Page 176 of That Rush

Me: Can you come over? I want to talk, and I want to see you.

His reply arrives less than a minute later.

Aiden: On my way.

Aiden’s truck rolls into the clearing twenty minutes after that. He cuts the engine, and my pulse gives one hard thud as he climbs out in jeans and a dark T-shirt, looking infuriatingly good for a man I invited over to discuss boundaries.

I meet him on the porch with my key ring in hand.

His gaze drops to it immediately. “You put it on.”

“I did.”

Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Is that the good news before the bad news?”

“There’s no bad news.” I step back so he can join me. “There are things I need you to understand.”

“That sentence has never relaxed a man in the history of language.”

Despite myself, I smile. “Sit down, Slade.”

He takes the lone chair and leans forward with his forearms on his thighs.

“I love the key,” I say. “I love that you want me to come in without knocking. I love the drawer, the space in your bathroom, and how much thought you put into all of it.”

Aiden studies me. “You’re listing a lot of things you love like you’re about to return them.”

“I’m keeping them.” I lift the key ring. “I also need to keep this place.”

“I didn’t ask you to give it up.”

“You said I should never have to pack for Fridays again.”

“I said you shouldn’t have to. You can still bring the bag if you enjoy hauling your toothbrush across Colorado.”

“Aiden.”

His mouth tightens. “I’m listening.”

I set the keys beside my wineglass. “When you say things like that, it feels like every choice I make toward you becomes proof that I’ll eventually make all the choices you want. The key leads to the drawer, the drawer leads to spending every Friday there, and spending every Friday there leads to this cabin becoming unnecessary.”

His gaze moves past me toward the open door. “Do you think I want to take this from you?”

“I think you want to give me so much that you don’t always notice what I have to set down to hold what you’re offering.”

He goes quiet, turning my words over like a practical problem he can solve.

“I can stop assuming Fridays,” he says.

“I don’t want you to stop wanting them.”

“Then help me understand the difference.”

“The difference is asking.” I draw one foot beneath me. “The same goes for your family. I like them, and I enjoy plenty of the things we do together. I still need an invitation to be just that—an invitation. When you answer for me before I’ve said yes, I’m the one who has to disappoint everyone if I choose differently.”

“I apologized for that.”

“I know, and I accepted it. I’m explaining why it mattered.”