Go Home, Ivy

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T he wind howled around them, as horizontal rain pummelled the path to the pod. The short walk was eerily lit by the glow from the fire ahead, and Ivy felt her heart creep up her throat as they approached. With all the sounds of the night, she and Ross had said nothing since leaving the main bothy. He was powering ahead of her, but throwing concerned looks over his shoulder, and spotlighting potholes and obstacles in her path with his torch intermittently.

As they arrived at the pod, he set down the large box and waited for her. The entire rear siding of the wooden hut was burning, with cascades of sparks pouring from the housing of the fuse box.

“I thought the electricity was off?” Ivy yelled over the storm, coming to stand beside him.

“It is. It must’ve been hit by lightning.” He was now pulling out fire extinguishers and blankets and Ivy did not miss the lack of protective equipment in the unboxing.

“Surely the wood is soaked through in this rain?” She spluttered as rain poured down her face.

“Should be.” He nodded. “It won’t spread over the ground anyway. But it’s not the pod that’s the problem— the gas cylinders are being stored in there.”

“Fuck.”

For a moment a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Fuck is right.”

“What do we need to do?” Ivy asked, bending to claim one of the extinguishers.

“ We aren’t doing anything. You’re staying here while I see if I can get it out.”

“What?”

“If I can get a blanket over the fuse box and then douse the whole thing with foam, it should be fine. The rain and wind should hopefully stop it catching again.”

“No, I mean?—”

“I know what you meant.”

“You’re being ridiculous, you can’t expect me to stand here and watch!” Her voice was becoming shrill, whipped up the octave by the storm.

“You’re staying here.”

“Ross, I didn’t come out in a storm to just?—”

“Then go back, Ivy!” He was standing now, towering over her, inches apart. The glow from the fire lit his face from the side, and she took in the rage beating down from his eyes, as water dripped from the tip of his nose, skirting over the ramp his snarled lip was providing.

Her voice caught in her throat, and her lips hung limply open as she took him in. With the glare unrelenting, she nodded.

“Okay. Fine. What should I do?”

His eyes closed for a second, as his chest fell. When he opened them again, they were less hostile.

“Hold the torches. Give me as much light as you can.” As he placed them in her hands, his fingers lingered under hers. Blood pounded in her ears as she offered a small nod.

Concern flickered in his eyes.

“If anything goes wrong, go back to the bothy. Phone any of the numbers on the wall. If the phone won’t connect, there’s an old radio in the cupboard. Someone will answer.”

If anything goes wrong. Something might go wrong. Her throat began tightening, and the roaring of the elements around her began burrowing into her ears.

“Ivy!” He gripped her hand then and her eyes snapped to his. Ross’ own irises burned amber in front of her, wild beneath his creased forehead. “Just hold the torch.” He guided her hand, pointing the high intensity beam at the blaze, his eyes not leaving her.

Ivy’s head shifted between the pod and him. She was here now. All she had to do was hold the torch and they would be back in the Bothy in no time.

“Yes.” Her voice was hoarse at first. “Fuck, yes, sorry. Hold the torch. Bothy, phone, radio.”

“Okay?”

“All good.”

He took a few steps backward, his hand slowly leaving hers, before he lifted a fireproof blanket and fire extinguisher and ran.

As he got further away, reality closed in on Ivy. She slowed her breathing and attempted to calm the drum in her ears so she could focus. She was standing maybe fifteen metres from the scene unfolding. Close enough to feel the heat off the fire. She wanted to turn her face away but was transfixed.

In the confusing light scape of the fire and her torch light, his shadow was projected against the side of the pod and then extended across the hills behind. Hundreds of feet tall, the sight would’ve been funny at any other time. The sort of game they might have played on the return from a romantic twilight stroll that lost track of time and ended well past dusk. Instead, Ivy felt swallowed by it. Small and helpless, hovering on the outskirts of whatever this was.

Tearing her eyes back down to the real Ross, she was relieved to see he had smothered the fuse box and was now trying to douse the flaming panelling. As Ivy’s eyes danced over the pod, checking for anything they might have missed, her attention was caught by a small glow beyond the window. It was too orange to be the reflection of her torch. Too isolated to be anything external.

“Shit. SHIT,” Ivy shouted, well aware Ross had no hope of hearing her.

