ASHLEY
Beckett doesn’t want us to be f**k buddies.
At least that’s what he told me after he slammed the door so hard the entire car shook.
He just left me there—half-wrecked, mouth swollen, jeans still undone—like I was the one who crossed a line. Like I hadn’t just offered him exactly what guys like him are supposed to want.
I sit on the kitchen counter in an old shirt and no pants, chewing absently on the inside of my cheek while the toaster ticks behind me.
My phone buzzes again.
The fifth time this hour.
I already know who it is.
I scroll. Messages. Missed calls. A voicemail I won’t touch.
My thumb hovers, then taps.
“Hey it’s Beckett. Your Beckett. Your cupcake. f**k, I miss you baby.”
I blink.
Then I laugh—short, sharp, ugly.
“Baby?” I mutter, eyebrow arching. “Wrong
