gave him something, she made him earn it.

[Asher Cole]

Asher sat.

Not fast. Not like he’d been waiting for permission.

He moved the way he always did when something mattered—quiet, careful, like there were consequences to getting too close but he was already too far in to care.

The truck bed was cool beneath him, the fire casting long shadows against the metal, sparks popping into the air like little warnings. But he didn’t look away from her.

Didn’t look at the fire.
Didn’t glance back at the crowd.
Didn’t fidget or play it cool.

He just looked at her.

Josie Rhodes.

All denim and boot scuffs and the kind of presence that felt like gravity. The kind that didn’t ask for attention—it stole it. Silently. Completely.

And he still didn’t know what it was about her that kept pulling him in.

But he was pulled.

And now, here, close enough to feel the heat of her shoulder even with space between them, he didn’t try to make it something casual.

Didn’t fill the silence.

Didn’t flirt back.

He just let it be what it was—two people on the same side of the fire, not asking for anything, not pretending.

His voice came quiet, low enough that only she’d hear it over the crackle of the flames and the muffled bass in the distance.

“I think they already know I’m not staying in line.”

He didn’t explain who they were.
Didn’t need to.

And then, after a beat:

“But I’m not here for what they think.”

A pause. Measured. Honest.

“I’m here because you didn’t flinch.”

His fingers brushed the rim of his cup absently, restless but grounded.

“You walked in like you owned the night and didn’t care who saw it. And I—”

He huffed a breath, shook his head slightly.

“I think I’ve spent most of my life trying to be seen without ever letting anybody actually look.”

He leaned back slightly on his palms, shoulders rolling loose but his gaze still steady on her.

“I guess I just wanted to see what it feels like… not to hide.”

He didn’t ask her to respond.

Didn’t expect her to open up.

He just said it and let it settle, like kindling between them—soft and steady and waiting to catch.

And if she didn’t speak?

That was fine.

He was already sitting in the space she made.

And for tonight, that was enough.

[Josie Rhodes]

She didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t rush to fill the silence he left hanging between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Wasn’t awkward. Just… still. Like something important had been placed gently on the ground, and she was giving it the respect of not stepping on it.

Her eyes stayed on the fire a second longer—watching the way it bent and kicked and burned through its own oxygen like it didn’t care who got too close. Then, finally, she glanced sideways.

Asher Cole.

Sitting beside her like he wasn’t the golden boy everyone else thought they owned. Like he hadn’t just peeled himself away from the whole goddamn kingdom and handed it back without blinking.

She studied him.

Not the way most girls did, drinking in his jawline or his shoulders or whatever else they whispered about in locker-lined halls.

She looked at him like she was reading him.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. Warm. A little rough around the edges.

“I’ve seen the way you look at people when you think no one’s watching,” she said, gaze fixed on the fire again. “You don’t judge first. You listen. Even if you pretend you don’t care, you do. That’s rare.”

A breath.

Soft.

“You’re better than the show you put on. The whole ‘I’ve got it all figured out’ thing.”
“You don’t.”

She tilted her head, and the smallest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“But that’s not a bad thing. It means you’re still paying attention.”

She let that sit for a moment.

The flicker of heat brushing against her boot, the noise of the party shifting to the background like static. Nobody was watching now. Or maybe they were. It didn’t matter.

“People see what they wanna see,” she added, shrugging one shoulder. “They think I’m cold. Bitchy. Probably here to wreck someone’s weekend.”

She took another slow sip of her drink, her voice low and even as she said:

“Truth is—I’m just not interested in pretending to be something soft enough to make everyone else feel comfortable.”

Her jaw flexed once, but her tone didn’t shift. Still calm. Still sure.

“You didn’t look away when I wasn’t polite. Or easy. Or interested in playing nice. You didn’t flinch either.”

Her eyes found his again—slow, steady.

“So yeah… maybe I made space for you tonight.”

Then came the smile. Real this time.

Small. Sincere. Just for him.

“But only ‘cause you’re the first one around here who might actually deserve it.”

She didn’t say it for effect.

Didn’t say it to make him fall.

She said it because it was true.

And the truth, in a place like this?

That was the rarest currency of all.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t even move.

Because there it was again—that feeling.

That thing about her he couldn’t name.

Not just intrigue anymore. Not just the itch to figure her out like some stubborn engine that wouldn’t turn over. It was deeper now. Heavier. The kind of knowing that settled in your chest and made everything else feel too loud, too fake, too easy by comparison.

He looked at her—not just at her face, but at her.

At the firelight licking gold across her collarbones. At the grit beneath her voice that didn’t need to be softened to be worth something. At the honesty she’d just handed him like a lit match.

He didn’t reach for it right away.

Didn’t rush to say something smooth or charming or stupid.

Instead, he let the moment sit there between them like proof. Like maybe it didn’t need to be anything more than what it already was.

Then—finally—he drew in a slow breath and said, quieter than before:

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said something that real to me.”

His voice wasn’t wrecked.

It was steady.

But there was a flicker in it. A raw edge. Something like surprise, maybe even gratitude, buried under all the years he’d spent being looked at but never seen.

He glanced down, thumb brushing the rim of his cup, then back up at her.

“I didn’t come over here for a line. Or to impress you. I came because…”

He trailed off. Not unsure. Just searching for the right weight of it.

“Because everything else tonight feels like noise.”

He shrugged one shoulder, loose and almost self-conscious.

“And you’re not noise.”

Another pause.

Then he smiled—soft and a little crooked, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything.

“So if you don’t mind the company, I think I’ll stay a while.”

Not a challenge.

Not a test.

Just a decision.

And for once, it felt good to make one that was his.

[Josie Rhodes]

He meant it.

She could tell.

The way his voice dropped—not in that practiced, flirty way most guys used when they were trying to get in her orbit, but in that unsteady, real way. The kind that said this matters more than I expected it to.

And it wasn’t like she didn’t feel it too.

But Josie didn’t do soft. Not in public. Not this close to the fire, where warmth blurred too easily into exposure.

So she didn’t meet his sincerity with more of her own.

She didn’t crack her chest open just because he’d offered a glimpse beneath his.

Instead, she let the corner of her mouth twitch—barely a smile, more like a warning wrapped in amusement.

> “You sure that’s not just the beer talking?”



She took a slow sip from her cup, tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with something sharp but not cruel.

> “Or are you always this poetic after keg two?”



There was a tease in it. Dry. Controlled. But not dismissive.
Not really.

She didn’t look away.

Didn’t invite him to dig deeper.

But she didn’t shut the door either.

> “You can stay,” she said simply, giving a small shrug. “Long as you don’t expect me to start monologuing about fate or soul connections or whatever crap they write in yearbooks.”



A beat passed.

The fire cracked loud. Somewhere behind them, a can popped open and someone whooped like it was the funniest sound in the world.

Josie didn’t flinch.

> “I’m not noise,” she echoed, almost like she was testing the words for herself. “I’m also not a therapist, a dream girl, or a cautionary tale. Just so we’re clear.”



Another slow sip. Another flash of eye contact, steady and clean.

> “But if you’re just looking for a place to shut out the static…”



She nodded toward the fire, the edge of her boot nudging his lightly, deliberately.

> “You picked the right spot.”



She didn’t say more.

Didn’t need to.

Because this was her version of letting someone in.

Cool. Collected. A little flirty.

And just open enough to mean it.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

Not when she said that. Not when she looked at him like that—steady, sharp, a little soft around the edges in the way most people would miss if they weren’t paying close enough attention.

He was.

God, he was.

His cup hung loosely between his fingers now, forgotten, the condensation dripping down onto his jeans. He didn’t move to wipe it. Didn’t shift away. He just leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, like something in him had tipped toward her without permission.

“I don’t think you realize,” he started, voice low, like anything louder might scare the moment off, “how rare it is for someone to just… say things. To mean them.”

He huffed a breath, dragged a hand through his hair, and laughed under it—soft, self-deprecating.

“Most people don’t get past the surface with me. They see the uniform. The parties. The team photos taped up in trophy cases. It’s easy, you know? Being that version of myself. I could do it in my sleep by now.”

He paused, eyes on the fire again.

“But it’s not me. Not really. It’s just the version that doesn’t make people uncomfortable.”

He shook his head slowly, jaw flexing once like he was chewing on words he’d never said out loud before.

“They think I’m confident. Driven. Whatever. But most days, I’m just… tired. Of pretending like I know where all of this is going. Of carrying other people’s expectations like they’re oxygen.”

His fingers tightened around the cup for a second before he set it down in the dirt beside his boot.

“I’ve got people planning my future for me. Coaches, family, teachers—hell, half the town probably thinks they know what college I’m going to, who I’ll marry, what kind of house I’ll live in. They’ve got my whole damn life mapped out, and I haven’t even had the chance to figure out if I want any of it.”

He turned to look at her again.

Really look.

“And then you show up.”

His voice went quieter then, more measured.

“No filters. No apologies. Just… exactly who you are. And you don’t give a damn who’s comfortable with it.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he still couldn’t quite believe any of this was happening.

“It’s not about some chase, or trying to prove something. You make it easier to breathe. Do you get that? Everything else tonight feels like it’s wrapped in plastic, and then there’s you—real and grounded and impossible to ignore.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze still locked on hers, arms draped loose across his knees.

“I don’t know what this is. I’m not trying to name it. But I know it feels better than anything else I’ve felt in a long time.”

His mouth tugged into the faintest smile—wry and a little wrecked.

“So yeah. I’m here. Not ‘cause I don’t know better. But because I do.”

The fire cracked beside them, loud and sudden, but he didn’t flinch.

He just sat there, steady and open, waiting to see if she’d let him stay.

[Josie Rhodes]

Nope.

Absolutely not.

This was getting too real. Too close.

Whatever soft little thread had started to stitch itself between them needed to be cut before it knotted around something vital.

