Mountain & Hearth
 

For the wanderers, the homesteaders, and everyone in between.

The moment you step into Mountain & Hearth, the smell hits you—pine, cedar, beeswax, and something faintly sweet, like vanilla tobacco. The wood-planked floor creaks beneath your boots, and every corner of the shop feels worn-in and welcoming, like it’s been there forever and isn’t planning on leaving.

The front section holds all the mountain town essentials—wool socks, hand-knit scarves, enamel mugs, lanterns, locally made soaps, beeswax candles, and mason jars filled with loose-leaf teas or trail snacks. There’s a row of shelves with small-batch jams, hot sauces, and bags of coffee from a nearby roaster. Everything has a handwritten tag tied with twine and a little note about where it came from.

Mid-shop, a cast iron stove radiates gentle heat in the colder months, surrounded by mismatched armchairs and a bucket of firewood that never seems to run out. Nearby, there’s a wooden rack stacked with folded blankets, thermoses, and pocket flasks with etched mountain scenes. A hand-painted sign on the wall reads “Use what you need, leave what you don’t.”

Toward the back, camping gear lines one wall—maps, trail guides, compasses, carabiners, and utility knives arranged with equal parts usefulness and affection. A vintage pinboard displays faded trail snapshots, thank-you notes, and the occasional flyer for a lost glove or pop-up bonfire. The counter itself is reclaimed wood with a chipped enamel mug for tips and a tin box for change.

Mountain & Hearth isn’t about trends—it’s about tradition. It’s the kind of place where everything is built to last, from the snowshoes on the wall to the flannel shirts folded like memory on a shelf. It’s for people who leave the trailhead before sunrise. For people who believe warmth comes in more than one form.

The bell over the door gave a half-hearted jingle when Josie shoved it open with her shoulder.

Mountain & Hearth smelled the same as always—pine, cedar, a whisper of vanilla tobacco that clung to the wood walls and the thick wool blankets stacked like history on the shelves. It was the kind of place that made you want to slow down. To sip something warm. To believe you belonged somewhere.

Josie wasn’t buying it.

She tugged at the cuff of her worn jeans—clean by her standards but still dusted faintly with road grit—and adjusted the strap of her beat-up canvas bag. Her work boots, scarred and stained, thudded heavily against the creaky planks as she wandered past a display of enamel mugs and overpriced trail snacks.

Retail therapy, they called it.
More like retail insult, she thought dryly, flipping over a jar of jam and scowling at the price. Fifteen bucks for sugared fruit and wishful thinking. Pass.

She wasn’t even sure why she came here.
Habit, maybe. Boredom. A piss-poor attempt to shake the bad mood that had sunk into her ribs like cold rain.

Most things in Evergreen felt like that—pretty on the surface, hollow underneath. Built for people who planned to stay. She wasn’t one of them. She never had been. Evergreen was just another pit stop. A few more months, maybe less, and she’d be gone.

Same as always.

She should’ve been used to it by now.

Josie turned toward the back, boots scraping lightly against the floor, and that’s when she collided with someone near the camping section—hard enough to jostle her shoulder, make her hiss under her breath.

“Watch it,” she snapped automatically, head whipping up, a scowl already carved into her features.

Then she blinked.

Of course.

Of course it was him.

Asher Cole, all golden-boy mess, standing there with his hands half-raised like he might catch her if she kept barreling forward.

She gritted her teeth, glancing away before he could read too much in her face.

Just because she’d spent a few weird, not-terrible hours showing him how not to flood his own engine didn’t mean they were suddenly friends. She didn’t do friends here. Didn’t do permanence. And Asher? He looked like someone who believed in things like second chances and hometown pride.

Two things she didn’t have the stomach for anymore.

Josie muttered something under her breath and stepped around him, grabbing a pack of carabiners off the rack like she’d meant to do that all along. Anything to have her hands full.

Still, she could feel his eyes on her.

Always watching. Always trying to figure her out.

She snorted under her breath, turning the package over just for something to do.

“I don’t need a damn tour guide,” she said, half to herself, half to him. Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t apologize. If he couldn’t handle a little bluntness, that was his problem.

She shoved the carabiners back onto the hook without buying them—too expensive, like everything else in this town—and wiped her palms on her jeans.

This wasn’t Richmond.
Wasn’t Tucson either.

This was Evergreen.
All polished storefronts and friendly small talk and kids who never learned how fast you could lose a place when the rent came due and life didn’t blink before moving on.

Josie didn’t want to get comfortable here. Didn’t want to pretend the trail she was on was suddenly going to curve into something steady.

Still.

She found herself glancing sideways at Asher anyway.

Remembering the grease under his nails. The way he hadn’t tried to impress her. The way he hadn’t left when he had every reason to.

She huffed out a breath, more exhausted than angry now.

“I’m not staying,” she muttered finally, so low it was almost a confession.

Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Not for a town that smelled like home but would never be hers.

But somehow, standing there in a worn-out tee, dirty boots, and the familiar weight of her own armor pressing against her ribs, she didn’t move away from him either.

Not yet.

Asher dropped his hands slowly, letting them fall to his sides like he was afraid any sudden movement might spook her.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t flash that easy grin he knew everyone expected. Didn’t toss out some joke to make her laugh, to smooth it over, to pretend she hadn’t just snapped like getting too close had singed her skin.

He just stood there.

Still.

Present.

There was something about her that made every instinct he usually relied on—the charm, the clever lines, the casual bravado—feel useless. Worse than useless. Wrong.

Because Josie didn’t want to be charmed.

She wanted space.

And maybe, more than that, she wanted someone who wouldn’t ask for anything back.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she fumbled with the carabiners, heard the muttered half-curse when she shoved them back onto the rack. Watched the way her shoulders tensed when she realized how close he still was—and how she didn’t move away either.

Not really.

He caught the words when they fell out of her mouth, quiet, almost like she hadn’t meant for them to land where he could hear.

I’m not staying.

Not a threat.
Not a warning.
Just a truth she was tired of carrying alone.

