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I become painfully aware of everything at once: the warmth of his hand, the ache behind my eyes, the fact that Lucy is asleep upstairs while my entire life seems to be unraveling downstairs.

I should pull away.

I should thank him for coming over and ask him to leave.

Instead, I stay exactly where I am.

Because this is the first time in weeks I haven't felt like I'm carrying everything by myself.

My eyes flick to his mouth.

Mistake.

His gaze drops too.

Bigger mistake.

The space between us collapses. His mouth finds mine with devastating precision, like he’s been waiting, like he’s known exactly how this would feel. His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with pressure.

Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard settles.

I freeze instantly.

Ashby does too.

For one ridiculous heartbeat, both of us stare toward the ceiling.

Nothing happens.

Relief rushes through me, tangled up with guilt.

Lucy is asleep.

Lucy needs me.

Lucy is the entire reason I'm here.

Which makes what I'm doing now feel even more reckless yet desperately necessary at the same time.

I kiss him again, harder than I mean to, desperate for something solid to hold onto. His other hand grips my waist, holding me as I lean into him. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, turns into a sensation that feels like the first honest thing I’ve done in days.

He tastes like whiskey and mint and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. Masculine. Real.

I need more of that real. I need all of him. Even if it’s wild and crazy, I just need something to take my mind off everything.

I guide his hand under my shirt and he touches my skin, deft and unhesitating. I don’t know if I want roughness or patience, but I get both, in turns. His thumbs slip over my ribs like he’s playing scales, memorizing the longitude of my body, and then he’s hard palmed, insistent, pulling me out of the chair and onto his lap.

His arms surround my waist, his mouth dragging from my lips to my jaw and downward. His hand slides over my shirt, the fabric is moved aside.

I shouldn’t let this happen, but I also can’t imagine a version of me, in this moment, with the control not to. I walk right off the edge of my own caution.

I knot my hands in Ashby’s hair. He’s already half wrecked, breathing more heavily, the cadence of a man used to being in control… and losing it.

I like that. I like that I can make him lose it.

“I shouldn’t…” he murmurs against my neck, but his hands tell a different story, sliding down to my hips, gripping hard enough to mark me.

“Don’t you dare stop,” I whisper, the words coming out ragged, raw, like I’m pulling them from somewhere deep inside.