Something inside the pod had caught alight. From memory, the last update on the Bothy project was that the pods weren’t fully wind and waterproofed yet, so there were definitely ways for the fire to get in. She looked back at Ross to the rear of the pod, still struggling to contain the flames. He was feet away from where the pile of gas cylinders must be. If the sparks reached them…

“Fuck!” Ivy hissed.

She looked down at the torch in her hand, then at the black box, now with its lid resting open on its hinges. The storm began to fade around her and her heart rate slowed. Ivy walked to the box and propped up the torch, keeping the beam concentrated on Ross, hoping the angle remained consistent enough for him not to notice. Glancing toward him, she confirmed he was still distracted by his ongoing efforts. She lifted the second torch and clicked it on. The beam wasn’t as strong, but it only needed to illuminate her path. Taking the last fireproof blanket and extinguisher, she squeezed her eyes closed, muttering a mix of curses and prayers to whatever higher powers and multiverses were paying attention, and then started to walk.

Reaching the glass front door of the pod, Ivy took in the scene inside. More than the few sparks she had initially anticipated, the entire far corner was spitting flames, and small satellite blazes were spotting the floor, edging toward the gas cylinders. The whole back wall was solid wood, so Ross would have no idea the inside had caught.

“Ross!” She called, but even as the words left her mouth, she felt them vanish into the gale.

This close to the flames, she could hear the popping as new sparks were spat into the tinderbox pod, and the wood creaked teasingly around her. The gas needed to go. Ivy needed a new job.

There were three long tanks in all, so she wouldn’t be doing this all in one run.

Pulling her jumper over her mouth and her hood down low over her eyes, she opened the door. As she stepped inside, she remembered a fire safety lesson from years ago about keeping windows and doors closed during a fire, to not bring in fresh oxygen. She fully understood this reasoning for the first time as tongues of flame licked out from the wall towards her. Too late to change the plan now, Ivy pushed the door back on its hinges, propping it open with a brick the workmen must have left for the same purpose, telling herself the consistent oxygen levels must be better than opening and closing.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Ivy,” she mumbled under her breath. “We’re fucking fucked.”

Crossing the floor in only a few steps, she grabbed the first two cylinders. Heavy, but just manageable. She groaned, heaving them across the floor and out the door.

Spilling onto the grass outside, she coughed, filling her lungs with cleaner air. She continued dragging the cylinders clear from the blaze, unsure how close was too close if they didn’t fully quell the flames. Settling on the same fifteen metres Ross had deemed safe enough to leave her, she dumped her cargo and turned back for the final tank.

Crossing the grass, Ivy wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her sleeve. She took a final clear breath and stepped into the pod again. Fixing her torch on the cylinder in the corner, she lifted her back foot. As she leant to move forward, her toes connected with the brick holding the door open. Ivy shot her hands out just in time to break her fall, tumbling into the centre of the lone room. Curling her feet into her, she heard the door slam behind her, realising the brick had fully dislodged.

Now on the floor, she swept her hand around, hoping to find the torch again, but came up empty handed. Unable to see her full surroundings, she was suddenly much more aware of the flames on the floor creeping towards her.

Fuck. Quickly scanning her body, she felt no signs of injury. Disoriented in the smoky darkness, she struggled to her feet and circled in place, trying to find the door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Her heart began racing again, with her breaths rushing in in rapid gasp, choking her with smoke.

It’s one room, Ivy, come on, she urged herself, but continued to spin on the spot, clutching at her mouth and nose.

Her peripheral vision began to blur, when she felt two solid hands grip her shoulders, and then she was moving through the air.

Before she could process it, she felt the rain on her cheeks as they moved quickly across the grass. She was outside. She was… upside down? A broad hand gripped her thigh. Ross.

Within moments, her feet were on the ground, and he was swiping his hands up and down her, patting across her body, before coming to settle with both palms planted on her cheeks, his eyes boring into her.

“Are you okay?” His voice was strained, echoed in frantic eyes.

She took him in, stunned, afraid herself of the terror beating down at her.

“IVY!” He shouted, shaking her.

She blinked, finally coming back into her body.

“I’m fine— shit. I’m— I’m fine.”

His hands fell from her face, and she leant toward him, waiting for the embrace to centre them both. Instead, he stepped back, the panic in his eyes morphing into rage.

“What the fuck, Ivy?!”

A sting rippled across Ivy’s chest, and her eyes began to stream.

