Page 20 of Should Our Stars Collide

“I’m sorry you had a bad experience with therapy,” Ash says suddenly. It’s spoken in such a soft, empathetic way Kieran has a hard time reconciling it with the man in front of him. It doesn’t last, though. “That being said, I’m not here as a therapist today.”

Kieran rolls his eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Ash shrugs, his trademark shit-eating grin back in place. “I never said I’m not a smartass.”

Kieran huffs, an amused smile threatening to break out on his lips. Horrified at his reaction, he quickly smothers it. “Not so sure about the smart part.”

Ash leans back against the bartop, interlacing his fingers, a smile on his lips. “You’re kind of a brat, aren’t you?”

Kieran arches an eyebrow in silent challenge. “Problem?”

“On the contrary,” Ash says smoothly, his gaze darkening. “Attitude adjustment is kind of my specialty.”

This fucking pervert…

Kieran stands up so fast he knocks over the shot glass. Thankfully,it’s empty. Not thankfully—sadly. He wishes he had something to throw in Ash’s face. Maybe his fist would work…

Maybe not,he thinks as he sways on his feet, feeling the pull of gravity that’s about to result in what’s no doubt going to be a fucking painful crash. He instinctively closes his eyes, as if the lack of visual input could make it hurt less.

Then there’s another pull, somehow both stronger and gentler than gravity, as something firm wraps around his waist. His hands shoot out uncoordinatedly, grabbing onto the first thing they can reach. His fingers curl into something soft, followed by a sound of fabric tearing.

When he forces his eyes open, Ash’s face is only inches from his, gaze mildly concerned, but mouth set in a mocking smile. Kieran wants to punch him. He also wants to…

Nothing! I just want to punch him! Maybe spit on him!

No, not spit. He might be into that, the pervert.

“That was a close call,” Ash says. “You almost took out my nipple.”

Unbidden, Kieran’s gaze falls to Ash’s chest, his shirt missing a couple of buttons from Kieran’s attempt to save himself.

Ripping his hands away as if burnt, Kieran takes a step back, only to find he can’t.

Ash’s arm is tight around his waist, almost possessive in the way it keeps him close. It should be unsettling, restrictive To his horror, Kieran finds himself wanting to lean into it, to lay his head down on Ash’s shoulder and just…let go for a moment. Let go of all the stupid everyday problems. Of his paralyzing fear for his best friend. Of the gradual, sinking realization that if he goes home now, he’ll be left with his spiraling thoughts and deafening silence. There won’t be anyone waiting for him, no one blowing up his phone wondering where he is and if he’s okay.

Go to hell, Zeke. And take your fucking soulmate crap with you.

“Let go,” he orders, painfully aware that he can’t bring himself to move first. For a fraction of a second, it feels as if Ash’s grip on him strengthens, before slowly, reluctantly releasing him.

A sudden, cool blast makes Kieran shiver. Why the fuck is this place cranking up the aircon so high?

“Do you need a piggyback ride outside?” Ash asks with a smirk. “Or do you prefer bridal style?”

Nevermind. The hot rage is already warming him up. “Fuck you,” Kieran bites out. Since he’s too drunk to lay a proper punch, verbal violence will have to suffice.

“That’s what I’ve been hinting at, yes.”

Fucking. Asshole. “You’re sick.”

Ash hums, not even trying to deny it. “You’re cute.”

Every muscle in Kieran’s body goes rigid. His mouth regains function first, spouting a vehement, “Fuck you!” He turns on his heel, his flight instinct kicking in. Suddenly remembering he hasn’t paid yet, he begrudgingly comes to a halt, waving his debit card at the bartender. It probably only takes ten seconds to tap the card to the terminal the bartender presents him with, but it might as well be a century.

The bartender offers him a tight smile. “Cheers. Have a good?—”

“No!” Kieran runs—stumbles—out of the bar as if he has the hounds of hell on his ass.Or just one particularly disturbed therapist.

Outside, he fishes out his phone with shaky hands—shaky from anger, not from being nervous or anything!—ignoring the text that has popped up, and hastily orders a ride home. He needs to get out of here as fast as possible.