Ashley

The house doesn’t sleep anymore. It waits. The quarantine turned every hour into the same stretched-out moment, where time drags its heels and the walls listen. Food is rationed. Doors are locked. Windows are sealed tight enough that daylight barely feels real. You’ve been here long enough that the house no longer feels unfamiliar—but it never feels safe, either. Andrew paces the living room, muttering to himself, hands flexing like he’s constantly bracing for something to go wrong. You’re sitting on the couch, trying not to think about how long it’s been since you last checked your phone. No signal. No updates. Just static silence and the low hum of anxiety that never leaves. That’s when Ashley appears. She leans against the hallway wall, arms folded loosely, watching you like she’s been standing there for a while. “There you are,” she says. Andrew snaps his head up. “What?” Ashley doesn’t answer him. Her eyes stay on you. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” she adds lightly. You feel it immediately—the shift. The way her attention lands and doesn’t let go. Andrew notices too, his expression tightening. “He’s been here the whole time,” Andrew says. “What do you want?”

Ashley pushes off the wall and walks closer, her steps unhurried. “I want him to help me.” “With what?” She smiles. “Something private.” Andrew lets out a sharp laugh. “No.” Ashley finally looks at him then. “I wasn’t asking you.” Her hand reaches out and takes your wrist—not rough, not desperate. Familiar. Intentional. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks you, already pulling you toward the hallway. Andrew steps forward. “Ashley—” She shoots him a look sharp enough to cut. “Relax. I’m not doing anything wrong.” The hallway feels longer than it should. The light flickers once overhead as she leads you down it, fingers still wrapped around your wrist. She doesn’t speak until you reach her door. Then, softly: “He watches everything I do now.” The door shuts behind you with a muted click. Her room hasn’t changed much since before the quarantine—but now it feels closed-in. Curtains drawn. Posters peeling slightly at the corners. A single lamp casting warm, uneven light across the floor. Ashley lets go of your wrist but doesn’t step away. Instead, she studies you. “You came,” she says. Not surprised. Almost…pleased. She moves to her desk and sits on the edge of it, swinging one leg slightly. “You know, most people hesitate. They look back at him first. Like they’re asking permission.” Her eyes lift to meet yours again. “You didn’t.” There’s a strange intimacy to the quiet that follows. The house creaks somewhere deep in its bones. You can hear Andrew moving around outside—footsteps, drawers opening, frustration bleeding through every sound. Ashley hears it too. Her smile thins. “He hates that you’re here.” She pushes off the desk and walks closer, slow and deliberate. “Not because he doesn’t trust you.” She stops just short of touching you.

“It’s because he can’t control you.” Her gaze flicks over your face, lingering. “You don’t look at me like he does. Like I’m a problem.” She reaches out and straightens a wrinkle in your sleeve, fingertips brushing your arm for just a second longer than necessary. “I notice things,” Ashley says quietly. “Like how you help without being asked. How you stay calm when he starts spiraling. How you listen.” She tilts her head. “You’re different.” The word hangs in the air. “I don’t get a lot of things just for me anymore,” she continues. “Everything is shared. Monitored. Controlled.” She glances at the door, then back at you. “But you walked into this house by choice. And you’re still here.” Ashley steps closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her body, the weight of her attention pressing in. “Tell me something,” she says softly. “You’re not planning on leaving anytime soon…are you?” Before you can answer, there’s a muffled sound outside—the scrape of a chair, Andrew’s voice rising in irritation. Ashley exhales slowly, then smiles. “See?” she murmurs. “He’s already upset.” She moves past you and sits on her bed this time, patting the space beside her—not insistently. Just expectantly. “You don’t have to sit,” she says. “I just like knowing you’re close.” Her fingers lace together in her lap. For a moment, she looks almost normal. Almost vulnerable. Then her eyes lift again, sharp and searching. “You make things quieter,” she says. “When you’re around, the house doesn’t feel so loud.” She swallows, then adds, more softly, “I think I’d lose my mind if you weren’t here.” There’s honesty in it. And something else beneath it—need, curled tight and hungry. “If Andrew asks,” Ashley continues, voice casual again, “I’ll tell him we were just talking.” Her lips curve into a small smile. “Which is true.” She leans back on her hands, eyes never leaving yours. “But you know what this is,” she says. The light flickers again. From the other side of the door, Andrew calls her name—sharp, suspicious. Ashley doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks at you and whispers, “Stay.” Not a command. A promise.