Asher shifted his weight slightly, boots scuffing against the worn planks, hands hooking into the back pockets of his jeans to keep himself grounded.

She wasn’t asking him for anything.

She wasn’t even looking at him.

But still—he answered.

Quiet. Honest.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

Not heavy. Not demanding.

Just… simple.

Because for once, he understood that whatever was happening between them—this thread stretched taut between collision and retreat—it wasn’t about promises.

It was about not flinching.

He glanced at her, caught the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers flexed restlessly against her thigh like she was bracing for something. Maybe for him to push. Maybe for him to pretend he understood.

But he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

Instead, he nodded toward the shelf behind her—toward the battered camp stoves and overpriced canteens stacked like trophies.

“You’re better off without half this crap anyway,” he said, voice low, roughened around the edges with something close to a smirk but not quite landing there.

He let the corner of his mouth twitch upward—barely—and started to turn, giving her the choice.

Come with him.

Stay in the aisle.

Walk away.

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t here to chase her.

He was just… here.

Josie felt her spine loosen by degrees she barely noticed.

It wasn’t the words. Not really. It was the way he said them. The way he didn’t lean in, didn’t try to force a deeper conversation out of something she hadn’t meant to say aloud. He let her keep her armor intact—let her own the distance she needed without making it a spectacle.

For once, someone didn’t pull at the thread she hadn’t meant to dangle.

And damn if that didn’t settle something raw inside her.

She adjusted her grip on her canvas bag, letting the tension bleed out slowly, a breath at a time. The smells of the store wrapped around her—pine, cedar, a sharp edge of wood smoke—and for half a second, she let herself just stand there, surrounded by overpriced flannel and mugs nobody needed, pretending it didn’t all feel heavier than it should.

Josie wiped her palm against the side of her jeans, rough fabric catching against skin, and finally muttered low under her breath, "Sorry."

The word tasted strange. Dry and reluctant.

She didn’t look at him when she said it—she didn't need the eye contact, the validation. She wasn’t good at apologies, wasn't wired for neat reconciliations. But it was the truth, and Josie Rhodes didn't waste truth on people who didn’t deserve it.

“Shit day,” she added, as if that explained it all. As if that gave her permission to still be sharp-edged and half-cocked, even when someone didn’t deserve the worst of her.

She dragged a hand through her hair, the ends curling from humidity, and glanced sideways at him.

"You slumming it today, Cole?" she asked, dry as kindling. The bite in her voice wasn’t mean—more a habitual defense mechanism, a worn groove she didn’t know how to climb out of. “Or did you come to drop your trust fund on a sixty-dollar beanie and a candle that smells like bear shit?”

Her boots scuffed lightly against the creaky wood floor as she shifted her weight, half-expecting him to laugh it off. Half-expecting him to bristle.

Outside, the spring breeze pressed against the windows, rattling the old frame just slightly. The low hum of the town drifted in—distant traffic, a dog barking, the faint buzz of conversations from the coffee shop down the block. The last light of the day slid through the front windows, slicing the shop into warm patches of gold and long, cooling shadows.

Josie stood there, one hand jammed in her back pocket, the other still lightly brushing the strap of her bag, waiting to see which version of Asher Cole showed up this time.

The one who chased approval—or the one who just stayed.

She told herself she didn’t care.

But she stayed too.
And that said enough.

Asher didn’t miss a beat.

He caught the low mutter of “sorry”—the way it scraped out of her like it cost something—and didn’t pounce on it. Didn’t flash a grin or offer some too-easy “don’t worry about it” like he might’ve done with anyone else.

He just tucked it into his chest like something rare and breakable. Like he knew better than to mishandle it.

Shit day.

Yeah. He knew the weight of those words too well to laugh it off.

He shifted his footing, hands still hooked in the back pockets of his jeans, body language loose but not casual. Present. Patient. Like he wasn’t in a rush to flip whatever page she was on.

When she tossed that jab—sharp-edged and biting in that way she did when she was daring him to flinch—he let out a slow breath, then tilted his head slightly, studying her.

There it was.

The old familiar armor, polished up and weaponized.

If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought she was trying to piss him off. Might’ve thought she wanted him to snap back so she could file him neatly into the same category as everyone else who hadn’t stayed.

But he knew better now.

Asher let a slow, crooked smile crawl up one side of his mouth—half-smirk, half-something realer underneath.

“Nah,” he said, voice low and easy. “Blew the trust fund last week on gold-plated ski socks and a scented tent.”

He let that sit for a beat, watched the way she stood there—wary but not walking away—and kept his voice light, unforced.

“Figured I’d come here next. Heard the bear shit candle’s a limited edition.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, more genuine—

“Wasn’t planning on running into you, though.”

The words weren’t loaded. No pressure. No expectation.

Just a truth, laid down as careful and unassuming as the space he left between them.

He rubbed the heel of his boot against a knot in the wood floor, glancing past her at the crooked rows of mugs and flannel shirts lined up like set pieces.

“This place is weird,” he added, almost like he was confiding something. “Smells too good. Like it’s trying to convince you you’re a better person just for walking in.”

Another breath.

Another almost-smile.

“Guess I figured if I stuck around long enough, maybe it’d rub off.”

He didn’t push.

Didn’t ask her to stay.

Just stood there in the fading gold light, giving her every possible exit.

And maybe—just maybe—hoping she wouldn’t take it.

Josie felt it—the way her mouth twitched, the way a smile tried to claw its way up through all that practiced, unbothered armor she wore like a second skin.

She fought it. God, she fought it.

But he made it hard.

It wasn’t the words. It wasn’t even the joke, exactly. It was the way he said it—like he wasn’t trying to win. Like he wasn’t performing. Just laying it down, plain and easy, the same way you might set a hand out for a wild thing in the woods and hope it didn’t bite.

She exhaled through her nose, slow, steady, like maybe that would push the almost-smile back down where it belonged.

It didn’t.

