Ashton froze.
His shirt was still clutched in her small hand, her fingers weakly grasping the hem as if letting go would make him disappear.
He turned his head slightly, watching as Ashley's face twisted into a tired frown, her eyes still closed. Her voice had been barely a whisper, but it had struck something deep inside him.
He sighed. She's really something, isn't she?
Carefully, he pried her fingers off his shirt, but the moment he did, she stirred, her brows knitting together in discomfort.
Her fever must have gotten worse overnight.
Shaking his head, he stood up, stretching his numb arm as pins and needles shot through his fingers. 'Now my whole arm is useless.'
Still, he had things to do. He needed to get her some medicine, cook something—if I even have anything in the fridge—and still find time to hit the gym.
Just as he was about to step away, he heard her murmur again.
"Ash…"
His movements stalled.
She sounded… different.
It wasn't the weak, sick voice from earlier. This time, it was softer—almost desperate.
Ashton turned back, expecting her to be half-awake, but she was still asleep.
Dreaming.
His jaw clenched as he watched her. Even unconscious, she was calling his name.
'What the hell is she dreaming about?'
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. 'Not my problem, why do I care what she's dreaming?'
The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet.
Ashton stood in front of the stove, tapping his fingers against the counter while waiting for the soup to heat. The only sound was the faint bubbling of the broth, filling the air with the scent of ginger and garlic.
He had made something simple—chicken broth with a bit of rice. It was the only thing that made sense for someone who was sick.
Not that he cared. He just didn't want her getting worse under his watch.
'She better not complain about the taste, hope I added the ingredients ratio wise properly.'
He turned off the stove and poured the soup into a bowl, then grabbed a glass of water and some medicine.
Balancing everything on a tray, he made his way back to the room.
Ashley was still curled up on the bed.
Ashton placed the tray on the bedside table before sitting down beside her. "Hey," he called out, nudging her shoulder.
She didn't respond.
"Aunt Ashley," he said again, firmer this time.
She stirred, her lashes fluttering before slowly opening her eyes.
The first thing he noticed was how unfocused they were, hazy from sleep and fever. She blinked a few times, as if trying to register where she was.
Then, her gaze landed on him.
A small, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Ash…"
His throat tightened. Why does she say my name like that?
He looked away. "Sit up. You need to eat."
Ashley groaned, burying her face into the pillow. "Don't wanna…"
"You have to," Ashton said simply. "Come on."
She let out a tired whine but eventually pushed herself up, rubbing her eyes like a child.
Ashton picked up the bowl, handing it to her.
She stared at it for a moment before looking back at him. "You… made this?"
He shrugged. "It's just soup."
Ashley chuckled weakly, taking the bowl. "Didn't know you could cook."
He leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms. "I can do a lot of things."
Ashley took a small sip, her shoulders relaxing as warmth spread through her.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the quiet clinking of the spoon against the bowl.
Then, Ashley glanced at him, her expression unreadable.
"Ashton."
He raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Her fingers tightened around the bowl. "About last night…"
His stomach twisted, but he kept his face neutral. "What about it?"
Ashley hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I just… thank you. For staying."
Ashton looked at her for a second before giving a small nod.
"It's not a big deal," he said, standing up. "Just finish your food."
Ashley smiled slightly. "I will."
But as he walked away, he could still feel her eyes on him.
And for some reason, he chose to ignore it.
Ashton stood by the doorway, his hand resting on the frame as he glanced back at Ashley. She was taking slow sips of the soup, her fingers wrapped around the warm bowl like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
Her fevered eyes flickered to him for a brief second before returning to her meal.
'Good. She's eating.'
Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room.
The rest of the morning passed uneventfully.
Ashton went about his usual routine—cleaning up, getting some food for himself, and doing rest of the chores. The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He checked the time. Almost noon.
His fingers tapped against the table.
Ashley hadn't made a sound.
She's fine. She ate, she's resting.
Still, an odd feeling gnawed at him.
With a sigh, he pushed himself up and walked back toward the room.
The door was slightly ajar. He nudged it open.
Ashley was still curled up in bed, the empty bowl sitting neatly on the nightstand. Her breathing was slow, steady—but her face was pale, strands of hair sticking to her forehead.
Ashton stepped closer, reaching out before catching himself.
'What am I doing?'
Instead, he walked over to the nightstand, picked up the empty bowl, and placed the glass of water closer to her.
That's all. That's all he came in here for.
He was about to turn around when—
"Ashton…"
His shoulders stiffened.
She wasn't awake. Her eyes were still shut, her breathing still even—but she had called his name again.
Ashton frowned.
This was the third time.
He stood there for a moment, watching her. Trying to figure out what was going on inside that fevered mind of hers.
Then, with a shake of his head, he left the room.
Ashley woke up sometime in the afternoon, blinking groggily at the ceiling.
The fever had settled, but her body still felt sluggish. She pushed herself up, glancing around.
Her eyes landed on the glass of water by the bed.
Her fingers wrapped around it, bringing it to her lips.
That's when she noticed it.
The empty bowl was gone.
Ashton had been here.
Her lips curved into a small smile. 'He won't say it, but he cares.'
She placed the glass back down, letting out a small breath.
She would be lying if she said last night hadn't changed anything. Being in his arms, feeling the way he had held her, even if it was just because she was sick—she couldn't shake the warmth it had left behind.