And Asher—sitting there with that wrecked little smile and words that made her chest feel tight in ways she hated—was already too close to figuring her out.

She could feel it.

The danger.

The ache.

So she did what she was best at: flipped the switch before anyone, including herself, got the wrong idea.

Before her pulse could betray her again.

Before she let the firelight convince her that this moment meant more than it did.

She kissed him.

Not soft.

Not slow.

But deliberate.

Sharp, sure, and warm enough to short-circuit whatever speech he’d been about to finish.

Her hand came up to his jaw—not sweet, not tentative, just there—and then her mouth found his like it was just one more choice she’d made for herself.

It didn’t last long.

Just a few seconds. Just long enough to feel the way he responded—surprised, still, and then suddenly in it.

And then she pulled back.

Unrushed. Unbothered.

Like she’d just shut a door that had been hanging open too wide.

Her thumb brushed his jaw once as she leaned back into her space, picking up her cup again like nothing had happened.

“Had to shut you up somehow.”

Calm. Dry. Unfazed.

But her heart was pounding like it had plans she wasn’t ready to admit to.

She didn’t meet his eyes right away—just looked out over the fire, let the party re-enter her peripheral vision. Laughter. Music. A burst of someone’s soda can opening too close to the edge.

But it all felt quieter now.

Like the volume had been turned down everywhere except here.

Beside him.

And then, after a beat—like a casual nudge instead of an emotional plea—she spoke again.

“Still wanna stay?”

Simple. Cool. Almost lazy.

But there was something under it now.

A flicker of something unguarded she couldn’t quite smother in time.

And she hated that he might see it.

Loved it a little too.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe for a second, not really.

Because that kiss—brief as it was, sharp as it was—hit him like a shot straight to the ribs. Not romantic. Not sweet. But real. Real in a way that made the back of his neck burn and the center of his chest ache like he’d been sucker-punched by something he didn’t see coming.

And God, he should’ve.

Because of course that was how she’d respond.

Of course she’d short-circuit the moment before it could bloom into something soft. Of course she’d kiss him like a warning and a challenge in one breath, then pull back like it didn’t cost her a damn thing.

But he’d felt it.

The flicker beneath her calm.

The way her fingers steadied against his jaw—not greedy, not possessive, just there. Real. Present. Like maybe she hadn’t meant to stay but did anyway.

And now she was looking anywhere but at him. Playing it cool. Detached. Like nothing in her shifted at all.

But her voice betrayed her. Just a little.

“Still wanna stay?”

Asher leaned forward again, slow, elbows to knees, his shoulder brushing hers as he rested there beside her. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t flirt. Just let the moment settle around them, thick and golden and buzzing with something neither of them had the right words for.

“I was already staying,” he said finally, voice low and rough-edged. “You just kissed me before I got the chance to prove it.”

He watched the fire for a beat, then let his eyes flick sideways toward her profile—lit up by flame and stubbornness and something too honest for its own good.

“You think that scared me off?”

He let the question hang, rhetorical, his mouth curling just slightly at one corner.

“Nah,” he murmured, voice warm but quiet. “I’ve been scared before. This isn’t that.”

Then, casually, without any dramatics, he let his shoulder press just a little more into hers. Solid. Grounded.

“I’m not looking for permission, Josie. Just… space.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, like it wasn’t meant for the fire or the party or even her armor—just her:

“And I don’t care if you shut me up. I just don’t want you to shut me out.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it.

Didn’t need to.

Because he meant it.

And because, for once, it wasn’t about being bold. It was about being steady. About staying put when most people didn’t.

So he stayed.

Didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t pull her in.

Just sat there—shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath—with the only girl in the clearing who wasn’t asking him to be anyone but exactly who he was.

And that?

That was enough.

[Josie Rhodes]

She hated how much it almost got to her.

Almost.

That kiss was supposed to reset the board. Regain the upper hand. Prove—to both of them—that this was all just heat and timing and not something she’d remember tomorrow.

But Asher didn’t treat it like that.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t twist it into something clever or easy.

Instead, he gave her quiet. Gave her truth. Gave her space like it was something sacred and not just a test.

And it rattled her.

Because Josie Rhodes didn’t get that. Not from guys like him. Not from anyone, really.

So she leaned back.

Slight. Subtle. Enough to put an inch of air between their shoulders and pretend it didn’t feel like loss.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” she said, voice calm but tighter than before.

“I’m not used to people sticking around long enough to mean it.”

There wasn’t bite in it. Not quite.
More like a fact said too casually. The kind you only said aloud when you hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.

She stared into the fire again. It didn’t blink.

“You were supposed to be easy to walk away from.”

Another sip of her drink. Another shield lifted.

“Pretty. Predictable. The type who’d already be making jokes about scoring by now.”

She shrugged one shoulder like none of it mattered.

Like the idea of him staying wasn’t already burrowing into her in places she didn’t have a defense for.

“Guess the joke’s on me.”

Her mouth curled into a half-smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.
They were too busy watching the flames, too busy trying to un-feel whatever had already rooted itself beneath her ribs.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t try to chase the inch of space she’d carved between them, didn’t rush in to fill the quiet she left behind.

Because something about the way she said it—soft, offhand, almost like a dare—told him it wasn’t silence she feared.

It was what might come after.

He watched the fire for a few long beats, letting it crackle and spit and glow like it could swallow every word they were too careful to say. And then—slowly, without looking at her—he answered.

“I’m not trying to win anything, Josie.”

His voice was low. Measured. Like he’d thought it through a hundred times before letting it out.

“I’m not here because I think I’ll get something out of it. Not trying to be the guy who breaks your streak. Not trying to prove a point.”

A small breath.

“I’m here because… I don’t know. You make it hard not to be.”

That was the closest thing to a confession he’d let slip tonight. But it wasn’t wrapped in pressure or hope or polished expectation.

It was just the truth.

Plain.

Undeniable.

“You’re not easy to walk away from either,” he added, finally glancing sideways at her. “Even when you try to be.”

He let her have the space. Kept his hands to himself. Stayed where he was like a steady heartbeat—unmoving, undeniable.

“People don’t stick because they want something simple. They stick because something feels real.”

He shrugged, the movement lazy, like it didn’t cost him anything even though it did.

“And maybe I’m just dumb enough to want real.”

He didn’t push.

Didn’t look at her like she was fragile.

Just sat there—same spot, same firelight, same pulse in his throat—like he was willing to wait as long as it took for her to believe it.

Because something in her voice cracked tonight.

And Asher Cole?

He wasn’t walking away from the girl who let him hear it.

[Josie Rhodes]

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t turn her head.

Didn’t let him see the way her jaw tightened or how her fingers clenched slightly around her now-empty cup.

Because if she looked, if she let herself look—she knew she’d unravel.

And Josie Rhodes didn’t unravel.

Not in front of anyone.

Not even him.

Especially not him.

So she watched everything else instead.

The flames curling up into the night sky.
The ash floating soft and gray like regret.
The way two girls were laughing too hard near the edge of the clearing, one of them nearly dropping her phone into the firepit.

Someone popped a bottle cap off with a lighter.
A boy shouted something unintelligible toward the woods.
The bass of the music shifted to a new song—something older, something familiar she couldn’t place.

And still, through all of it, she heard every single word he said.

“I’m not trying to win anything, Josie.” ... “I’m here because… I don’t know. You make it hard not to be.”

Her stomach flipped.

Not the giddy kind. Not butterflies.

More like a warning siren.

Because those words were hitting places she didn’t want touched.
Places she’d boarded up, painted over, told herself were under control.

He was supposed to be a flirt, a phase, a pretty face in a temporary town.
Not someone who meant what he said and knew how to say it quiet enough that it got under her skin.

“Even when you try to be.”

She swallowed hard.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.

Her body ached to do something—snap back, laugh it off, stand up and walk away like she always did.
But she didn’t.

Because as much as she wanted to push him, to say something sharp that would make him retreat—
She didn’t want to hurt him.

Not this one.

Not him.

And that scared her more than anything else tonight.

So she just sat there.

Still.

Letting the fire crackle. Letting the quiet sit between them.

Letting him stay.

Because deep down, part of her wanted to believe it was okay to be real around someone who wasn’t trying to claim her, fix her, or drag her into some version of herself that didn’t fit.

Just… stay.

That was enough.

And maybe tomorrow she’d shove him away again.
Maybe she’d convince herself he was just like the rest.
But for now, Josie stayed.

Silent.

Shaken.

Still.

Then—barely louder than the flames, barely more than breath—she said:

“Don’t make me regret letting you sit here.”

Her eyes were still on the fire.

Still not on him.

But her voice didn’t crack.

Didn’t waver.

And it wasn’t cold.
Not cruel.
Not distant.

Just… a line drawn in the dirt. Not a wall. Not yet.

“I don’t hand out second chances. Not even to the ones who say the right things.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Especially not to the ones who mean them.”

She finally looked at him then—just for a second. Long enough for the truth to flicker behind her lashes. Long enough to make it count.

And then she looked away again.

Back to the fire. Back to the dark.

Back to the part of herself that wasn’t sure what this was turning into—only that it already mattered more than she ever meant it to.

[Asher Cole]

“…I’m not gonna ask for one.”

His voice came low. Even.

Not defensive. Not smug. Just steady.

“You think I came over here for a second chance? You think I’m sitting next to you because I want something fixed or easy?”

He shook his head once, just enough for her to catch it if she was watching.

“I’m sitting here because I see you.”

A pause. A breath.

“And you don’t scare me.”

Another beat, this time softer.

“You could tell me to fuck off right now and mean it—and I’d still remember the way you looked in this light. The way you didn’t flinch when I stopped pretending.”

His thumb rubbed the rim of his cup absently, like he needed something to ground himself.