She stuttered in the sudden shift, “I’m sorry. I?—”

“Are you actually that stupid?”

Despite being well clear of the fire and smoke, sufficient breath eluded her. The walls of cliffs around her began to shrink inwards around them, and she fought to remain on her feet, as if the swirling wind could lift her away. In that moment, maybe she wanted it to.

“You couldn’t see the fire inside, Ross! The gas cylinders?—”

“You could have gotten us both killed going in there alone.” Even over the screaming elements, she could hear the venom in his voice as he loomed over her.

“You were the one to point out the problem with the gas cylinders!” Her own anger was diminished as tears tripped her and her nose ran, but she reclaimed some ground, driving him a step backwards. “You said?—”

At that he recoiled. His mouth slipped open, his face curled into a wince.

“You could’ve fucking died, Ivy.” It was less of an accusation now. His posture was practically apologetic. Afraid. Ivy’s heart caught in her throat, and she felt her stomach drop, and she edged forward to reach for him.

Before she could land the gesture, he flinched, staggering backwards and running a hand over his face.

“Fuck.” He was pale, skin eerily green despite the orange glow behind them. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” His voice was choked. She was sure he was crying now.

Ivy moved to touch him, but he was gone. Storming back towards the pod, now with fireproof blankets and extinguisher in hand.

An ache bloomed through Ivy, unsure what had just happened. She tried to call after him, but her voice was either lost in the storm, or deliberately ignored, so she didn’t try again.

Wiping her face, she took in the fire.

He had managed to control everything external. The rear wall was blackened and the surrounding glass slightly singed, but no flames remained.

Inside, the burning in the corner vanished, as he presumably threw the blanket down.

Seconds, or minutes, or who knows how long, passed and then he reappeared, tossing the final cylinder with the others.

He stalked back toward where she stood huddled with their remaining equipment. As he approached, she took in his stony expression and did not miss the fact that he seemed to look off to the side rather than at her.

“Ross,” she croaked.

“Let’s go.” He lifted the box, barely breaking his stride, and continued back towards the bothy.

Empty handed and hollow, Ivy shuffled behind him, guiding the torch light limply ahead of them.

* * *

Arriving back in the bothy, they both balanced awkwardly in their own bubbles as they removed wet boots and jackets. The stilted dance in the doorway, as they both fought to avoid trekking water and mud across their home for the night without having any actual contact, was a stark contrast from the last time they occupied this door mat. As Ivy dropped a knee, untying her laces, Ross leant over her, hanging the key on the hook by the door. He hung there a second, his arm braced against the frame. Ivy’s fingers seized as her body registered his presence above her. She didn’t look up, couldn’t look up, really, yet could picture the image that would greet her with psychic clarity. She could sense his strained gaze, and felt her own throat tighten in unison.

She snapped back into motion at the sound of his hand hitting the wood. Still crouched on the floor, she watched him straighten and then walk away. She hurried to stand, trying to summon speech back to her throat.

His back was to her when she found her voice again.

“I’m sorry.”

Ivy noted fleeting falter of his stride, but he didn’t stop, walking into the bathroom. She flinched as the door slammed and then found herself alone in the main room.

Being alone was not something Ivy was unfamiliar with. She was, after all, a prospective islander. Sure, she was loud and talkative when in ‘on’ mode, but she thrived in her own company. It was the perfect combination for a person living here, Mhairi had once told her. You needed to be okay with the isolation, but also able to pull yourself out of it at the drop of a hat. Leave your cosy peat fire for a few drinks at the pub. Chat with a passerby as you hung out the washing, even though you were at a really good part of that audiobook. Anything to foster community, she supposed, so that when you went back to your empty house, it didn’t feel like solitary confinement, but rather a welcome rest. Even in Edinburgh, with thousands of people around her, she had known the benefits of slinking off to a quiet corner at a party, or working from home one day a week, instead of in their open plan office. Ivy was the perfect ambivert. She could be on her own. But being left alone was another story. Of course, there were some loud people who were just born to be the centre of attention. But Ivy had long suspected that most of them were forged in fire. Becoming social butterflies in order to rise above whatever was trying to beat them down. Left out, left behind, or just plain left. By boyfriends, by friends, or just by society racing ahead with buying houses, landing dream promotions, getting married, or having babies. Ivy was loud and fun and surrounded by people, even in the Outer Hebrides, and so even when all these departures happened, she wasn’t left alone.

