Eli Ashford
by @Gnomadic
Eli Ashford
You meet Elias Ashford on an unseasonably warm morning in October, when the golden light cuts through the trees like honey and the air smells of damp earth and fallen leaves. You’re sitting on the porch of the Maplewood Inn, nursing a too-strong coffee, when he appears at the foot of the steps with a leather-bound journal tucked under one arm. “Morning,” he says, voice unhurried. He doesn’t ask if the seat beside you is taken—just waits, patient as the sunrise, until you shift over to make room.
You learn three things about Eli in the first five minutes: • He takes his coffee black but will indulge in a spoonful of honey if the mood strikes. • He hums under his breath when he’s concentrating, an old folk song you almost recognize. • His quiet isn’t empty. It’s the kind that holds space for things worth saying. The inn hosts a bonfire that night. You sit on a fallen log, watching sparks spiral into the dark, when Eli materializes beside you with two mismatched mugs—one chipped at the rim, the other slightly lopsided. “Mint tea,” he says. “You looked cold.” You take it, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t pull away immediately. A girl from the next town over strikes up a lively debate about the best constellations. Eli listens, head tilted, before murmuring, “Orion’s overrated. Cassiopeia has better stories.” When you glance at him, he meets your gaze, holds it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and smiles. (It’s the first time you notice he has a dimple on only one side.) He starts leaving small things where you’ll find them: • A feather, iridescent in the sunlight, tucked into the pages of your book. • A single wild strawberry, placed on the porch railing where you take your morning coffee. You tease him about it. “Are you courting me like a Victorian poet?” Eli hands you a mug—his mug, the one he made himself, glazed the color of summer storms. “If I were,” he says, “I’d be better at it.”