Because the truth was, Asher Cole wasn’t what she’d thought at first.

Not the polished idiot flashing a grin to hide how shallow he was. Not the golden boy too soft to survive outside his hometown bubble.

He was something else.

Something slower. More deliberate.
Like a hiker who actually respected the wildlife—moving careful, keeping his distance, knowing not to make too much noise if he wanted a chance to stay in the clearing.

Josie shifted her weight, one boot scuffing lightly against the worn wood floor.

Her bad mood hadn’t exactly vanished. But it wasn’t gnawing at her ribs as hard now either.

She glanced sideways at him again, caught the faint tilt of his mouth, the looseness of his stance, the way he wasn’t trying to fill up all the air between them.

Somewhere deep down, it cracked something loose.

She hooked her thumb into her front pocket, the rough denim grounding her, and let the words slip out before she could overthink them.

“You don’t need this place to rub off on you, you know."

Her voice was low. Grudging. But honest in the way few things were when she let them out.

"You’re already... fine."

She didn’t say good. That felt too big. Too permanent.

Fine was safer.

Fine meant better than most.
Fine meant I see you, and you’re not faking it.

Josie looked back toward the front of the shop, where the late sunlight bled through the big windows in lazy strips of gold, dust motes floating through the beams like they didn’t have anywhere better to be.

She thought about saying more.

About how most people she met wore themselves like costumes. How rare it was to meet someone who didn’t look at her like she was just a temporary stop on their way to something shinier.

But she didn’t.

Because she didn’t owe the world explanations.

And Asher—whether he knew it or not—was one of the very few people she didn’t feel the need to explain herself to.

She blew out a breath and finally let the almost-smile win—crooked and small, more smirk than anything else.

“You still talk too much, though,” she muttered, deadpan, before letting her gaze flick back to him for half a second longer than necessary.

Then she pushed off the shelf, started down the aisle without waiting, letting the scent of pine and tobacco follow her.

If he wanted to keep up, he could.

If he didn’t—well, that was fine too.

Either way, Josie Rhodes wasn’t slowing down for anyone.

Not yet.

Asher didn’t rush after her.

He let a beat pass—long enough to let her set the pace, short enough not to feel like he was hesitating. Her boots thudded against the floorboards, that same stubborn, unbothered rhythm she carried everywhere she went.

He followed.

Easier this time.

Lighter.

He caught up halfway down the aisle, falling into step just a little behind her, like he knew better than to walk beside her yet.

Still, he couldn’t help himself entirely.

“You know,” he said, voice low, angled toward her shoulder, “you’re kind of a menace in here.”

She didn’t slow. Didn’t look at him. Just kept walking, one hand dragging lazily over the edge of a display table like she might knock it over just to prove a point.

He smirked to himself, adjusting the strap of the worn hoodie tied at his waist.

“Pretty sure that old lady at the register thinks you’re about to rob the place.”

A beat.

Then, softer, more real—

“I think it’s impressive.”

He saw the way her shoulders tensed—not defensive, but… wary, maybe. Like she was still deciding if he was messing with her or not.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t playing this time.

He kicked a pebble down the aisle with the toe of his boot, let it skitter out of sight, and kept his voice easy, a little crooked at the edges.

“Most people just walk through life trying not to get noticed. You? You move like you dare someone to look.”

He didn’t say it like a compliment. Didn’t dress it up.

Just… said it.

Simple.

True.

And then—because he knew her by now, knew she’d never let anything that close to the chest hang in the air without throwing a punch back—he added with a lazy half-grin:

“Still think you’d bankrupt me if you ran a shop, though. No way in hell I’d survive your customer service voice.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly—barely a brush, barely there—just enough to let her know he could take whatever she threw at him.

Then he shoved his hands back into his pockets and kept walking, like he hadn’t just handed her the perfect opening to either drag him or dare him to keep up.

Either way?

He was staying.

She didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t slow down.
But her fingers paused on the edge of that table—just for a second.

Menace.

God. That almost made her laugh. Almost.

The only reason she didn’t was because she could still hear her dad’s voice in her head—“keep ‘em guessing, Crash.” And Asher? He was getting a little too good at reading her for her comfort.

She kept her gaze forward, eyes scanning over hand-poured soy candles labeled things like forest reverie and wildwood dusk, whatever the hell that meant. Everything in this place looked like it cost more than a paycheck, and she was 90% sure none of it even worked.

Still, her mouth twitched when he said it. That part about her being a menace. The old lady probably was watching her like she’d walk out with a flask and a pocketknife stuffed in her waistband.

Asher’s voice dropped lower then, and Josie felt it settle somewhere just under her ribs.

You move like you dare someone to look.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t thank him, didn’t roll her eyes.

But she felt that.

And she hated how much.

Because he wasn’t wrong. She had learned how to move like that—like noise and fire and wild energy kept people from asking too many questions. It was armor. And maybe... maybe he saw that too.

Still.

She snorted when he mentioned her hypothetical customer service voice. That earned him a glance—sideways, sharp, but not mean. The kind of look that said: You’re lucky I don’t knock over this display just to prove you right.

Then he bumped her shoulder. Light. Testing.

She let the contact slide.

Didn’t shove him. Didn’t snarl.

That was basically affection in her language.

After a moment, her voice cut through the quiet—dry, almost bored, but with just enough heat beneath to make it count.

“Only voice I’ve got is the one that tells people to get their shit and leave.”

A pause.

Then, under her breath, like a thought she didn’t mean to say out loud:

“But hey. You’re still here.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

Didn’t need to.

The air between them said enough.

Asher heard it.

All of it.

The sharpness at first—expected. Practiced. The bite she kept tucked between her teeth like a blade. He didn’t flinch when it hit. He didn’t expect anything less.

Get your shit and leave.
Yeah. He believed her.

But it was the second part—the part she barely breathed out—that caught him right in the chest.

But hey. You’re still here.

He didn’t grin. Didn’t throw it back at her like a victory. Hell, he barely let himself react at all. Just let the words sink in, heavy and honest, more valuable than any wide-open smile she could’ve handed him.