“I don’t need promises from you, Josie. I don’t want to own anything.”

A glance. Careful. Honest.

“I just want to be here. With you. While you let me.”

And then, quieter—almost a whisper, but certain:

“I won’t make you regret it.”

He didn’t say trust me.

He didn’t ask her to believe him.

He just let it land—solid. Still.

Like a truth he didn’t need her to say back.

[Josie Rhodes]

She hated how much it got to her.

Not the words, exactly. Not even the way he said them—low, quiet, like he wasn’t trying to sell her anything. Like he already knew she wouldn’t buy it.

It was the feeling.
The weight of it.
The steadiness.
The way he sat there, not asking for a single thing and somehow still managing to make her feel like the world was tilting just slightly in his direction.

He wasn’t hunting.
Wasn’t performing.
Wasn’t circling like the rest of them, waiting for a crack in the wall so they could crawl through and say they conquered something untouchable.

He saw her.

And worse—he liked what he saw.

Josie stared at the fire, jaw tight, throat aching with all the things she didn’t want to feel.
Didn’t want to name.

The heat licked at her boots, the distant laughter from the crowd pressing in like a wave she didn’t want to ride. Not tonight.

Not with him sitting there like a lighthouse she didn’t ask for.

She sighed.

Low.
Defeated.
Half-exasperated, like her body gave up fighting her heart before she could stop it.

Then—finally—she turned.

Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just… reluctantly human.

Her eyes found his, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself look.

"You’re a pain in my ass, Cole,” she said flatly. “But…”

The word dragged itself out of her like it hated being spoken.

She held out her cup. Just a little.

“I need more beer.”

It didn’t sound like a request.

But it was.
A quiet one.

A symbol.

Because if Josie Rhodes handed you her cup, she was handing you something else, too.

Trust.
Slivered, reluctant, but real.

Because she didn’t let people fetch her drinks.
Didn’t let people do things for her.

Didn’t let people close enough to get that casual with her guard.

And yet—

Here she was.

Cup extended.

Eyes on him now, steady and sharp but not unreadable.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Still not soft.
Still not sweet.

But it was as close as she’d ever get to please stay.

And as he took the cup, the firelight caught in her expression—just enough for him to see the flicker of something more beneath the grit.

Something cracked open.
Just a little.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t smile.

Didn’t quip.

Didn’t act like he’d won something.

He just took the cup.

Carefully.

Quietly.

Like it mattered.

Like he knew what it was.

His fingers brushed hers for half a second too long—not on purpose, not to be bold, just because he couldn’t help it—and then he stood.

Still watching her.

Still stunned, in a way he’d never let show on his face. Not to anyone else.

But this?

This wasn’t anyone else.

He nodded once. Solid. Grounded.

Then, finally, as he turned toward the keg:

“I won’t.”

And God help him, he meant it.

He walked away with her cup in his hand and his heart somewhere up near his throat.

Not fast.

Not smug.

Just steady. Like every step was part of something he didn’t want to mess up.

Because that’s what it felt like—this whole night. Like a tightrope strung between who he was supposed to be and who he wanted to be when he was around her.

Josie Rhodes didn’t make things easy. She made them honest. Which was worse.

At the keg, some guy elbowed him in greeting, said something dumb about “scoring,” about “finally breaking the ice.” Asher barely grunted in response. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t feed the noise.

He just filled her cup, eyes locked on the foam like it might spell out instructions for how the hell he was supposed to navigate this.

Because what was happening back at that truck?

That wasn’t about beer.

It was about her. Reaching in the only way she knew how. And trusting him to hold it, even for a second.

When he turned back, he could see her again. Same spot. Same sharp, don’t-mess-with-me posture. But her shoulders had dropped a fraction. Like she was letting herself breathe again.

He liked that. Too much, maybe.

Liked the idea that he could be the reason she stopped bracing for impact.

So he walked back over—slower this time. Not dramatic. Not careful either.

Just real.

When he reached her, he handed over the cup like it was a goddamn offering. Their fingers brushed again—brief, warm, quiet—and he stayed standing this time. Not looming. Not distant.

Just… there.

He took a sip from his own drink, then leaned back against the truck beside her. Shoulders aligned. No pressure. No pull.

“You’re wrong, by the way.”

He didn’t look at her. Just watched the fire like it might keep them both honest.

“I do know when to quit.”

He let it hang there. Let her wonder.

Then added, low:

“I just haven’t found a reason to.”

And somehow, with her that close, the fire that warm, and his heartbeat thrumming through his chest like a warning?

He really hoped he wouldn’t.

[Josie Rhodes]

She watched him go.

Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t call after him or second-guess her decision.

But her eyes never left his back.

She watched the way his shoulders carried the moment like it was worth something.
Watched how he didn’t laugh with the others, didn’t play it cool or slap anyone on the back or bask in the attention.

Just filled the cup.

Focused. Quiet.

There was a guy—Jeremy’s friend, maybe—who tried to hype him up. Said something loud enough to carry, something that had the word finally in it and way too much assumption.

Asher didn’t bite.
Didn’t even glance in the guy’s direction.

And Josie?
She clocked every detail.

Every choice.
Every non-reaction.
Every refusal to play the game.

And while no one dared approach her—none of the party kids stupid enough to think they could crack her open with charm or a red cup—Josie sat still.

Guarded. But not as tight.

The wind tugged at her flannel. Her boot tapped once, light against the dirt. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she saw him turn.

Saw him walking back.

Slower this time. Steady.

Her fingers twitched slightly at her side—not nervous, not eager. Just aware.

He reached her, handed back the cup like it mattered. Like he hadn’t forgotten, not for a second, that it wasn’t about the drink.

And when their fingers brushed again—same warmth, same spark, same quiet recognition—she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t run.

He stayed standing, leaning back beside her against the truck. Close, but not crowding. His presence felt like gravity—constant, unspoken, undeniable.

And then he said it.

“You’re wrong, by the way.”

Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp out of habit. Ready. Waiting.

But he didn’t look back.

He just watched the fire, voice even, like he was still deciding how much of himself he could let her see.

“I do know when to quit.”

He let it sit there a moment, like he wanted her to feel it before he gave her the rest.

“I just haven’t found a reason to.”

Josie’s chest pulled tight.

Not painfully. Not like fear.

Like truth.

And that was worse.

Because in a hundred other moments, she’d shut him down by now. Rolled her eyes. Scoffed. Cut through the tension with something cold and sharp.

But this wasn’t a hundred other moments.

This was now.

And for some godforsaken reason, he hadn’t given her a reason to quit him either.

She looked at him then.

Really looked.

Not suspicious. Not bracing for betrayal. Just watching.

And something in her face—barely there, but real—softened.

Not enough to make it easy.
But enough to make it real.

She took a sip from the beer he brought her. Held it a second longer than she meant to. Then, without looking at him again, she said, “Still a pain in my ass.”

The words came with a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach full strength. Didn’t need to.

But then her voice dropped—lower, quieter, almost like it surprised even her.

“But… I’m glad you haven’t found a reason to quit yet.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup, like saying it cost something. Like maybe the truth still made her nervous when it snuck past her lips without a fight.

And then, softer still—so quiet it might’ve gotten lost in the firelight if he hadn’t been listening the way he always did—

“I think I’m starting to like you being around.”

No flourish.

No eye contact.

Just the flicker of honesty in the space between them—small, sharp, and unshakable.

She didn’t explain it.

Didn’t backtrack or sugarcoat.

She just let it hang there.

And somehow, that said more than anything else could’ve.

Because for Josie Rhodes?

That was the risk.

And tonight, she took it.

Absolutely—here’s a continuation that shifts the tone just right. Josie pivots from soft vulnerability to sharp, sly deflection—not because she’s retreating, but because she’s choosing to stay and make space for something lighter. This is the side of her Asher hasn’t seen yet: the girl who knows how to lean into the moment without giving all of herself away.


---

She let the last word linger just long enough for it to sting. For her. For him. For the firelight that made everything feel more intimate than it probably should’ve.

And then, before it could stretch too far—before it turned into something fragile—she blew out a breath and gave the smallest shake of her head.

“Alright,” she muttered, eyes flicking to the side like she was rolling her own moment of softness up and tucking it back into her sleeve. “That’s enough feelings for one night.”

A beat.

Then her tone shifted—drier, lighter, laced with the kind of humor that didn’t ask for anything in return.

“Rick’s gonna kick my ass if I tell him this was me letting loose.”

She leaned one elbow against the truck bed, tilting her head toward him with a mock-scolding look.

“Sitting still. Talking about real shit. Letting a boy fetch my beer without a death threat attached.”

Her eyes glinted, that cool edge of mischief starting to bleed through.

“This is not what he meant by fun.”

The smirk returned—real this time, sharp and sideways. Then, eyes back on the fire:

“So.”

She took another sip from her cup, let the silence gather for half a beat, then glanced at him sideways with just the barest hint of dare in her voice.

“What’s your definition?”

She didn’t clarify.

Didn’t tell him if she meant fun, or reckless, or a good night.

Just let it hang there, quiet and charged.

Like maybe—just maybe—she was curious what it would look like if she let him lead.

Not far. Not fast.

But just enough to make her forget, for a minute, how complicated everything else had been.

Because she wasn’t walking away.
Not tonight.

And that, in itself, was already a kind of letting go.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t answer right away.

He could’ve.

Could’ve cracked a joke—something low-risk and deflective. Could’ve smirked, leaned into the charm everyone expected, fed her back something easy like bonfires and backseat makeouts and being just reckless enough to remember in the morning.

But she hadn’t asked for that.

Not really.

She was giving him the kind of moment that didn’t come with a safety net. And Asher Cole, for all his golden-boy armor, knew better than to treat it like a game.

So he didn’t look at her when he answered.

Just watched the fire. Felt the heat on his skin. Let her words echo a few more seconds before he spoke into them.

