Nothing To Prove

11 That's It, Baby. Fight Me.

Samantha

Ashton was dangerously close to the type of man I'd fall for.

There was a reason he attracted me the first night we met. It wasn't just his appearance. His tall, wide-shouldered body and lean muscles. His serious eyes and chocolate brown mess of a hair.

It was...his bottled rage, and how he didn't bother to hide it.

I had dated in the past. Nice guys. The ones who acted sweet even if I was upset. The ones who kept a safe distance when I asked them to stay away. But that just made me more miserable.

Maybe because they reminded me how my whole life, I had done the same. I had to stay happy to not upset my mom. I had to be sweet. Had to smile even though all I wanted was to bawl my eyes out. I couldn't stay with nice guys, because nice guys acted just like me.

That's why I loved that Ashton wasn't always nice to me. I loved that he didn't hide what he thought or how he felt, even if it made me mad, I didn't care. He lived how I dreamed to live one day. I could only hope one day to be that free. And I didn't want to ruin our friendship.

So Monday after work, I kept my distance. After a brief chat in the kitchen, I said I have to edit the pictures we took over the weekend. It wasn't a complete lie. I just didn't tell him I'd stayed up until 3 last night editing them already, and spent all day at work today doing the same.

It was around 9, and the string lights glowed warmly on my cinnamon sheets. Lofi music played on Spotify, and I was scrolling on Instagram to keep up with the competition. We had a long way to go.

Others vacationed in Greece, swam in crystal blue pools, had breakfast in marble mansions. They drove on the coastline with a sports car hood off, smiling in designer sunglasses. Meanwhile, I hid behind my hair and hands in every photo.

I'd told him if this didn't yield any monetary results within two months, I'd move out. These cute pictures would boost my engagement, but it wouldn't be enough.

I needed something more.

Of course, a thirst trap of him would take care of it, but I couldn't ask him. It was bad enough I was objectifying him as a fake boyfriend. So I decided to sort of try my own thirst trap.

Fast forward twenty minutes later, I was in silky black pajama shorts and a lace, open-back camisole. It was the sexiest thing I owned, and when I looked in the mirror, I liked it. I just hoped it also worked in the pictures. Everything was different on camera.

The idea was to pretend to read a book in bed, with the candles and plants above the headboard. I was setting up my phone on a tripod in front of the bed and⁠—

"Sam? You asleep?" Ashton knocked and I jumped out of my skin.

What did he want?!

"One sec!" I scuttled to the door, back to bed, threw a blanket over me, looking like a crackhead superhero, then ran back to the door and open it just a little. "What's up?"

"Hey, have you had dinner? Luka's here and he wants potatoes. You want me to make some for you?"

I couldn't believe how handsome he looked in a plain gray shirt and a pair of old black sweats. His hair was damp from a shower, the wavy strands falling over his forehead.

"No..." I admitted with guilt. "I'm okay, thank you though."

"You sure?" He furrowed his brows. "Aren't you hungry?"

I shook my head with a fake smile. "I'm good. Thank you."

"Okay..." It was obvious he didn't believe me. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"