Still here.

Still fucking here.

He slid his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels just a little as they kept walking. She didn’t slow down, didn’t tilt her head like she was waiting for a response. She’d tossed it out like a lit match and kept moving.

Asher didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

He caught up—easy, a half-step behind her, giving her that space she never asked for but always took—and kept pace.

And then, casual, almost careless, but not really—

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, threading into the thick, quiet air between them. “Figured you might shove me into a rack of overpriced camping gear if I didn’t move fast enough.”

He caught her smirk, small and crooked, before she hid it by pretending to study a stack of cast iron skillets.

Asher let himself smile—just a little—and shrugged like it didn’t matter even though it did.

“But if getting told to get my shit and leave’s the worst thing you throw at me?”

Another pause.

Another glance sideways.

“Think I’ll survive.”

He bumped her knuckles this time—barely there, just a brush of gloved fingers against rough denim—as they moved past the register and toward the door, the late afternoon bleeding into evening outside.

And when she didn’t pull away—

When she let him walk beside her, silent and steady, without making a big deal out of it—

Asher realized something simple, and stupid, and true:

He didn’t need her to slow down.

He just needed to be the one still standing when she looked over her shoulder.
If she ever did.

Josie didn’t look at him.

Not right away.

Because if she did, she knew what she’d find: that soft, lopsided grin he always wore when she let her guard down by accident. The kind of look that made her forget why she kept people at arm’s length in the first place.

And that was dangerous.

She lingered near the display of enamelware instead—picked up a green tin cup, thumbed the rim like she was considering buying it. She wasn’t. It was twenty-two bucks for something she could steal out of her dad’s toolbox and clean twice. But she needed the distraction. Needed something to hold while she sorted out the way her chest felt—loose, and weirdly quiet, like the storm had passed and left her breathless.

This store wasn’t doing the trick.

The candles hadn’t helped. The overpriced tea hadn’t helped. Even the soft flannel blanket in the back she’d been pretending not to want—it didn’t touch whatever roughness had been scraping at her ribs earlier today.

But he did.

She realized it suddenly—almost annoyed by the truth of it.

She wasn’t still here for the wood-smoked ambiance or the cozy lighting or the stupid nostalgia-in-a-mason-jar vibe.

She was still here because he was.

Because somewhere between her snapping and him not flinching, between his shoulder bump and her not swatting him for it, she’d started to forget the rest of the day. The way her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with dumb, avoidable problems. The way her dad’s voice had sounded more tired than usual. The way everything just felt... heavier lately.

None of it mattered as much right now.

Right now, she was wondering—

Has he ever gone camping?

The thought hit her out of nowhere. Ridiculous. Personal. Out of bounds.

She shoved it aside fast, a flicker of irritation blooming in her gut. She didn’t wonder about people. Didn’t let her mind drift toward questions with answers that might mean more than they should.

And yet…

She glanced sideways. His hands were still in his pockets, posture relaxed but aware. He was looking at a shelf of old hiking trail guides like he might actually open one, might actually use one, not just pretend for show.

Josie let out a quiet breath, rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand, and then—because hell, she was already standing here and he hadn’t bolted—she spoke.

“Alright,” she said, voice rough like gravel, like the words were fighting their way out. “Tell me something.”

She kept her eyes on the tin cup in her hand.

“Not one of your bullshit, polished, I-was-homecoming-captain-and-voted-best-smile facts, either.”

She set the cup back down, finally turning to face him, expression unreadable but curious beneath the usual grit.

“Something real.”

She didn’t know why she asked.

Didn’t know what answer she wanted.

But the truth was, she wanted something. And wanting anything at all was already more than she’d planned on when she walked into this overpriced, over-scented, rustic wannabe shop an hour ago.

So she waited.

Guarded, braced.

But—finally—open.

Asher shifted his weight, hands sliding deeper into his jacket pockets, thumb rubbing the seam inside like he could wear a hole straight through it.

He didn’t answer her right away.

Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t flash a smile.

Just stood there for a second, staring at the floorboards like the right words might be nailed between the cracks.

When he spoke, his voice was lower. Rougher. Like it cost him something.

“I don’t know who I am without a jersey on.”

The confession hit the air with a dull thud, heavy and unfinished.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, the woodsmoke smell of the shop threading into his lungs, grounding him.

“Everyone here—” he nodded slightly toward the door, toward the town, toward everything outside “—they think I’ve got it made. Scholarship lined up. Parents proud. Coaches betting their next season on my highlight reels.”

He dragged a hand over his jaw, the scrape of rough stubble loud in the quiet.

“And I’m good at it. Lacrosse.” He laughed once, low and humorless. “Hell, I’m great at it. But…”

He trailed off, fingers tightening into fists inside his pockets.

“But sometimes I think that’s all I am.”

He looked up then—really looked at her. No walls. No charm. Just the truth.

“Evergreen’s golden boy. The one who’s supposed to make it out clean. Play the game, smile for the pictures, marry the right girl, bring the trophy home.”

He shrugged, slow and helpless.

“And if I stop playing, if I stop winning… I don’t know if there’s anything left underneath.”

The breath he let out after was shaky, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t dress it up.

He just stood there, letting the truth hang between them. Heavy. Raw.

Not asking her to fix it.
Not asking for anything at all.

Just letting her see it.

Maybe for the first time, he wasn’t pretending he was enough.
Maybe for the first time, he wasn’t trying to be.

Josie didn’t move at first.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t cut him down.
Didn’t toss out some sharp-edged quip like she usually would when someone cracked themselves open in front of her.

Because this?
This wasn’t something you mocked.

This was real.

And God help her, Josie Rhodes had always had a soft spot for broken things that didn’t know they were broken.

She shifted her weight from one boot to the other, crossing her arms loosely—not defensive, just... containing the mess inside her chest that his words stirred up. Her thumb tapped lightly against her elbow, a nervous habit she didn’t usually let slip in front of people.