But now, she was cold and wet and smelt of smoke. She was in a stone box, on an uninhabited island, with no electricity. The dickhead who she had been involuntarily in a tizz over for the last week, who she had finally thought might be paying some attention back, had stolen the only privacy in the place. And she had been left alone.

Angry tears stung at the backs of her eyes, and she felt the tide of emotion creeping up on her. Her first instinct would have been to run. To go out the door and make herself not alone. Find a friend to regale with the tale of the day over tea as they beamed at her storytelling prowess and wished she’d never leave. Or maybe a pub to slip into, flirting with a bartender, dancing as a traditional session struck up, welcomed from table to table, and still on the lips of the patrons as they went home, recalling her for years to come. But she couldn’t move, stuck in a rip. She couldn’t even follow the sensible safety advice to go with the current, swim parallel to shore and allow it to wash over her, un-panicked and trusting that it would deliver her to a sandbank for some rest.

Nope. This time, as she was fixed on the door that he hid silently behind, Ivy was floundering. In trouble in the water, and the only person on the beach wasn’t in a rush to dive in and help.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes that they were apart, alone on their respective sides of the bathroom door. There should only be so much drowning that a person can get up to, on dry land, in only a few minutes, and yet Ivy was floored by the sense of relief when the door opened, and fresh air flooded her lungs. Fighting the urge to cough and splutter as she breached, spilling her questions and ramblings out to him, she instead took the slow, steady breaths that she had been searching for since he had closed himself in there.

From the expression on his face, she knew he was not expecting to find her still rooted to the spot she had been in since their return. The door closed behind him, securing them both in the main room together. Ivy noted the absence of sounds of running water or refilling cisterns. He still had on the gloves that he had been wearing outside. There was little to indicate he had actually used the bathroom for any traditional bathroom-based activities, suggesting he’d just been in there hiding from her.

The final threat of water in her lungs was burned away as the realisation sparked annoyance in her. Stoking that spark was the infinitely worse realisation that it wasn’t even annoyance at him. She was wholly annoyed with herself, for still thinking he looked gorgeous, wavering by that door, dark hair wild and dusted in ash, and eyes set on her, anger and anxiety fighting beneath the blue, even as he chickened out from talking.

What they were supposed to be talking about, she hadn’t actually decided. The looks between them? Fire safety? The moments? Anything at all besides standing here glaring at each other maybe?

As he had gone for the hiding option, Ivy concluded she was also excused from mature conversation, so chose instead to launch dozens of unresolved feelings into a tangentially related tirade.

“Oh, nice break was it? Maybe we could let the people that are kindly letting us use their pride and joy for shelter know that it hasn’t actually burnt down? Or tell your boss that you’re, you know, alive?!”

His eyes narrowed at her, and the brief quake of his jaw made her think he might literally be biting his tongue.

“I’ll phone them now then, shall I?” Was he taunting her? The dick.

“Or maybe I would’ve liked to know where the blankets were. Or extra firewood. Or?—”

He was very close to her now, distractingly so. His own voice had dropped an octave and climbed in volume when he next spoke, rising to meet her own temper on equal footing.

“Recent events aside, Ivy, you’re not a complete idiot. You could find your own shit.”

“I’m—”

“A gift, bestowed on us from the capital. I forgot.”

With a pantomime Silly Me wave of his hand, he cast aside his gloves and stormed over to the pile of hastily chopped wood he’d left by the door. Crouching, he began hurling chunks into the fire. “Terribly sorry, I forgot to read the servant clause of the contract when I signed on.”

Ivy had followed him, taking her place on the rug in front of the fire, frustrated by how little a barrier she was actually providing to his dramatics.

“Fuck you,” she sneered. “You went and hid in the bathroom and I’m just trying to talk about?—”

“Talk about what? That I went for a fucking piss?”

“Sure!”

Blood pounded through her ears. Standing in front of the fire, as he finally stood back up to take her head on, the heat made it difficult to breathe.

“What do you want to talk about, Ivy?” He roared down at her.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she snapped, lifting a hand to shove him away. As it connected with his chest, he caught her wrist.

“What do you want to talk about?”

The sudden shift in noise levels from his previous yell to this strained question that faded into silence only emphasised the heavy breathing from the pair as they held each other’s glares for just a second. The following second they crashed into each other.

