: Asher's POV
The alarm on my phone went off at 8 AM sharp, but I'd been awake for hours already, staring at the blank document on my laptop screen and trying to force words onto the page. Chapter Seven – The Crossing was supposed to be finished by the end of the week, but every time I tried to write the scene where Marcus stands on the edge of the mountain bridge he's helping to build, my mind kept drifting back to Max.
I'd replayed our conversation from the café at least a hundred times since Saturday morning. The way his eyes had lit up when he talked about concrete and steel, the sound of his laugh when I'd made a joke about structural integrity, the warmth of his hand when we'd shaken goodbye. I'd moved to Denver to focus on my writing, to put down roots in a new city and finally build a life for myself outside of everything I'd known in Seattle. I hadn't planned on meeting someone like him – someone who made my chest feel tight and light at the same time, someone who looked at me like I mattered even though we'd only just met.
I pushed my laptop aside and stood up, stretching my arms above my head and wincing as my back popped. My apartment – a small one-bedroom in the Highlands neighborhood – was still mostly unpacked, boxes stacked against the walls and books waiting to be shelved. The only room that felt like home was my office, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, and a comfortable armchair sat in the corner overlooking the street below.
I made my way to the kitchen and started brewing coffee, my hands moving automatically through the familiar routine. As the rich smell filled the apartment, I pulled out my phone and checked the time – just after 10 AM. Max was supposed to be here at three. I had five hours to clean up the place, finish at least a draft of the scene, and stop thinking about whether he'd like the chili I'd planned to make for dinner.
Get it together, Asher, I told myself, pouring coffee into my favorite mug – a faded ceramic thing with a constellation pattern that my mom had given me for Christmas. He's just a friend. A straight friend. You need to remember that.
I'd known from the moment Riley had told me about Max that he was straight. It hadn't stopped me from saying yes when they'd suggested we meet – I'd been lonely, and Riley had promised he was a good guy. But now, after spending three hours talking to him, laughing with him, feeling like I'd known him my whole life, I was starting to wonder if I'd made a mistake. Because even though every logical part of me knew nothing could happen between us, my heart had other ideas.
I spent the next few hours trying to focus on my writing, but every sentence I typed felt forced and flat. Finally, at one o'clock, I gave up and started cleaning. I put away the boxes in the living room, vacuumed the carpet, and rearranged the throw pillows on the couch until they looked just right. I even lit a candle – something warm and woodsy that I'd bought at a local shop last week – hoping it would make the place feel more welcoming.
By two forty-five, I was pacing back and forth in the living room, checking my reflection in the window every few minutes and wondering if I should change my shirt. I was wearing a dark green sweater and jeans – casual, but nice enough, I thought. My phone buzzed, and I practically jumped out of my skin.
Hey Asher – running a few minutes late. Got stuck helping my neighbor with her car. Be there soon! – Max
I typed back quickly: No worries at all! Take your time – coffee's ready whenever you get here 😊
I set my phone down and took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. He was just a friend coming over to help me with research. That was it. Nothing more.
Twenty minutes later, I heard a knock on the door, and my heart did a little flip in my chest. I took one last look in the mirror – hair was still messy, but in a way that I hoped looked intentional – then walked over and opened the door.
Max was standing on the porch, snow dusting his shoulders again – a light flurry had started up while I'd been cleaning. He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small cardboard box in the other, and he was smiling so wide it made my knees weak.
"Sorry again for being late," he said, stepping inside and brushing off his jacket. "Mrs. Chen's car wouldn't start, and I couldn't just leave her stranded – she's eighty years old and was trying to get to her granddaughter's ballet recital."
"Of course you couldn't," I said, closing the door behind him and trying not to stare at the way his biceps flexed as he set the bags down on the coffee table. "That's really kind of you."
"Just doing what anyone would do," he said, shrugging. "I brought you something – well, two things, actually." He opened the paper bag and pulled out two cups from The Morning Star Café. "I figured you'd want your usual hot chocolate, and I got myself another coffee. And…" he lifted the cardboard box, "I stopped by a bookstore on the way over and picked up this – it's a technical manual on mountain bridge construction. Thought it might help with your writing."