He wasn’t faking it.

He wasn’t giving her some polished version of himself with the messy parts tucked out of sight.
He was handing it to her—raw, unfinished, uncomfortable.

And somehow, that was braver than anything else he could’ve done.

Josie let her gaze flick over him.
The hunched shoulders.
The tight fists buried in his pockets.
The way he looked like he hated himself a little bit for even admitting it.

And without thinking too hard—because if she did, she’d lock it all back up behind sarcasm and tough-girl armor—she exhaled slow and rough through her nose.

“Yeah,” she muttered, voice lower than before, almost like she was talking to herself. “I get that.”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t tell him he wasn’t alone. Didn’t promise him anything about how it would get better. That wasn’t her style.

People like them?
They didn’t get Hallmark endings tied up with a bow.

They got honesty.

She dragged a hand through her hair, messing up the loose strands already falling from her bun, and finally let herself meet his eyes properly.

“You’re not just the jersey, Asher.”

Her tone was flat. Firm. A little stubborn.

“Even if you think you are.”

Another beat.
Another breath.

Then she shrugged, glancing away like she hadn’t just dropped something close to a compliment at his feet.

“Just means you gotta figure out what’s underneath before everyone else decides for you.”

Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close.

“And trust me,” she added, deadpan, “you don’t wanna let this town pick for you. You’ll end up married to some sorority girl named Kaylee and coaching JV lacrosse in cargo shorts before you’re twenty-four.”

She bumped his arm lightly with her elbow—gritty, familiar, rough in the way only people who cared enough to stay could be.

And maybe for once, she didn’t mind being the one still standing there when someone else let their walls fall.
Maybe—for him—she didn’t mind letting hers slip, just a little too.

Asher didn’t move at first.

Didn’t breathe, either, not really.

Because there it was—that thing he hadn’t known he was looking for until she handed it to him without ceremony.

You’re not just the jersey.

No one had ever said it to him like that before. No crowd, no parents, no coaches clapping him on the back like a good little soldier.

Just her.

Saying it plain. Saying it like it was true even if he didn’t know how to believe it yet.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and felt something in his chest loosen by degrees—something he didn’t even realize he’d been holding onto for years.

And when she bumped his arm—rough, casual, exactly the way he needed it to be—he let himself lean into it. Just for a second. Just enough to ground himself in something that wasn’t expectation or performance or failure waiting to happen.

He huffed a small laugh at her Kaylee comment, low and wrecked and real, shaking his head once like he could shake off the image.

But he didn’t joke back. Didn’t dodge.

Instead, he turned his head slightly, catching her in his periphery.

Worn boots. Frayed jeans. A hand still half-curled like she was bracing for him to pull away.

He didn’t.

He swallowed once, thumb brushing the seam of his pocket again, and—quieter now, no dare in it, no weight—

asked:

“What about you?”

The words slid out rough, careful, real.

“What’s yours, Josie?”

He didn’t push. Didn’t lace it with charm. Didn’t try to make it easier for her to say no.

He just asked.

Because she deserved to be asked.

Not as a joke.
Not as a challenge.

But like it mattered.

Because to him, it already did.
More than he was ready to admit.
And maybe—just maybe—she needed to hear that without him saying a word.

Josie felt her heart stutter once—sharp, involuntary—like a spark catching against wet wood.

What’s yours, Josie?

He asked it like he meant it.
Not like he was fishing for a punchline.
Not like he was looking for another way to tuck her into some box he already built in his head.

He asked it like it mattered.
Like she mattered.

She hated how much it rattled her.

Her fingers twitched once at her side, the restless need to move, to bolt, to armor up rising like a reflex. She dragged her thumbnail against the seam of her jeans instead, rough enough to feel the burn, and forced herself to stand still.

The easy thing—the safe thing—would’ve been to laugh it off.
Make a crack about how she wasn’t sentimental.
Tell him her future was as short as the next tank of gas she could afford.

But when she flicked her gaze sideways—caught him standing there, hands still jammed in his pockets, loose and open in a way no one ever was around her—
she couldn’t lie.

Not really.

Not to him.

Josie’s mouth pulled tight, fighting a thousand instincts at once, before she finally exhaled—slow, rough, and tired.

“My what?”

The words came low, barely more than a scrape in the space between them.

She looked past him then, over his shoulder, to the shelves lined with camping knives and thermoses and maps to places she knew she’d never stay long enough to need directions for.

“My thing? My label?” she asked, voice tilting toward dry but not cruel. “The one people in town whisper about when they think I’m not listening?”

Her hand dropped from her pocket, curling loose at her side.

"I’m the girl who doesn’t unpack her bags."

The confession landed soft. Unforced. Unapologetic.

The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile. Something smaller. More broken.

"And if they’re feeling generous," she added, letting the words bleed out the edges of her breath, "the one who's too busy running to bother pretending she belongs."

The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, filling the small silence she left between them.

She didn’t take it back.
Didn’t dress it up.

Just let it hang there—raw, real, the same way he had.

Then—because it was easier to throw a jab than stand there too long with her throat feeling too thick and her chest feeling too fucking open—she shoved his arm lightly with the back of her hand.

"Figured it was only fair to warn you, Cole," she muttered, deadpan. "Don’t get too attached. I break down worse than a '98 Civic with no oil."

But even as she said it—even as she tried to lace it with bite—
there was something else threading through her voice now.

Something tired of running.

Something wondering if maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't walk away when the engine started to smoke.

She didn’t know if she wanted him to stay.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t know if she wanted him to leave either.

And that scared her more than anything.

Asher stayed where he was, hands deep in his pockets, heart hammering so loud he was pretty sure she could hear it.

The girl who doesn’t unpack her bags.

He turned that over once, twice, like if he held it carefully enough it wouldn’t hurt so damn much. Like maybe it wasn’t just a fact about her—maybe it was a warning. Or a challenge.

And he should’ve known better by now.
Should’ve nodded, smiled, let her go.

But he didn’t.