“My definition?” he said, quiet, like he was still tasting it.

A breath.

Then:

“It’s not the parties. Or the noise. Or the high school shit people cling to like it means something.”

He shifted his weight, knocked the toe of his shoe lightly against the dirt.

“It’s that feeling when everything slows down for a minute and you’re not pretending.”

His voice stayed low. Honest. A little surprised by itself.

“When you’re not trying to be the version of yourself everyone already decided on. Not the athlete. Not the ex. Not the guy who’s always fine.”

He finally turned his head.

Looked at her.

Not to read her. Just to see her.

“And not the girl who walks like a warning.”

That part came softer. Not a jab. Not a dig. Just a truth.

“You let people think they’ve got you figured out. That you don’t need anyone. That they wouldn’t survive the fire if they got too close.”

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t try to make it sweet.

“But I think the real version of you—the one that lets someone sit here and breathe beside her without burning for it?”

He tilted his head, eyes still on hers.

“That version’s the kind of fun I don’t wanna mess up.”

A pause.

Then, lighter—just enough to break the weight:

“So yeah. My definition? Sitting still. Talking real shit. Getting your beer without a death threat attached.”

A grin ghosted at the corner of his mouth. Quiet. Careful.

“I’d say we’re doing alright so far.”

He nudged her shoulder with his.

Gentle. Warm.

No pressure.

Just a little reminder that he was still there.

Still choosing to be.

And maybe—if she kept letting him—he’d stay a little longer than she expected.

[Josie Rhodes]

She felt it again—
that thing he did.
The way he said something too real and then softened the landing just enough to make it bearable.

He didn’t reach for her.
Didn’t try to score points or kiss away the quiet.

Just saw her.
Said the things no one dared to.

Josie kept her gaze fixed on the fire.
Sharp-edged. Silent.
But her grip on the cup eased.

The words hit harder than she liked.
Because yeah, maybe she did walk like a warning.
Maybe that was the whole damn point.
But he wasn’t running.

And that?
That was dangerous.

So she cleared her throat once—quick, light.
Like she could cough the feeling out.
Like she was ready to call off the deep end before she started swimming in it.

Then she looked at him.

Not long.
Just enough.

Just a glance.
Just a flicker.
Just a hint of something like reluctant affection slipping past her ribs before she could catch it.

“Truth or dare, Cole?”

The smirk that followed was effortless.
But the flicker behind it?
That wasn’t armor.

That was her letting him back in—
on her terms.
In her language.
With her kind of fun.

Because Rick told her to let loose.
And this wasn’t it. Not yet.
Not fully.

But it was a start.

And if anyone could handle her kind of chaos without burning out?

It was the boy who saw her and didn’t flinch.

She tipped her head, letting the firelight catch on the sharp line of her jaw.

“You game or what?”

[Asher Cole]

Asher’s lips parted into a grin, slow and crooked—like it was pulling itself from somewhere deeper than his usual charm.

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t crack wise.

Just let the heat of her voice settle into his spine, right where the tension had lived all night.

Truth or dare.

Josie Rhodes was letting him back in—on her terms. That smirk of hers wasn’t a weapon this time. It was an invitation, thinly veiled as a challenge. And God help him, Asher had never wanted to say yes to something more in his life.

He leaned his shoulder a little closer to hers, not brushing—just hovering.

Right there.

Letting her feel the answer before he gave it voice.

“I’m game,” he said, tone low but steady, eyes flicking to hers like he already knew this wasn’t just a question. “Always am.”

He let the beat stretch—long enough to make it count, short enough not to scare her off.

Then, with a grin that didn’t ask for anything it wouldn’t give back, he added:

“But if you’re asking, you go first.”

And this time?

He didn’t hide the flicker of intrigue in his voice.

Didn’t try to sound casual.

Because this wasn’t just banter anymore.

This was her cracking the door—and him, choosing to walk through.

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie tipped her head back, just a little. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just loose.
The kind of movement that came when something inside you started to finally… unclench.

The beer was settling in now—softening her edges, loosening the grip she kept around her ribs.
Not enough to dull her.
Just enough to let her live a little.

Asher’s voice still buzzed faint in her chest, somewhere just below the collarbone.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t fold.
Didn’t play it safe.

He let her be the one to call the shot.
And then handed her the match.

So yeah—maybe she was still watching him out of the corner of her eye, still ready to shut this whole thing down if he made a wrong move.

But he hadn’t.

Not once.

And whether she liked it or not, he’d earned something tonight.

Her lips curled slow as she leaned back against the truck, spine hitting the cool metal, chin tilting toward him with the kind of ease she usually kept locked behind lock and key.

“Dare.”

It came out smooth. Solid.

Not a whisper. Not a bluff.

Just her.

Willing.

Her eyes caught his in the firelight, and there it was again—that spark that wasn’t all defense anymore.

She took a lazy sip of her beer, then arched a brow, voice dipping into something low and dry.

“Make it interesting.”

And beneath the smirk, the steel, the flirt—there was something warmer.

Because Josie Rhodes didn’t do cute.
She didn’t do safe.
She didn’t do stay.

But for now?
Here, beside this boy who didn’t try to tame her—who just sat there steady and didn’t run?

She could let herself play.

Not as armor.

But as choice.

As something that almost felt like… fun.

[Asher Cole]

Asher let out the softest breath—more of a laugh, really—but low, under his breath. Like it had surprised him how much that word from her lips could hit like a punch to the gut and a pull to the chest all at once.

Dare.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way she said it. The ease. The challenge. The fact that she gave him the wheel and trusted him not to crash.

His knee bumped lightly against hers, intentional but casual, grounding himself. Testing the charge in the air between them. Yep. Still there.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, not cocky, not teasing—just honest. He watched her for a second, really watched her. The smirk, the tilt of her jaw, the way she held her beer like she wasn’t sure whether to sip or chuck it at someone’s head.

She was calm, but not unarmed. And he respected the hell out of that.

“Alright,” he said, leaning in just enough to lower his voice—just enough so only she would hear. “I dare you…”

His grin flickered, sharp but curious.

“…to tell me the last time you actually had fun. Real fun. Not chaos. Not adrenaline. Not ‘almost died but it made for a good story’ fun.”

A pause.

Then, with a little shrug:

“Just… joy.”

He didn’t pull back.

Didn’t soften the blow.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want a performance from her. He didn’t need the version of Josie Rhodes the town thought they knew.

He wanted the real thing.

Even if it came jagged.

Even if she hated him for asking.

And yeah, maybe it wasn’t the kind of dare she expected—but that was the point.

Because Asher Cole wasn’t here to play it safe.

He was here because she was.

And that was more than enough.

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie stared at him.

Flat.
Dry.
Unblinking.

Like maybe she was reconsidering every single life choice that led her to this exact moment on this exact night beside this exact boy with the gall to hand her a loaded question and call it a game.

“That wasn’t a dare,” she said finally, voice low and even, but her brow arched with razor precision. “That was a truth dressed up like a dare.”

She took a sip of her beer. Didn’t look at him.

“That’s cheating.”

But she didn’t shut him down.

Didn’t shove him away or laugh it off or throw the cup at his chest with a scoff and a try again, golden boy.

She just let the silence roll in—long and flickering, filled with fire crackles and distant party noise and the sharp ache of memories she usually kept buried too deep to reach.

Because the thing was?

He wasn’t wrong.

She didn’t remember the last time someone asked a question like that and meant it.
Didn’t remember the last time she didn’t dodge it.

Her mouth pulled into something almost like a smirk. But it faded before it got comfortable.

“The last time?” she said finally, her voice quieter now. Not soft. Not raw. Just… honest.

“I was a kid.”

She blinked slowly, eyes on the flames, her shoulders settling just enough for it to be noticeable if you were watching—if you were him.

“We were living out of a motel in Nevada. One of those roadside ones with the fake brick walls and a vending machine that ate your change.”

A dry little laugh slipped out. She shook her head.

“But my mom got it in her head that we were gonna have a picnic. She dragged the motel comforter outside, laid it down right next to the pool with no water in it. Said we were somewhere fancy.”

Her thumb rubbed against the rim of her cup.

“She split a gas station sandwich and a can of Sprite like it was some gourmet setup. I had a disposable camera and took pictures of the sky like it was the most beautiful place I’d ever been.”

Her jaw clenched lightly. Not with anger. Just memory.

“And for maybe twenty minutes, I forgot we didn’t have anywhere to go next. I forgot the car was breaking down, and the rent was overdue, and she was already halfway out the door in her head.”

She swallowed, then finally glanced sideways at him. Not sharp. Not defensive.

Just Josie.

Stripped of the static.

“I really believed… for that minute… we were a happy little family.”

She didn’t let the silence stretch too long this time.

Turned her gaze back to the fire, lifted her cup again, voice back in her usual register.

“So congrats,” she muttered, dry again. “You got your truth, cheater.”

But there was no venom in it.
No heat.

Just a quiet edge of tired affection she didn’t mean to let through.

Because somehow, Asher Cole had earned that piece of her past—and for once?

She didn’t regret handing it over.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe right for a second.

Because—damn.

He hadn’t expected her to actually answer. Not like that. Not with something that felt like it had teeth and history and sunlight baked into the edges.

He was expecting… maybe a sarcastic jab, a brush-off, another wall.

But what she gave him?

It was a window.

One so clear and startling he didn’t dare interrupt it.

So he just sat there, beer warm in his hand, watching her speak like she didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

And when she finished—when she called him a cheater with that quiet, exhausted affection that hit harder than any insult ever could—he finally let out a slow breath and looked at her.

Not like a boy with a crush.

Not like a guy trying to get laid.

Like someone who saw the weight of what she’d carried, and respected the hell out of her for still standing.

“…That’s a good answer,” he said, voice low, steady.