I stared at him, my throat tight with emotion. No one had ever done something like that for me before – not for my writing, not for anything. "Max, that's… that's incredible. You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to," he said, his eyes meeting mine. "You said you wanted to get the details right, so I thought this might help. Plus, I figured we could go through it together and make sure your scene is accurate."
I led him into the living room and gestured for him to sit on the couch. "Let me put these drinks down, and then I'll grab you that copy of my book I promised. And I made chili – if you're hungry, we could eat later? Or now, if you want."
"Chili sounds amazing," he said, leaning back on the couch and looking around the room. "Nice place you've got here. Cozy."
"Thanks," I said, heading to the kitchen to grab the book. "It's still a work in progress – I just moved in last month, so I'm still getting settled. Most of my stuff is in boxes in the bedroom."
When I came back, Max was looking at the books on my shelf – the ones I'd managed to unpack already. He pulled out a copy of The Lord of the Rings and smiled. "I loved these books when I was a kid. My dad used to read them to me every night before bed."
"Mine too," I said, sitting down next to him and handing him my book. "Though my mom was the one who read to me. She always said that stories were the best way to understand the world."
Max turned the book over in his hands, looking at the cover – a simple design with two silhouettes standing on a bridge against a starry sky. "I can't wait to read this," he said. "Though fair warning – I'm not the best at analyzing literature. I'll probably just tell you if I like the characters or not."
"That's exactly what I want," I said, grinning. "All the literary critics in the world can tell me if my prose is good or not, but I care more about whether real people connect with the story."
We spent the next few hours going through the technical manual and my manuscript. Max sat next to me on the couch, his shoulder brushing against mine every time he leaned over to point at something in the book, and I had to fight the urge to lean into him. He explained things like load distribution and foundation design in a way that was easy to understand, drawing diagrams on a notepad to make sure I got it right.
"You know," he said, pointing to a paragraph in my manuscript, "you've got the basic idea here, but mountain bridges actually use a different type of truss system than what you've described. It's called a Pratt truss – let me show you."
He flipped through the manual until he found a diagram, then leaned over to point at it, his hand resting just inches from mine on the page. I could smell his cologne – something clean and woodsy that mixed with the candle scent in the air – and I felt my face heat up.
"Does that make sense?" he asked, looking up at me.
I nodded, even though I'd completely forgotten what he'd just said. "Yeah, perfect. Thanks, Max. This is really helpful."
"No problem," he said, closing the manual and stretching. "I could talk about this stuff all day. It's nice to have someone who actually wants to listen."
"I do want to listen," I said, looking at him seriously. "I think what you do is amazing. Building things that help people, that make communities better – that's important work."
Max looked away, a slight blush on his cheeks. "Thanks, Asher. That means a lot. Most people just think I'm a guy who likes to play with concrete."
"I think you're a lot more than that," I said, and the words were out before I could stop them.
The air between us shifted, thick and charged. Max looked back at me, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. For a long moment, neither of us said anything. I could hear the sound of snow falling outside, the ticking of the clock on the wall, the beating of my own heart.
"I should probably check on the chili," I said finally, standing up quickly and heading to the kitchen before things could get any more complicated.
I spent the next few minutes stirring the pot and trying to calm down, telling myself that I was being ridiculous. Max was straight – he'd probably just been caught off guard by my comment. There was nothing there, nothing to read into.
"Smells amazing in here," Max said, walking into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. "My mom used to make chili every Sunday when I was growing up. It was always the highlight of my week."
"Maybe I can compete with her," I said, trying to sound light and casual. "I make it with beef and beans, and I add a little bit of chocolate to the sauce – it gives it a really rich flavor."
"Chocolate in chili?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "That sounds interesting."
"Trust me, it works," I said, ladling some into two bowls. "Want to eat at the table, or on the couch while we watch something?"
"Couch sounds good," he said, grabbing the bowls and heading back to the living room. "I brought my laptop – we could put on a movie if you want. Something with explosions, to make up for last time I had to watch that weird lighthouse movie."
I laughed, following him with silverware and napkins. "Deal. But only if we can watch The Avengers – it's my guilty pleasure."
"The Avengers is not a guilty pleasure," Max said, setting the bowls down and pulling out his laptop. "It's a cinematic masterpiece. Though I will admit, the science is completely ridiculous."