Because everything about her—the sharp edges, the clipped words, the way she stood there looking like she might punch him or pull him closer and not be sorry either way—it hooked into him.

He didn’t know why.
Couldn’t explain it if he tried.

But Josie Rhodes—her anger, her honesty, her refusal to make it easy—was the most real thing he’d touched in longer than he could remember.

And it was like trying to look away from a live wire.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t even want to.

He shifted slightly, boot scuffing the floor, and let out a breath through his nose—rough, tired, but not frustrated.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. “I just… want to know things about you.”

It wasn’t a performance.
It wasn’t a line.
It wasn’t even smart.

It was just the truth.

Josie shoved his arm, rougher this time, her voice laced in that deadpan armor she always threw up when the ground under her feet started to feel a little too steady.

Figured it was only fair to warn you, Cole. Don’t get too attached. I break down worse than a ‘98 Civic with no oil.

He let the words land.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

Just turned his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes locked onto hers.

Steady.

Unshaken.

And then, voice dipping low enough that it felt like a dare and a prayer at the same time—

“What—”
A breath.
“—you gonna run if things get too complicated?”

He didn’t say it like a challenge.
Didn’t lace it with expectation.

He just… asked.

Because everything about her—the way she pushed, the way she stood still even when she swore she wouldn’t—intrigued him in a way that scared the shit out of him.

And he wasn’t ready to pretend otherwise anymore.

He didn’t even want to.

So he stood there, still, waiting.

Not to stop her if she ran.

But to see if she stayed.

Josie’s eyes narrowed instinctively the second the words left his mouth.

I just want to know things about you.

It hit something deep and feral inside her, something that didn’t trust easy questions with softer edges. She squinted at him like it was a threat—like daring to be curious about her was dangerous and he was too stupid to know it yet.

And maybe he was.

But he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t give her an excuse to tear him down and walk away like she was so good at doing.

He just stood there.

Solid.

Quiet.

Waiting.

Something inside her twitched—some old instinct that usually screamed run when people started asking for pieces of her she didn’t know how to give. She’d never stayed anywhere long enough for things to get complicated. Complication meant roots. Meant ties. Meant getting gutted when it all inevitably fell apart.

Still.

Something about him—the way he stood there without pushing, without needing to win—made it harder for the wild, cornered animal inside her to fully take over.

She dropped her gaze for a second, studying the worn toes of her boots, the faint scuff marks on the old wood floor between them. Anything to give herself a second to breathe.

When she spoke, her voice was rough, scraped clean of bravado.

“I like racing,” she muttered. “Engines loud enough to drown out everything else.”

Her fingers rubbed absently against the seam of her jeans.

“Big storms too. The kind that shake the windows and make everything feel small for a while.”

She shifted, glancing sideways, catching the steady line of his jaw, the open patience in the way he didn’t step closer, didn’t crowd her.

“Mornings before anyone’s awake yet.”

She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t peeling off pieces of herself and setting them at his feet.

“Roads that don’t have names.”

Her throat felt tight. Stupid.

She forced herself to keep going. To finish.

“Fixing things.”

A breath.

A pause.

The words clung to her tongue, reluctant, strange.

“And sometimes... people.”

It slipped out before she could yank it back.

Josie pressed her lips together, jaw tight, trying to swallow down the way the truth tasted—too raw, too open. Like roots trying to sink into a place she wasn’t supposed to stay.

She shook her head once, a small, almost embarrassed motion.

“That’s it,” she said, trying for casual, trying to force the lid back down on whatever the hell she’d just handed him. “Don’t read into it.”

But her voice had softened at the edges, and they both knew it.

She stuffed her hands deep into her pockets and looked past him, out the front windows where the light was dimming, the town rolling quietly toward dusk.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the itch to run.

Not yet.

Asher caught the way her hands dug deeper into her pockets, the way her weight shifted like she was still deciding if this counted as dangerous.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t crowd her.

Just stood there, watching the last of the light slant through the big front windows, painting her in gold and shadow.

When he spoke, his voice was lighter this time—easygoing, a little rough around the edges but without the sharp pull of expectation.

“Storms and loud engines, huh?”

He let the smallest smile tug at the corner of his mouth, something crooked and unbothered.

“Guess that tracks.”

He nudged the toe of his boot lightly against the scuffed floorboards, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets, posture loose, casual—like he could stand there all night if she didn’t shove him out the door.

“Never figured you for the quiet type anyway.”

He said it easy, teasing but not biting, like he was letting her pick whether she wanted to snap back or let it slide.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It just was—settling between them like a blanket thrown haphazard over something fragile.

Asher glanced sideways at her, studying the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers twitched at her sides like she was fighting the urge to fidget.

She was a contradiction, and it hooked into him more than he wanted to admit.

Everything she did—the way she stood, the way she didn’t fill the silence, the way she handed over scraps of herself like she half-hated that she even had anything to give—it all intrigued him.

More than it should.

More than made sense.

He didn’t know why he gave a damn about whether she liked thunderstorms or backroads or fixing things with her own two hands.
But he did.

Maybe because it felt like knowing those things wasn’t about getting her to stay.

It was about knowing her.

Really knowing her.

Asher rocked back on his heels a little, the floorboards creaking softly beneath him.

“What about racing?” he asked after a moment, voice light, curious. “You do it just to win, or ‘cause it’s the only time the noise in your head finally shuts up?”

His tone was easy, casual enough that she could laugh it off if she wanted.

But he meant it.

Because he got it.

Because maybe he wasn’t so different.

And maybe he wasn’t ready to say that yet—but he didn’t mind standing here a little longer, asking dumb questions with answers he wasn’t ready to stop wanting.

Not if it meant getting to stay in her orbit just a little more.

Not if it meant maybe, eventually, she’d start asking him things too.

Josie let it slide.

Didn’t snap.
Didn’t throw a punch wrapped in words.
Didn’t bristle at his quiet, easy way of asking more.