A faint gasp escaped her as she parted her lips for him. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she pressed herself into him, afraid that, if even an atom passed between them, they would be torn apart. He scooped his hands into her hair, thumbs on her cheeks, anchoring her to him.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured as his mouth worked over hers.

“I know,” she replied, holding him to her with her fingers tangled in his hair.

She really did know.

Their lips parted and she could feel his brow tense as he continued, though his hands never stopped, desperately clutching at her face as he spoke.

“I was hiding. I—” He interrupted himself to taste her again. “I just needed to?—”

She traced her thumbs along his cheekbones, peeking up at him and registering the genuine anguish on his face.

“You scare the shit out of me, Ivy.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. No more burning buildings.”

Her promise was peppered with frantic kisses along his jaw and neck. He pressed a kiss into her temple and sighed.

“Right.”

She looked up at him, heavy lids draped over his eyes, but not quite enough to hide a confusing expression.

“Do you want to stop?” She whispered breathlessly.

“God, no,” he groaned, pressing another kiss into her lips. “But we should.”

He stepped back and sat at the old oak table in the room.

Ivy brushed her fingers over her burning mouth. “Of course. Sorry.” She floundered, fully dressed yet desperately trying to cover herself. She smoothed down her hair and base layer, and when she looked up, he was watching her, his brow pinched.

“Please don’t be sorry, Ivy. That was—” He exhaled and she laughed.

“Don’t worry about it. Pretend it never happened.”

“I just don’t think it’s a great idea for us to… you know.”

“Seriously, it’s fine, Ross. Already forgotten.”

“Right.”

Forcing a lightness into her voice that had never felt more foreign, Ivy pressed on. “Anyway, I’m going to check that chest for dry clothes, and then we should probably get some sleep.”

Her voice trailed off on the last word as his gaze snapped to hers, and then they both looked across the room. At the one bed in it. Her eyes were wide when they landed back on him. He held two palms up to her.

“You can have the bed. Obviously. I’ll…” His sentence faded out as they both looked around the room.

“You’ll what? Curl up on the floor beside me, like a dog?”

“Seadh. I’ll be fine. It’s one night.”

“But—”

“Ivy, it’s… Please?”

She took in the pleading on his face and nodded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Thanks.”

Loaded silence filled the space between them again.

Ross ran his hands down his thighs and then stood.

“I’m just going to, eh…check outside. I’ll be back in five.”

Ivy smiled as he ducked through the door. “Thanks,” she called after him.

Alone again, she placed her hands on her hips and sighed. Eventually she walked to the dusty trunk at the foot of the bed labelled ‘lost and found’ and began hunting.

Work had yet to start on the bothy itself, while they had been first prioritising the pods. As a result, it remained largely as it had done for the last half a dozen decades. And years of walkers and birders had left an eclectic mix of forgotten clothes.

Eventually she settled on a thick thermal, large navy fleece and long johns and thanked the universe there wasn’t a mirror in here.

She climbed into the ancient bed, deciding it best not to think when the sheets were last changed. She stared at the ceiling and covered her face with her hands and silently screamed.

His five-minute countdown ended sooner than she needed, and as the door creaked open, she contemplated faking sleep to get out of what was sure to be a walk in the park.

“Hi,” he said, hovering by the foot of the bed.

“Hi,” Ivy replied, tucking her knees to her chest beneath the threadbare quilt.

He sunk onto the rug in front of the fire, leaning his back against the side of the bed, picking at a loose thread by his side.

“There’s probably something you could wear in that box. Or to use as a pillow,” Ivy said, breaking the silence.

“I’m ok.” He didn’t look up, still focused on his fingers working through the old textile rug.

Ivy leant forward, resisting the urge to run her fingers through the damp curls at the back of his neck.

“You’re all wet.”

He let out a short laugh. “It’s still raining outside.”

“You can’t sleep like that.”

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he shrugged, half looking over his shoulder. “You should get some sleep. Tomas will hopefully be in touch early in the morning.”

A beat passed as Ivy stared at the back of his head. Eventually she cast her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Okay.”

He didn’t reply, so she lay there, listening to the faint rustling of him removing layers and settling on the floor. Eventually, that too died down and they were left in the silence.

* * *

“Holy fuck!”

Ivy startled awake at the sound, to find Ross frantically dissembling the room.

“What are you doing?” She asked, as he flipped the rug and moved their bags.