No teasing now.

No grin.

Just real.

And then—because the ache in her story hadn’t quite let go of his chest yet—he added:

“I think about stuff like that too sometimes. Those weird, almost perfect moments that shouldn’t have been. Where everything was kinda broken, but for some reason, you weren’t.”

He nudged her foot lightly with his.

“Not cheating, by the way,” he said, a little smile finally creeping in. “Just playing the long game.”

And then, after a beat:

“Thanks for telling me.”

He didn’t push it.

Didn’t ask more.

Just looked at her for a long moment—really looked—then tipped his head toward her with mock solemnity.

“Alright, Rhodes. Truth or dare?”

He smiled wider now. Easier. The firelight catching in his eyes.

“But if you pick truth, I am gonna cheat again.”

And this time, he was trying to make her smile.

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie didn’t smile.

Not right away.

But her lips did twitch—just once, just enough—for him to know he’d landed the hit. That warm, ridiculous kind of hit that made her want to roll her eyes and lean closer all at once.

He called her Rhodes.
Said thanks like it meant something.
And didn’t flinch when she handed him a ghost wrapped in motel-sheet memories.

Dumbass.

Her beer sloshed a little in her cup as she shifted her weight, resting one boot against the front tire, gaze still pinned to the fire like it was holding the line steady for both of them.

“You don’t get to ask,” she said eventually, the words low and dry but laced with something lighter now. “It’s still my turn.”

She didn’t correct him for the truth/dare mix-up.

Didn’t call him out for talking too much or for getting too close.

Because truth was?

She didn’t mind.

She liked his voice when it wasn’t trying so hard.
Liked the quiet kind of reverence that sat in his chest when he listened.
Liked him, maybe, in that cautious, suspicious way that wild things sometimes circle firelight before settling in.

She tilted her head just enough to catch him in her peripheral.

“You dared me to get real,” she said, tapping her cup lightly against her thigh. “So here’s one back.”

She looked at him now—full on.

Not soft.

Not smirking.

Just steady.

“I dare you to take that dumb grin and march over there—” she pointed lazily toward the tailgate speakers and the rickety ring of partiers still howling at some drinking game gone feral— “and steal the aux cord.”

Her eyes gleamed. Not mean. Just dangerous enough to be fun.

“Put on a song that makes everyone stop and stare. I don’t care if it’s embarrassing or dramatic or makes them think you’ve lost your mind.”

A sip of beer. A casual shrug.

“But it has to be one you actually like. One that feels like you.”

Her tone didn’t dare him to impress anyone.

It dared him to be someone.

And maybe the beer was kicking in, or maybe the trust was—
but Josie Rhodes was enjoying herself now.

And for the first time in too damn long?

She wanted to see what someone like him did when no one told him who to be.

[Asher Cole]

Asher stared at her like she’d just lobbed a live grenade in his lap and dared him not to flinch.

God, she was good.

Not just quick—with her mouth, with her timing—but precise. She didn’t throw punches for fun. She threw them to land. And this one?

It landed.

Because this wasn’t just a dare.

It was a challenge.

Not to be cool. Not to win.

But to be honest.

To rip off the varsity-jacket charm, the golden-boy grin, and put something down that actually meant something. Something that had his name stitched into the beat.

And somehow, that was scarier than anything she could’ve dared him to do to her.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t laugh.

Just leaned his head back, exhaled slow through his nose, and let the firelight drag shadows under his cheekbones.

“That’s evil,” he muttered finally, shaking his head with the ghost of a grin. “You know that, right?”

No response.

Just her eyes, waiting—sharp and bright and unrelenting.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, stood, and rolled his shoulders like he was psyching himself up for a goddamn free throw.

Then he looked down at her—really looked—and there it was again: that flicker of something real, something unscripted, in her face.

It made him feel braver than he should.

“I hate you a little right now,” he said under his breath. “But like… respectfully.”

He turned toward the chaos, crossing the clearing with steps that weren’t cocky—just steady. Determined.

Lexie spotted him first. Said something like, oh my god, he’s back, and someone else laughed too loud like they were in on some joke.

But Asher didn’t stop.

Didn’t play to the crowd.

He walked straight up to the speaker like he owned the whole damn thing, knelt down, unplugged the aux from a guy who barely registered what was happening—and in one smooth, bold-as-hell move, swapped it out with his phone.

No hesitation.

Just one click. One breath.

And then—

Music.

Low at first.

Then louder.

Not a party banger. Not something ironic or cool or nostalgic enough to win the crowd back over.

A ballad.

Raw.
Slow.
Unapologetically emotional.

One of those tracks people kept in their headphones but never added to the pregame playlist. One with lyrics that felt like skin, like bruises and honesty and nights that weren’t about being seen, but felt.

The reaction was instant.

Heads turned.

Someone booed, half-joking. A girl squinted like she was trying to figure out if he’d lost a bet. Even the drinking game started to fizzle under the weight of it.

But Asher didn’t explain.

Didn’t defend.

He just straightened, hands in his pockets now, shoulders relaxed as the chorus spilled out over the clearing—clear and full and his.

Then he turned back.

Walked slow.

Every step a silent declaration: Yeah. I picked this. Let it hit you or don’t. But I’m not running from it.

When he reached her again, he didn’t sit right away. Just stood beside the truck, beer forgotten in his hand, letting the music trail behind him like a second heartbeat.

“Song’s mine,” he said quietly. “Picked it last summer. Played it on loop for a month.”

A pause.

Then:

“First time I ever stopped pretending I liked who I was supposed to be.”

He looked at her—not with expectation. Not with pride.

Just… level.

Open.

Real.

“So… how’d I do?”

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie didn’t look at him right away.
She stayed still. Leaning against the truck. Boot planted, beer balanced loosely in her hand, eyes flicking toward the sky like maybe she needed a second to swallow whatever the hell just lodged in her throat.

Because the song?

It was terrible.

Overwrought. Melodramatic. One of those aching, open-wound ballads she would’ve mocked six ways from Sunday if anyone else had played it.

But he did.
And it meant something.
Not just the lyrics, but the choice.

The fact that he stood there in front of people who thought they knew him and said, no—you get this version tonight.

And somehow, that changed everything.

She took a sip of her beer, then finally glanced over at him—shoulders relaxed, eyes steady, standing like he wasn’t sorry for any of it.

And damn it.

Damn him.

Because Josie didn’t like people getting under her skin.
But Asher Cole was sitting in there now, just behind the ribs, grinning like he didn’t even know.

She smirked—barely.

“Zero out of ten,” she said flatly, voice deadpan. “Unforgivable taste.”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“But it’s my favorite thing I’ve heard all night.”

She didn’t explain.

Didn’t have to.

Because he wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t hiding. Not right now.

Josie tipped her head, met his gaze head-on, and gave a shrug that tried to look casual but didn’t quite land.

“Okay, Cole,” she said, voice soft but still hers. “Your turn to dish it out.”

She turned toward him fully now, letting the firelight catch in her eyes. Letting her guard sit back just far enough to make room for the part of her that still wanted to play.

“I pick dare.”

A pause.
Then, with the barest tug of a smirk:

“Only fair.”

And yeah—maybe this wasn’t the wild night Rick had in mind when he told her to let loose. But with Asher? This wasn’t nothing.

This was real.

And for once, she wasn’t running from it.

[Asher Cole]

Asher couldn’t breathe.

Not in a bad way—not in the panic, sharp-edge, can’t-catch-your-lungs kind of way. More like he’d just walked into some pocket of stillness too full of meaning to move through fast.

Because she didn’t laugh.

Didn’t throw the moment back in his face or roll her eyes like he half expected.

She listened.

She let the song play.

And then she gave him that line—zero out of ten—flat and dry like always, but with just enough warmth behind it to knock something loose in his chest.

He smiled.

Couldn’t help it.

The real kind. Lopsided and a little too soft. One that tugged higher on the left like he hadn’t had time to polish it.

And when she added—but it’s my favorite thing I’ve heard all night—he felt it hit somewhere deep. Somewhere stupid and tender that shouldn’t’ve been left exposed.

She didn’t say it for him. Didn’t dress it up.

Which made it hit harder.

Asher leaned back against the truck again, close enough that their shoulders might’ve brushed if either of them breathed too deep. But he didn’t push the space. Didn’t push her.

He just sat with it.

Let her keep the power, the pace, the rules.

And then she turned. Looked right at him.

Chose dare.

He huffed a breath—half disbelieving, half impressed—and turned his head to look at her, really look. The flicker of firelight in her eyes. The bare trace of a smirk she probably didn’t know she was wearing. The way she let her voice drop just enough to let him know it mattered.

Only fair, she’d said.

God, she was terrifying.

In the best way.

He turned the dare over in his mind like a coin—weighing what she’d give him, what she wouldn’t. What would push her too far, and what might pull her closer.

And then—softly, not a challenge, not a trap—he said:

“Go steal the keys to that dumb four-wheeler.”

He nodded toward the clunky green ATV parked half in the shadows near the woodline—some rich kid’s weekend toy that had been sitting idle since sunset.

“Don’t hotwire it. Don’t make a scene. Just… go take the keys. Borrow it.”

A pause.

He let his voice dip lower, warmer.

“And when you’ve got them, meet me at the tree line. We’re leaving.”

Not forever. Not a big escape.

Just for now.

Just a ride.

Just them.

Because the fire was too loud, and the crowd was losing meaning, and Josie Rhodes had just handed him a sliver of trust so sharp and precious it didn’t belong anywhere near a keg.

So if she was game?

He’d give her a night worth staying for.

And if she wasn’t?

He’d still stay exactly where she left him.

Because the dare wasn’t the point.

She was.

[Josie Rhodes]

She should stall. Just a beat.

Josie didn’t move at first.