She just let the comment about racing hang there, her mouth tugging down at one corner, arms still folded tight across her chest like she could muscle the air between them back into something safer if she just squeezed hard enough.

Truth was, he wasn’t wrong.

She didn’t race for the win.
Never had.

It was the noise.
The wind ripping past her windows.
The engine drowning out everything she didn’t want to think about.
The stretch of road where nothing and no one could catch her, not even herself.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t owe him that yet.

Hell, she barely knew what she owed herself half the time.

The words sat bitter on her tongue anyway—heavy and real—but she swallowed them down before they could betray her twice in the same afternoon.

Instead, she shifted her weight, boot scuffing the floor with a lazy scrape, and tipped her chin at him like she was throwing the conversation back across the table.

“My turn’s over, pretty boy,” she muttered, voice low and dry. “Clock’s ticking.”

Her arms uncrossed just long enough for her to gesture loosely at the creaky wooden beams overhead and the clerk behind the counter starting to eye them with that look that said you don’t have to go home, but you can’t loiter here forever.

“Better start talking before they throw us both out for loitering like juvenile delinquents.”

Josie jammed her hands back into the pockets of her jeans, knuckles brushing against the worn lining, feeling every scrape, every callus, every reminder that getting too comfortable never ended well.

Inside, she told herself she didn’t care what he said next.
That it didn’t matter.
That he could feed her some polished answer or some neat little story about himself and she’d file it away under temporary.

But outside?

She stayed exactly where she was.

Waiting.

Listening.

Letting herself want to know anyway.
Just a little.
Just this once.

Asher caught the shift.

The way she didn’t snap.
Didn’t wall herself off.
Just tossed the conversation back at him with that rough, dry humor that felt more like a dare than an escape route.

And God, he was starting to love the way she did that—half-daring him, half-inviting him—without even knowing it.

He smiled to himself, a slow, easy pull at the corner of his mouth, one hand raking through his hair like he needed a second to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

Because the truth?

He wanted to impress her.
He wanted to be worth her staying still.
But he also didn’t want to give her the polished version.

She didn’t deserve fake.
She deserved something real—even if it was stupid or messy or didn’t paint him in the best light.

He rocked back on his heels a little, boots creaking against the tired old floorboards, and shrugged like he wasn’t feeling the weight of her attention like a goddamn spotlight.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and casual, eyes flicking toward the ceiling beams like maybe they’d hand him a better answer. “Let’s see.”

He dragged it out a little, not to be a smartass—just to think.

And then he caught her watching him from under her lashes, arms tight around herself, looking like she was ready to bolt if he said the wrong thing.

So he kept it easy.
Kept it real.

“I get weird about gas stations.”

He said it without thinking, without cleaning it up, and laughed a little under his breath when she lifted one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

“Nah, like—” He shifted, ducking his head slightly, more sheepish now. “If I’m on a road trip or just… driving late? I can’t stop at the first place I see.”

He shrugged again, loose, open.

“Has to feel right.”

Another quiet huff of laughter, more real than any smile he usually wore for crowds.

“Like… the lighting’s gotta be right. Parking lot can’t be too empty. Guy behind the counter can’t look like he’s about to kill me in the candy aisle.”

He flicked a glance sideways at her, saw the way her mouth twitched, like she didn’t want to find it funny but maybe did anyway.

“So, yeah.” His voice dropped a little, still easy but not careless. “Guess I’m picky about where I stop.”

A breath. A pause.

“And maybe about who I stop for.”

He let that hang there—not heavy, not obvious.
Just… there.

Easy enough she could ignore it.
Sharp enough she couldn’t miss it.

He shifted again, brushing his knuckles once against the seam of his jeans, pretending not to watch the way she stood there.

Waiting.

Listening.

Choosing not to run.

And if his chest felt too tight because of it—
If his hands itched to reach for her and didn’t—
He figured that was the price of getting to stay in this moment a little longer.

Maybe he’d always be a little picky about where he stopped.

But standing here?

With her?

It didn’t feel like a pit stop.

It felt like the first time he might actually want to stay.
Without having to pretend he wasn’t scared of.

Josie watched him like she was tracking a wild thing she didn’t know whether to trust yet.

Not that he was dangerous.
If anything, he was too honest.
Too slow to lie, too easy to read.

That made him dangerous in a different way.

She caught the flick of his hand through his hair, the way his eyes darted to the ceiling like he was buying himself a second before he spoke. She could practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes. No polish. No performance. Just a guy standing in front of her, trying to decide how much of himself to put on the table.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because she wasn’t used to people thinking that hard about what they gave her.
Most people decided she wasn’t worth the effort.
And she liked it better that way.

When he finally said it—I get weird about gas stations—her eyebrow lifted without her permission.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.

Just… skeptical.

Because in her world, gas stations weren’t optional.
You stopped where you had to.
You kept your head down.
You stayed alert.
And if shit went sideways, you handled it—fast, ugly, no questions asked.

She was supposed to be the one feeling unsafe out there, not him.

Still, a flicker of something almost like humor tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She didn’t mock him.
Didn’t laugh, either.
Just listened.

Because it figured—he didn’t grow up needing the kind of street smarts she had to stitch into her blood by the time she was twelve.
And maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t fault him for that.

When he kept talking—awkward, self-deprecating, all loose hands and sheepish shrugs—she felt some of the pressure uncoil from her chest.

Until.

“And maybe about who I stop for.”

The words landed lighter than a feather.

But Josie’s gut flinched like it was a punch.

Not because it was aggressive.
Not because he said it wrong.
But because it sounded too much like every guy who had ever made promises with their smiles and expectations with their eyes.

The kind of line that wasn’t about knowing her.
It was about owning her.

Her jaw tightened. Her hands flexed once inside her pockets.

There it is, she thought grimly.
There’s the catch.

She didn’t snap at him.
Didn’t bolt.

But the wildness in her sharpened, leaned back a half-step inside herself, retreating where he couldn’t reach it.

Still, she kept her voice even when she answered—gritty but calm, the way you talk when you’re still deciding if someone deserves another minute of your time.