We ate chili and watched the movie, and for a while, things felt easy again. Max pointed out all the technical inaccuracies – "There's no way their ship would be able to fly like that," "That building would have collapsed way before that scene," "How are they breathing in space without helmets?" – and I laughed until my sides hurt. It felt like we'd been friends for years, not just a few days.
As the movie ended and the credits rolled, I looked over at Max to find him already looking at me. The playful smile was gone from his face, replaced by something softer, more serious.
"What is it?" I asked, setting my empty bowl on the coffee table.
Max was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming lightly on his laptop. "Riley told me something before you moved here," he said finally. "They said you'd been through a lot – that you'd had a hard time in Seattle, that you'd moved here to start over."
I felt my stomach clench. I'd told Riley about what had happened – about my ex-boyfriend who'd left me because he couldn't handle being with someone who was bisexual, about how my writing had suffered, about how I'd felt like I didn't belong anywhere. But I'd never thought they'd tell anyone else.
"I'm sorry if that was too personal," Max said quickly, seeing the look on my face. "I didn't mean to pry. I just… I want you to know that you're welcome here, Asher. In Denver, in our lives. You're a good person, and you deserve to be happy."
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I looked away quickly, trying to blink them back. "Thank you, Max. That means more than you know."
"I mean it," he said, reaching out and putting his hand on mine. His touch was warm and solid, and I felt a jolt of electricity shoot through me. "And if anyone ever gives you a hard time about… about who you are, you just let me know. I've got your back."
I looked down at our joined hands, then back up at his face. His eyes were filled with kindness and something else – something I couldn't quite place. "Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper. "We just met."
Max squeezed my hand gently. "Because I know what it feels like to be alone. When I first moved to Denver for college, I didn't know anyone, and I felt like I didn't fit in. Riley was the first person who really accepted me for who I was, and they changed my life. Now it's my turn to do that for someone else."
He let go of my hand then, and I felt a pang of disappointment that I quickly pushed down. "I should probably get going," he said, standing up and stretching. "It's getting late, and I've got an early morning at work tomorrow."
I stood up too, walking him to the door. "Thank you for everything today, Max. The book, the manual, the company – it meant a lot."
"Anytime," he said, pulling on his jacket. "I had a really good time. Maybe we could do this again? I could show you the site where we're building the community center – you could get some inspiration for your writing."
"I'd love that," I said, smiling. "Just let me know when works for you."
Max opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, then turned back to look at me. "Asher?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad we met," he said, his voice soft. "You're a good friend."
Friend. The word hit me like a punch to the gut, but I forced a smile anyway. "I'm glad we met too, Max. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," he said, and then he was walking down the sidewalk, his tall frame disappearing into the falling snow.
I closed the door and leaned against it, letting the tears I'd been holding back finally fall. He was right – we were friends. That was all we could ever be. And even though that should have been enough, it felt like my heart was breaking just a little bit.
I made my way back to my office and sat down at my desk, staring at the blank document on my screen. But this time, the words came easily. I started typing, describing Marcus standing on the bridge, looking out at the mountains and thinking about the friend he'd just found – the friend who made him feel like he belonged, even though he knew he could never have more.
I wrote until the early hours of the morning, pouring everything I was feeling into the page. When I finally finished the chapter and read it through, I knew it was the best thing I'd ever written. Because sometimes, the best stories are the ones that come from the heart – even when the heart is breaking just a little bit.
I closed my laptop and looked out the window at the snow-covered street, thinking about Max and the way he'd looked at me when he'd held my hand. Maybe I was fooling myself, but for a moment – just a moment – I'd thought there might be something more between us. Something that went beyond friendship.
My phone buzzed on the desk, and I picked it up to see a text from Max:
Hey Asher – just got home. The chili was amazing – way better than my mom's (don't tell her I said that). Also, I started reading your book – I'm only on chapter two, but I already love it. We should talk about it when we go see the construction site. Sleep well 😊
I smiled, typing back: Glad you're liking it! And your secret is safe with me. Sleep well, Max – see you soon.
I set my phone down and leaned back in my chair, looking at the snow falling softly outside. Maybe being friends was enough. Maybe it would have to be enough. But as I sat there in the quiet of my apartment, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if Max ever realized that sometimes, the people we think we know the least are the ones who understand us the most – and that love doesn't always fit into the boxes we try to put it in.