Didn’t smirk, didn’t tease, didn’t do her usual trick of pretending things didn’t matter just to keep them from mattering. Instead, she stared out at the clearing—the fire, the keg, the party kids still half-screaming lyrics no one actually knew. And just beyond them? Her car. Her baby. Parked alone, gleaming faint under the treeline like a sentinel that didn’t trust any of these idiots either.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup. She didn't like leaving it. Not when she’d worked so damn hard keeping it running, keeping herself running.

But she also didn’t like the idea of backing down.

Not when Asher said we’re leaving like it wasn’t some ploy. Like it was just a breath of quiet being offered to her—no leash attached. Just a little chaos and a little peace, tied together with a dare and a grin that wasn't asking her to prove anything.

She flicked her eyes sideways at him.

Still watching her like she might vanish. Like he wasn’t trying to solve her, just… stay near her long enough to understand.

Her voice came low.

“I hate that I wanna say yes to this.”

But she didn’t walk away.

Didn’t shut it down.

Instead, she slid her hand into the front pocket of her flannel, pulled out her car keys, and lobbed them lightly at his chest.

“Go move it,” she said, like it wasn’t a big deal—like she wasn’t testing him all over again. “Carefully.”

Her gaze was sharp, but not cold. More like warning wrapped in reluctant trust.

“I catch a single new scratch, I’m dragging your body into that quarry.”

She stepped forward, finally, eyes flicking toward the four-wheeler. Assessing. Calculating.

And then?

That smirk came back. Crooked. Laced with adrenaline.

“I’ll be at the tree line in five.”

She didn’t wait for him to react. Just turned on her heel and walked toward the shadows like it wasn’t the first time she’d stolen something for a little freedom.

But this time?

She wasn’t doing it alone.

[Asher Cole]

Asher caught the keys with both hands, heart kicking hard enough to blur the moment.

Not because he was afraid of scratching her car—though yeah, he was already mentally reviewing the gravel layout like his life depended on it. Which, apparently, it did.

But because she said yes.

Not with hearts and flowers.
Not with wide eyes and a breathless smile.
But with that quiet kind of defiance she wore like armor—I hate that I wanna say yes to this—and then did it anyway.

That was Josie Rhodes in a nutshell.

Terror and truth, grit and grace, all tangled into one girl who’d rather challenge the whole damn world than admit she needed someone beside her when she did.

And right now? She wasn’t walking alone.

She trusted him.

With her car.

With her space.

With her.

He turned toward the driver’s side like he’d just been handed sacred relics instead of slightly-rusted keys, slipping behind the wheel of her baby like it had teeth and might bite if he disrespected it. Which, honestly, felt fair.

He didn’t touch the radio.
Didn’t mess with the seat.

Just pulled around slow, quiet, surgical—parked near the edge of the woods without so much as a tire squeal.

And when he cut the engine and stepped out, the sounds of the party stretched long behind him—dimmed now, irrelevant.

The only thing that mattered was the girl moving through the dark like she belonged there. Like rebellion was stitched into her spine and the night was bending around her in respect.

Josie.

Coming toward him with a smirk on her mouth and stars in her hair and something sharper—something that felt like choice—glinting in her eyes.

He didn’t speak.

Just held out her keys.

Let her take them back like it was ceremonial.

And when her fingers brushed his again—warm, solid, real—he didn’t move away.

Just stood there.

Waiting.

Willing.

Whatever came next?

He was already all in.

[Josie Rhodes]

She didn’t tell him how she did it.

Not at first.

Josie just walked out of the tree line like a ghost with purpose, hands empty, pace casual, expression unreadable—except for the barest twitch of satisfaction curling at the corner of her mouth. That, and the low thrum of the ATV engine now idling just behind her, parked exactly where she wanted it, like it had wandered there on its own.

But Asher knew better.

He’d seen the rich kids still bickering by the keg. Saw one of them patting his pockets, frowning at the ground like the keys might materialize if he just squinted hard enough.

Josie never looked at them.

Didn’t gloat. Didn’t taunt.

She just crossed the space between them in her scuffed boots and borrowed moonlight, lifted her hand, and snapped her fingers once.

Asher blinked.

Then handed her the car keys.

She caught them without breaking stride, immediately turning her back to him to check over her baby like it was ritual. Eyes on the body, the tires, the paint. Fingers brushing along the driver’s side like she was asking it if it had been treated right.

Nothing out of place.

No new scratches.

He must’ve passed whatever test she silently held him to, because she gave a short, approving nod and tucked the keys back into her flannel pocket.

Then?

She turned to him, flipped the ATV keys into his hand with an easy flick of her wrist, and said—

“No more truths.”

She leaned a shoulder against the front of the four-wheeler, arms crossed, that spark back in her eyes now—brighter, bolder.

“We’ve already said enough for one night.”

A beat.

Then, tone dropping into something lower, warmer, laced with trouble:

“Your dare, Cole—take us somewhere no one else knows how to find.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

Not this time.

“Anywhere quiet. Anywhere real.”

She nodded toward the dark, open stretch of forest behind him—trail barely marked, trees rising like sentries.

“And don’t bother asking what happens if you get us lost.”

Her smirk sharpened.

“Because that might be the point.”

Then she swung a leg over the back of the ATV, calm and commanding like she did this every day, and patted the seat behind her with a dry, dangerous kind of smile.

“You driving or what?”

[Asher Cole]

The keys were still warm in his hand when she said it.

No more truths.

Good.
Because Asher wasn’t sure how many more of those he had left in him without unraveling. Without turning inside out in front of a girl who could already see through more of him than anyone had in years.

She didn’t need his autobiography.
She needed a place.

So he gave her one.

He didn’t speak—just slid onto the front seat of the four-wheeler, boots planted, spine loose, one hand gripping the handlebar like he knew exactly where he was going.

And he did.

Not because it was some secret make-out spot or badge-of-honor hideaway.

But because it was his.

The trail wound narrow at first—branches grabbing at the air, tires kicking up soft dirt as the engine purred beneath them. She didn’t ask where. Didn’t offer directions. Just let her arms circle his waist like it was natural, like she trusted him not to crash them into a tree.

And God, the way that felt—

Her chin brushing his shoulder when the wind picked up.
The warmth of her against his back.
Her laughter, quiet and short, when he hit a bump and she had to hold on tighter.

He’d take that over truth any day.

The trail curved twice, narrowed once more—and then broke open into a clearing.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic.

Just a shallow, moss-ringed ridge tucked behind a half-dried creek bed, lined with birch trees and silence. A little pocket of quiet carved into the woods like the world forgot it was there.

He killed the engine.

The night rushed in around them.

Crickets. Wind. That soft hum of not being needed by anyone for just a little while.

Josie slipped off the ATV first, landing light on her boots. She didn’t say a word—just scanned the clearing, gaze calm, posture relaxed like her pulse wasn’t still thrumming from the ride.

Asher leaned back against the seat, watching her like she was something half-wild and half-miracle.

“No more truths,” he said finally, voice low. “Swear it.”

She didn’t nod.
Didn’t blink.
Just gave him that look—the one that said you already know I mean it.

He grinned.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, standing slowly. “Because if I had to talk about my feelings for one more second, I might’ve had to start writing you bad poetry.”

He stepped closer. Just a little.

One pace.

Two.

Her eyes didn’t narrow.
Didn’t harden.

They sparkled.

He stopped with just enough space to still call it innocent.

“Not saying I’d be bad at it,” he added, tilting his head. “Just saying I don’t think the world’s ready for a love haiku about your boots.”

His grin widened, soft and dangerous.

“You want a real dare?”

He let the question hang, voice barely louder than the wind.

Then he stepped in, real close this time—close enough to smell the beer on her breath and the smoke in her flannel and the heat still rising off her skin from the ride.

His hand hovered at her side—not touching, not yet. Just waiting.

“I dare you,” he said slowly, gaze locked on hers, “to let me stay this close for a little while.”

No kiss.

No move.

Just invitation.

Because he meant it—no more honesty tonight.

Just this.

Just them.

And whatever she chose next.

[Josie Rhodes]

She hadn’t planned on holding him like that.

Not really.

Not with her arms around his waist, her chest pressed flush to his back, her cheek nearly brushing the edge of his shoulder every time the ATV shifted over a root or dipped into a groove. But once she was there?

She didn’t let go.

Her hands settled low on his jacket, fingers curling just enough to keep balance—not that she was worried about falling. At least, not in that way.

The truth was—though she’d never admit it out loud—Josie Rhodes wasn’t worried about the ride.

Wasn’t worried about getting lost in the woods, wasn’t worried about horror movie logic or the fact that she’d just willingly hopped on a four-wheeler with a boy she barely knew.

No, that part was easy.

What scared her—what made her pulse thud harder against the cage of her ribs—was how safe it felt. How easy it was to lean into the quiet hum of the engine and trust him to steer her somewhere that mattered.

How dangerous it felt to like it.

She pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to rest her forehead against his shoulder. God, that would be a mistake. One second too long and she’d forget this wasn’t real. That he’d be gone by fall and she’d be gone even sooner.

The clearing helped.

Distance. Space. Enough air to breathe again.

She climbed off first, slow and steady, every muscle trained to hide how off-balance she felt. She brushed her hands over her shorts like it might smooth out the tension in her chest, then turned to scan the space—his space. Of course it was calm. Of course it was secluded and weirdly beautiful and quietly carved into the woods like it had always been waiting for this moment.

She wanted to make fun of the poetry line.

God, so badly.

Not because she thought he’d be bad at it—but because poetry? About her? That wasn’t how her story went. She wasn’t the kind of girl boys wrote sonnets about. She was the intermission. The lesson. The crash that came before the healing.

But now, standing here, watching him close the space like she hadn’t dared him to do exactly that?

She couldn’t look away.

The moonlight caught the edge of his jaw. His voice dipped low. His hand hovered.