"Careful, Cole," she muttered, eyes flicking over him, unreadable. "Might make me think you're standing here 'cause you don't know any better."

A pause. A breath.

She tipped her head slightly, studying him—looking for cracks, for tells, for any sign he was about to turn into every other idiot who thought wanting her was the same thing as seeing her.

Her next words came slower, quieter.

"But maybe you do."

Maybe he did know better.
Maybe he was standing there anyway.

Josie didn’t trust it.

Not yet.

But she stayed.

And that—that was saying something bigger than any pretty words could.

Asher didn’t smile.

Didn’t crack a joke.

Didn’t even shift his weight the way he usually did when the silence stretched too long for comfort.

He just stood there, hands still shoved deep in his jacket pockets, watching her the way you look at something wild you’re afraid to startle.

The kind of thing you didn’t chase.
The kind of thing you let come to you—if it ever decided to.

When she said it—Maybe you do—he felt the words catch low in his chest, heavy in a way he didn’t expect.

Not like pressure.

Not like a warning.

More like… a chance.

He blew out a slow breath through his nose, tilting his head a little, studying her with that same steady, unhurried way he had since the moment she dared him not to run.

“I know enough,” he said, voice low and even.

No bravado.
No performance.

Just simple truth.

He shifted slightly, boots creaking against the old floorboards, but he didn’t move closer. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t risk crowding the space she hadn’t invited him into yet.

Instead, he let his words do the work—quiet, weightless, easy.

“Enough to know you don’t hand that trust out cheap.”

A faint twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.
Something quieter.
Something closer to real.

“And enough to know I’m not stupid enough to waste it.”

He said it light, like it didn’t cost him anything.

But it did.

Because if she stayed—
if she stayed—
it wouldn’t be because he chased her.

It would be because she chose to.

And God help him, that mattered more than anything else ever had.

He shifted again, easy, casual, nodding toward the door with a lazy tilt of his head.

“Come on, menace,” he said, letting a dry, teasing note slip into his voice like a thread of normalcy between all the heavy things unsaid. “Let’s get out of here before that lady behind the counter calls the cops.”

Another half-beat.

Another space wide open.

He bumped her elbow lightly with his own—just once, barely enough to feel—and started for the door without waiting.

No pressure.
No promises.

Just the choice.

Hers to make.

Always.

Josie didn’t move right away.

She stood there, weight sunk stubborn into her boots, arms crossed loosely like she could shield herself from the weird heat that crawled up her spine.

She watched him.

Watched the way he said it—Enough to know I’m not stupid enough to waste it—without even trying to dress it up.

No show.
No smile meant to pin her down.
No expectation tightening the space between them.

Just… that quiet, steady patience.

Like he was serious.
Like he actually meant to let her come to her own damn conclusions without forcing them out of her.

And it scared the shit out of her.

Josie rubbed a hand against the back of her neck, feeling the grit of old calluses drag across her skin.
Still didn’t move.

Because this?
This wasn't supposed to happen here.
In some overpriced little mountain store.
In a town she never planned to stay in long enough to remember the street names.

Her gaze flicked automatically to the front counter.

The cashier was still watching.
Not him.

Her.

Like if anyone was going to make trouble, it’d be the girl in the scuffed work boots and the frayed denim and the wild, reckless kind of silence that made people uneasy.

Not golden boy Asher Cole.

And wasn’t that the story everywhere she went?

Her jaw tightened slightly, that old anger prickling under her skin like a second heartbeat.
But she swallowed it down.
Let it burn itself out.

Because Asher wasn’t the problem.
Not this time.

Her fingers twitched against her thigh as her brain tossed her backward—days ago, to when she’d first worked on that big, clean Escalade he’d dropped off at the shop.
She remembered the keychain swinging from the ignition.

Harvard.

It hadn’t been hard to figure out.
Wasn’t like people in towns like Evergreen didn’t gossip like it was their second job.

He wasn’t staying either.

She should’ve remembered that sooner.

Should’ve let it make this easier.

But standing here, heart crawling against her ribs, watching him wait without pushing—
She didn't want it to be easy.

Not anymore.

She exhaled sharply through her nose and shoved off the shelf, boots thudding against the tired floorboards as she picked up her pace to catch him.

One step.
Two.

Then—before she could talk herself out of it—she swung her elbow out, catching him in the ribs with a light bump.

Nothing hard.

Just a hit that said I see you.

And because she wasn’t the kind of girl who let anyone win easy, she didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Just passed him with a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth, not bothering to look back.

Victory was victory.
Even by half a step.

He caught up easily, long strides closing the gap, and when they reached the door, he was the one to grab the handle and swing it open—like it wasn’t even a question. Like holding the door for her wasn’t some statement about who she was or who he was, just… manners.

Josie snorted under her breath as she brushed past him, tossing a glance over her shoulder.

“Look at that,” she drawled, dry and dangerous in the best way, “beauty and brains. You’re really setting the bar high for Harvard, Cole.”

She didn’t wait for a comeback.

Didn’t need one.

Because she already had the last word tucked neatly between her teeth—and for once, it didn’t taste like blood or regret.

It tasted like something almost electric.

Almost dangerous.

Almost good.

Josie shoved her hands into her pockets and strode down the sidewalk without a backward glance.
Her car—her baby—was parked crooked against the curb: a beat-up, stubbornly alive '74 Dodge Challenger, matte black with a few battle scars worn proud.

She yanked open the heavy door, tossed her bag into the passenger seat, and swung in like she’d done it a thousand times.

Which she had.

She cranked the engine.
The low growl of it rumbled through the street, thick and defiant and alive.

Josie shot a glance back toward the shop—caught him still standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching her like she was something he hadn’t quite figured out yet but sure as hell wanted to.

She winked once—quick, sharp, unapologetic—
then peeled off down the street with a roar of engine and a flick of taillights.

Leaving him—and maybe a piece of herself—still standing there in the dust.