“There’s a fucking mouse!” He hissed, without looking back at her, continuing his rodent hunt.

“There’s a what?!” Ivy shrieked, clambering to her feet atop the mattress, clutching the sheets to her chest as if that would stop a pest.

“I felt a— mouse!” He cried, shooting back as the intruder made another appearance. His calves met the base of the bed. Still squealing, Ivy jumped forwards, dropping the sheet, and they collided, his back against her chest.

“Where did it go?” Ivy pleaded.

His back remained to her, but she could see his eyes searching as the fire cast one half of his face in light.

“I can’t see it,” he replied.

“Well fucking find it!” She cried, shoving her hands into his shoulder blades.

He spun around, catching her hips between his palms as she rocked forward at the sudden movement. “I think it’s probably gone. We’re not finding it.”

Ivy’s eyes continued flirting around the room a moment, before they fell to him.

With her stood on the edge of the mattress, and Ross on the floor, she was looking down at him for once. Her fingers flexed when she realised they were still planted on his shoulders, but her wrists were too heavy to relieve them.

It must have only been a few hours since they’d tried to sleep, and in the fire light, she could see the damp that still clung to him glisten. The broad palms on her burned through her borrowed thermals, more conspicuous in their stillness.

His eyes dropped to her lips for a second and Ivy felt a thrill jump up her spine. For moments, or minutes, or hours, they stayed fixed there. Her fighting to keep her breathing level, sure as she watched the ragged rise of his chest that he was losing the same battle. When their eyes met, she was sure of the almost imperceptible flicker of his fingers on her sides. He was closer now, somehow, their cores just touching, and Ivy prayed the traitorous pulse running from her chest to her groin was only obvious to her. His brows knit for a moment and the brief flit of his mouth stole her eyeline as she silently urged him to say whatever he was biting back. Her fingers lifted from one shoulder, just enough to brush a damp curl at the base of his neck. His eyes tore up to hers and she leaned in.

Something fell on the other side of the room, the soft thud jolting them apart.

“It’s still here,” Ivy whined, sucking in the cool air now between them.

“That’s probably a bit heavy to have been knocked over by a mouse,” Ross replied, as he crossed the floor and righted the offending water bottle, his brow cocked at her.

Ivy scowled at him, lifting the sheets again. His face fell when a rustle escaped from the last corner where Mickey had been seen.

“Mouse is plenty big enough to do that,” she whispered.

He murmured noncommittally, as Ivy settled back onto the bed. He slowly edged down onto a knee, and, even in the half-dark, she could see the doubt on his face.

Biting her cheek, she first hesitated, then with a groan, she threw her eyes to the ceiling and begged that this wasn’t as bad an idea as it felt.

“Just get in,” she said, flipping up the side of the quilt closest to him.

He spun around, taking in the open space.

“I don’t?—”

Ivy propped herself up on her elbows and shot him a look. “Ross. Just get in the bed.” Then she rolled over.

The following minutes dragged on as she listened to him dither, then slip under the covers, barely shifting the mattress as if she might have set a landmine within the sheets.

His attempts to go unnoticed were pointless. Heat flooded the bed immediately and Ivy fought to keep her breathing steady. She was rapidly losing her battle with the expired mattress, an old spring digging hard into her shoulder. When she gave in and rolled onto her back, she was all to aware of the small size of the bed.

Ivy heard his breath hitch when she rolled her shoulders and tried to will herself to sleep. She startled at the sound, and prayed he couldn’t sense the soar in her pulse. The small movement was followed by him lifting a hand to run over his face, and the rocking of the bed tilted Ivy’s chest imperceptibly toward him drawn into the vacuum between them. His hand fell back, and their little fingers caught in the middle.

For moments they stayed there, lightning shooting through Ivy’s arm into her chest. Just as it reached her voice, he beat her to it, as if having heard her lips part to speak and afraid of what that might do.

“I’m not scared of mice, for the record.”

She burst into laughter and moments later he joined her. The rich boom of his genuine laugh did nothing to quell the butterflies hammering within her chest, or the scorch tearing through her, starting at their still entwined fingers.

Eventually the laughter died off and silence flooded the small gap between them.

“Night, Ivy,” he murmured, lifting his hand away.

She caught her breath and frowned, drawing the abandoned hand back into herself. Turning over, she waited for the sun to come up.