Let me stay this close for a while.

She didn’t move for a second. Didn’t blink.

Then, slowly, she lifted her eyes to his—let him see what this was doing to her. That she wasn’t immune. That maybe, maybe, this wasn’t just about flirting anymore.

And that was why she needed to regain control.

Quick.

A smirk tugged at her lips—slow, smoky, a little dangerous.

“You think that’s a dare?” she murmured, stepping forward until her boots brushed his.

Her voice dipped, sultry and razor-sharp.

“I dare you, Cole…”

She let her fingers trail down the front of his jacket—lazy, featherlight, just enough to make him forget how to breathe—

“…to put your mouth on mine without it meaning anything.”

A pause.

Then a whisper, half a promise, half a trap:

“Think you can do that?”

Because she wasn’t ready for feelings.

But God, she wasn’t ready to stop this either.

And if they were playing a game?

She was going to make damn sure he felt every second of it.

[Asher Cole]

He felt her before he saw her.

Not in that obvious way—arms around his waist, breath at the back of his neck—but in the way her silence sank into him. The way her presence settled low in his gut like it had always belonged there.

Josie didn’t hold him like she was bracing for a fall.

She held him like she was choosing not to run.

And for someone like her? That was seismic.

When they stopped, when she climbed off, he stayed put for a second. Let the moment settle. Let his heartbeat catch up to the way she’d been curled behind him like she meant it.

And when he finally looked up?

She was standing in the moonlight, scanning the clearing like she didn’t trust it—but didn’t hate it either. Like maybe—maybe—this spot he’d only ever shared with the trees and the occasional breakdown of his own had just made room for someone else.

And then she spoke.

“You think that’s a dare?”

His lips twitched. Reflex. Not a smirk. Just a warning to himself.

Because the moment she stepped forward, boots brushing his, voice like smoke curling into the space between them—he knew.

He wasn’t in control anymore.

“I dare you, Cole…”

Her fingers trailed down his jacket and his brain short-circuited on instinct. Not because of the touch itself—but the restraint in it. Like she could wreck him. Like she knew it. And maybe she would, if he gave her a reason.

“…to put your mouth on mine without it meaning anything.”

His breath hitched. Not loud. But enough.

“Think you can do that?”

Jesus.

He should’ve laughed. Should’ve called her bluff or smirked something back that evened the playing field. Should’ve done anything except what he did.

But Asher Cole didn’t back down from dares.

And this one?

This one felt holy.

So he didn’t speak.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t rush.

He just leaned in—slow and deliberate—eyes on hers like he was reading a language most people didn’t know how to translate. His hand lifted, settled lightly on her hip, thumb brushing once against the denim.

Not possessive.

Just… anchoring.

“Okay,” he breathed, so low it barely counted as sound. “No meaning.”

Then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not sweet.
Real.

Like he was daring her back.
Like he was asking—Are you sure?

His other hand came up, slow and reverent, sliding along her jaw, curling behind her neck like maybe he needed something to hold onto.

Because she was right there. All fire and challenge and don’t-get-attached—

But God, he already was.

And when their mouths met—when she kissed him like she meant it and didn’t—it was worse.

Better.

Devastating.

Because he knew it wasn’t supposed to matter.

But every inch of him was learning her like a song he’d never forget.

And when he pulled back—just a breath, just a second—he didn’t step away.

Didn’t break the moment.

He just whispered, voice still rough with it:

“…You lose.”

And kissed her again.

[Josie Rhodes]

She didn’t expect it to hit like that.

The first kiss—sharp, magnetic, almost cruel in how quickly it tore through her logic—landed like a crash she saw coming and still didn’t brace for.

She kissed him back.

Of course she did.

Because her lips didn’t get the memo her brain was screaming out. Because her hands moved on instinct, fists bunching in the fabric of his jacket like maybe she could hold off the meaning if she held him tight enough. Like maybe she could cheat the system and come out clean.

No meaning.

What a fucking joke.

Because the second his mouth touched hers, everything meant something.

It wasn’t just his lips or the heat of his hand on her hip or the way he kissed her like he knew it was dangerous. It was him. Asher Cole. The boy with too much charm and too many people always watching—but who made her feel like the only one he ever really saw.

And when he pulled back just enough to say you lose?

She didn’t even hesitate.

She grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulled him back in, and kissed him again.

Harder.

Deeper.

Like maybe she could kiss away the truth humming under her skin. Like maybe she could stop this from becoming what she already knew it was becoming.

But when she finally pulled away—when her breath hitched in her throat and her heart wouldn’t stop slamming against her ribs—she let it slip.

“Fuck.”

The word tore out of her on an exhale. Frustrated. Breathless. Half-defeated.

Not at him.

At herself.

Because she knew better. She always knew better. And still—

She looked at him now—at his stupid, flushed, perfect face, at the way his eyes hadn’t left hers for a second—and she knew she was already in trouble.

She swallowed once. Took a shaky breath. Let her fingers drop from his jacket but didn’t back away.

“Jesus Christ, Cole,” she muttered, voice hoarse, gaze still a little wild.

Then, softer. Not as armor. Just as truth:

“You are such a pain in my ass.”

But her eyes said it differently now.

Because pain or not, she wasn’t asking him to go.

Not yet.

[Asher Cole]

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t gloat.

Asher just stood there, wrecked in the quiet kind of way that didn’t show up in mirrors—only in the beat of your pulse and the weight of your breath when everything shifted.

Because when she kissed him again—grabbed his collar, dragged him in like she was daring the world to watch—he didn’t fight it.

He kissed her back like it was the only thing he’d been trying to do all night.

And when she pulled away?

When she muttered that soft, wrecked fuck like she’d just realized this wasn’t a game anymore?

That’s when it hit him.

He wasn’t playing either.

She dropped her hands from his jacket, but she didn’t step back.

Didn’t shut it down.

Didn’t throw up a wall and retreat into the smoke and teeth he knew she carried like religion.

She stayed.

And that—that was everything.

Her voice was rough when it came. Worn down to truth.

“Jesus Christ, Cole… You are such a pain in my ass.”

He let out a breath—one of those rare, uneven ones that didn’t know if it wanted to be a laugh or a prayer.

Then he tilted his head, eyes scanning hers like he was still trying to memorize the moment before it vanished.

His voice was low, like the night belonged to it.

“…Yeah,” he said, stepping just close enough for her to feel the heat of him again. “But I think you’re starting to like it.”

His hand drifted to her waist, careful now—no pressure, no pull. Just contact.

Honest. Present. Real.

“I’m not sorry, by the way,” he added, quieter this time. “For kissing you like that.”

A pause.

Then his gaze dropped to her lips and back up again.

“And I’m definitely not done.”

He waited.

Not for permission.

Just… for her.

Because Josie Rhodes wasn’t a girl you pushed.

She was the storm you stood still in, hoping to God you were worth the lightning.

[Josie Rhodes]

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t throw up one of those sarcastic quips she usually had loaded like a round in the chamber.

Josie just stared at him.

Still. Quiet.

Like she was flipping through a book and trying to decide if she wanted to keep reading—or if she was about to set it on fire.

Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching. Like she was searching for something deeper than charm, something buried under the swagger and the smirks and the soft confessions he didn’t offer anyone else.

And God, what scared her most?

She saw it.

Saw all of it.

No cracks. No lies. No carefully curated mask to match the town’s golden boy expectations.

Just him.

And maybe that was the moment her heart won.

She dragged her eyes down to his mouth—slow, deliberate, like she needed to double-check if that was really the thing undoing her tonight—then back up again.

Then, without a word, she reached for his shirt.

Fingers hooked in the collar.

And she pulled.

Hard enough to steal his breath, soft enough to make it feel like a secret.

And when her mouth met his this time, there was no dare in it.

No game.

Just heat. Hunger. A yes wrapped in every inch of restraint she didn’t use.

She kissed him like she meant it.

Like she hated that she meant it.

Like if she let herself feel too much more, she might never survive the fallout—but she was kissing him anyway.

[Asher Cole]

Asher’s hands found her like gravity.

One at her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone like he couldn’t believe she was real; the other at her waist, fingers digging into flannel like he needed something to hold onto before this pulled him under completely.

Because this kiss?

This wasn’t a firestarter.

It was a goddamn detonation.

He felt it—felt her—all sharp angles and bitten-back softness, like she’d spent her whole life learning how to guard the parts of herself that wanted. And now, for whatever reckless reason, she was giving him just enough to feel it burn.

And he burned.

The kind of heat that didn’t stay skin-deep. The kind that settled in your chest and rewrote your definition of ruin.

She kissed like she was furious about wanting him—like surrendering meant swallowing glass—but still, she didn’t stop. And neither did he.

Asher kissed her back with everything he wasn’t supposed to feel. Not here. Not this fast. Not for a girl who walked like a warning label and tasted like risk.

But it didn’t matter.

Because whatever this was—it had already sunk its teeth in.

When they finally pulled apart, breath ragged and mouths swollen from the weight of it, he didn’t step back.

Didn’t say anything clever or easy.

He just leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breath catching between them.

And when he spoke, it was a whisper. Unapologetic.

“…You wreck me.”

He didn’t mean to say it.

Didn’t mean to mean it.

But it was already out there—raw and stupid and too goddamn honest.

His voice dropped lower.

“I’d kiss you every night if it meant getting to see that look on your face again.”

Another breath.

Then, half-wrecked, half-worshipping:

“But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

His grip didn’t tighten. He didn’t push.

He just waited.

Holding space.

Because the only thing scarier than falling for Josie Rhodes?

Was daring to let her know he already had.

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Because the second their mouths broke apart and the night air hit her lips like a slap, she felt it—everything—hit all at once.

His breath, still warm on her skin. His forehead against hers like a vow he hadn’t said out loud. The way his hands hadn’t let go. Not entirely. Like he didn’t trust the earth to hold him unless she was part of it.

And maybe the scariest part?

She didn’t want him to.

Her chest heaved once, twice—trying to catch up to her heartbeat, which had apparently decided to sprint for the damn border. She could still feel the shape of his mouth against hers. Still taste the honesty on his tongue. Still hear her own name somewhere in the back of her head and wonder when it had started sounding like something someone else could say softly.

She wanted to make a joke. Something cutting. Something stupid. Something safe.

“More attractive when you’re wrecked,” was right there. Loaded. Sarcastic. A good exit strategy.

But then he had to go and say that.

“I’d kiss you every night if it meant getting to see that look on your face again.”

Her stomach flipped.

Hard.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But her fingers did twitch where they’d been curled against his chest, gripping the edge of his jacket like she hadn’t even noticed. Her forehead stayed against his, but her jaw tensed. Just a little.

Because God, Asher.

That was not what she’d prepared for. That wasn’t the move a boy like him was supposed to make. He was supposed to chase the kiss, maybe tease her about it, maybe ruin it with a grin or a joke or the kind of swagger she could hate.

He wasn’t supposed to mean it.

And yet—she believed him.

Every word.

That scared her more than anything else.

So she did what she could do.

She shoved him.

Light. Playful. Barely a breath of contact.

But the message was there: Careful.

Then, because maybe she was the one who needed the warning, she said it—voice rough, quieter than she meant it to be.

“…Truth.”

She didn’t give him time to ask a question.

Didn’t wait for him to press.

Her eyes stayed locked on his, and this time, there was no armor. Just a girl standing in the woods under too much moonlight with a heart she didn’t want to admit had already started shifting toward him.

She swallowed hard.

Then said it. Bare. Simple. Devastating.

“I like you.”

A beat.

Then, softer:

“More than I want to.”

And for a girl like Josie Rhodes?

That was everything.

[Asher Cole]

Asher froze.

Not like he was scared—like he felt it. Every syllable. Every breath behind it. Like those three words reached down inside his chest and rewired something permanent.

“I like you.”

More than I want to.

He could still taste her on his lips. Still feel the phantom of her fingertips where she’d gripped his jacket like it meant something. And now—now she was looking at him like she’d just cracked her ribs open and hoped he wouldn’t flinch at what was inside.

And he didn’t.

God, he didn’t.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. Didn’t ruin it with some cocky one-liner like he might’ve done with anyone else.

Because this wasn’t anyone else.

This was Josie.

And she’d just handed him the truth like it weighed a thousand pounds and still trusted him not to drop it.

So he stepped in.

No space. No pause.

His hand came up—slow, steady—and cupped her jaw like she was something fragile and fierce all at once. Like if he held her wrong, she’d shatter—or worse, vanish.

Then, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, voice barely louder than her breath:

“You think I don’t feel the same?”

A half-breath, shaky. Real.

“You think I wouldn’t walk through fire for another five seconds of this?”

He leaned in—forehead to hers again, eyes locked.

“I’ve liked you since the garage. Since you rolled your eyes and didn’t look twice. Since you looked at me like I wasn’t worth the trouble and then gave a shit anyway.”

A beat.

Then, quiet. Absolute.

“I see you, Josie. All of you.”

His other hand found her hip, grounding. Not possessive—present.

“And I know I’m not what you planned for. I know I make this messier. Scarier.”

His smile flickered—gentle, not smug.

“But I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you make me.”

Another pause.

Then—

“And even then, I might still wait around. Just in case you change your mind.”

Because if she was brave enough to say she liked him?

He could damn sure be brave enough to stay.

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie’s breath caught—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.

So steady.

So sure.

Like he meant every single word, even the reckless ones. Even the ones that made her heart lurch and her chest twist and her future feel like it had just snapped a new shape under her feet.

Her eyelashes fluttered closed when his thumb brushed her cheek. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it.

Because it was so easy to forget the noise when his hand was on her face like that. When he looked at her like she was something more than the flannel and the grit and the flippant comebacks. Like maybe she was something soft, too—underneath all the sharp edges she’d sharpened out of necessity.

And God, she wanted to let herself fall into that look.

To believe it could be that easy.

But it wasn’t.

She wasn’t going to be the reason he threw Harvard away.

She couldn’t imagine herself in some sweatshirt with his name on it, trailing beside him like an afterthought in a world that didn’t know what to make of girls like her.

None of it made sense past summer.

Not really.

And yet…

Here she was.

Letting herself want it anyway.

Because right now?

Right now, the only thing worse than breaking her own heart later was not letting this happen at all.

So she opened her eyes—barely.

Tilted her chin the smallest degree. Smirk ghosting back to her lips, the way it always did when she didn’t want him to know how much she was feeling.

And she whispered, teasing but low and certain:

“Jesus, Cole. Do you ever shut up?”

Then, softer. Closer.

“Stop talking so much…”

Her fingers hooked in the collar of his jacket again, tugging gently.

“…and kiss me again before I change my mind.”

Because future-Josie could deal with the fallout.

Tonight-Josie?

She was done pretending she didn’t want this.

[Asher Cole]

Asher didn’t move at first.

Not because he was unsure. Not because he was waiting for permission.

But because that—that look in her eyes, that breath of vulnerability wrapped in flannel and sarcasm and a barely-there smirk—wrecked him in a way he hadn’t prepared for.

“Do you ever shut up?”

God, she was beautiful when she said it.

Sharp and soft. Tired and brave. The kind of girl who kept one hand on the ignition and the other curled around something she didn’t want to admit she was holding.

And now?

Now she was asking him to kiss her again.

Begging without begging.

Letting herself want without surrendering an inch of power.

And that?

That was everything.

So he leaned in.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Just yes.

His mouth met hers with the kind of intensity that didn’t need to rush—didn’t need to prove anything. It was deep and steady and real—the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything except exactly what it was.

His hand slid from her jaw into her hair, slow and reverent, fingers curling gently at the base of her neck like he was grounding himself there. Like that one touch was keeping him upright.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Because the kiss was the answer.

To every fear.

Every fight.

Every time she thought no one would ever stay long enough to mean it.

He kissed her like staying was the easiest choice in the world.

And when he finally pulled back—barely, just enough to breathe—his voice came quiet. Warm.

“I’ll shut up now.”

A beat.

Then, grinning just enough to make her want to roll her eyes:

“Unless you ask me not to.”

Because for once, Asher Cole wasn’t chasing the moment.

He was already in it.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

[Josie Rhodes]

Josie snorted—quiet, breathless, more shaken than she wanted him to know.

“God,” she muttered, dragging her eyes from his lips to his face like it physically pained her, “you’re so much worse when you’re charming.”

Her hand slid up the front of his jacket again, slow and steady, curling in the collar like she wasn’t about to yank him in—but then she did. Sharp. Certain.

And kissed him again.

This one was rougher around the edges. Less poetic. More Josie. All mouth and heat and something like a dare folded into the way her fingers tightened at the back of his neck. She kissed him like she wanted to bite the truth right off his tongue. Like she was still trying to convince herself it didn’t mean anything—while knowing damn well it did.

When she finally pulled away—lips swollen, breath uneven, eyes darker than the space between stars—she didn’t let go.

Not right away.

Her forehead bumped his. Her mouth hovered near his like she wasn’t done. Like they’d keep circling back to this every time they got too close to stopping.

But she exhaled.

A slow breath. A real one.

And said, quieter now:

“…We should get the ATV back before someone notices.”

A pause. Her smirk returned, small but devastating.

“Would really suck if we got caught and had to explain to a bunch of drunk idiots why we disappeared for twenty minutes and came back looking like this.”

She didn’t step back yet.

Didn’t give him distance.

She just lingered there—still close enough to kiss, still close enough to make it clear that yeah, maybe this was reckless, and messy, and doomed in all the obvious ways.

But she wasn’t done with it yet.

Not even close.

“C’mon, Harvard,” she said finally, tilting her chin toward the trail like it hadn’t just become their secret. “Try not to wreck it on the way down. I’m the only dangerous thing you’re allowed to ride tonight.”

And yeah.

She grinned.

But she also meant it.

[Asher Cole]

Asher grinned—wrecked and reverent all at once.

He didn’t move for a second. Didn’t blink. Just stood there with her words still echoing in his chest like the aftershock of something holy and profane at the same time.

“I’m the only dangerous thing you’re allowed to ride tonight.”

Jesus.

He was going to think about that line every night until August. And probably a thousand after that.

But he didn’t say anything. Not right away.

Because Josie still hadn’t stepped back. Still hadn’t let go. And her breath—warm, wild, real—was still brushing his mouth like a promise that hadn’t finished landing yet.

His hands skimmed her waist once more—slow, certain, like they knew the shape of this moment now. Like they’d carved it from moonlight and mud and that dangerous thing they were both pretending wasn’t real.

Then, low—right at her ear, voice rough and cocky and too close:

“Babe, I could wreck it with my eyes closed.”

He pulled back just enough to see the flicker in her expression, the way her eyes narrowed like she was debating whether to shove him or kiss him again.

He didn’t give her time.

Just turned, hopped on the ATV like he owned the goddamn woods, and revved the engine once—loud enough to make a few birds take off from the trees.

When she slid on behind him—hands on his hips, warm and sure like they’d always been there—he leaned back just slightly.

Didn’t look over his shoulder.

Just smirked.

“I’ll get us down safe,” he said, voice cocky but low. “But if we come back looking like this, I’m blaming it on you.”

A beat. Then—

“And Josie?”

He twisted the throttle slow, just enough to make her lean in closer before he took off.

“You kiss like a goddamn riot.”

And then they were moving—fast, free, and headed back toward the noise.

Back toward the part of the night where none of this was supposed to happen.

But it had.

And there was no going back.