17. Ivy
IVY
T he city rises before us in quiet defiance of everything I thought I could outrun, its skyline drawn in silver and glass, a sharp contrast to the soft hush of the cabin where time had folded in on itself and nothing had felt dangerous except for how deeply I wanted to stay.
Now, as we cross into its heart again, I can feel the old weight settling back on my chest, not sharp or sudden, but steady and heavy and impossible to ignore, like armor I thought I had shed but never truly left behind.
Ethan drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting against his thigh, his posture calm, controlled, perfectly composed, but I know him well enough now to see the subtle tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze flickers toward me every so often even though he never speaks.
The silence between us is built on everything we did not say when we left that cabin, everything I am too afraid to say now, because the truth is still tangled somewhere deep in my chest and I cannot tell yet whether it would save us or ruin everything.
He pulls up in front of my rental without ceremony, without a word, just the quiet droning of the engine and the subtle tension in the air that says he knows I am slipping again and he is waiting to see if I will come back.
I reach for the seatbelt, fingers fumbling slightly even though I try to keep them steady, and when I open the door and step out into the street, the city air hits me in a wave of sound and smog and memory so thick it wraps around me like something alive.
I close my eyes for a moment, just one breath, and then he is there beside me.
He says nothing as he walks with me to the door, and I am grateful for the silence, because anything he said right now would only deepen the ache building inside me.
When we reach the house, I hesitate, not because I am unsure of where to go but because I can feel the pull of him behind me, steady and quiet, and I am terrified that if I turn around and look at him for too long, I will unravel. But I do it anyway.
And he is already watching me.
There is something in his eyes I cannot name, something patient and sure and impossible to ignore, and before I can think of a single excuse or explanation, he steps forward and draws me gently into his arms. His hands are warm against my back, and the press of his lips against my forehead is so tender it nearly undoes me.
He does not ask for anything, does not demand a response or offer promises I am not ready to hold, only lets the silence settle around us in a way that feels like permission instead of pressure.
“You can take your space,” he says softly, the words spoken like a promise and a warning all at once, “but you are going to have to get used to my being around.”
I close my eyes again, and this time the ache that blooms behind them is softer, more like longing than fear.
I should say something, should tell him this isn’t the right time, that we are both still too bruised to build anything lasting, but the words don’t come, and when I finally manage to meet his gaze again, all I can do is nod.
A small smile tugs at the edge of my lips, the kind that isn’t really about happiness but more about the way a heart softens when it realizes it is not alone.
I do not tell him to stay. I do not ask him to leave.
I simply turn and walk to the door, and when it closes behind me, I’m left with the weight of his voice still lingering in the space between my shoulders.
The house is cold and still when I step inside, the air holding the kind of quiet that only exists in places that have been left behind too long.
I let my bag fall to the floor, peel off my coat with numb fingers, and make my way to the bedroom without turning on any lights.
Everything is just as I left it, a little messier around the edges, a little emptier, and as I curl into the bed and let the scent of him on the sheets wash over me, something inside me finally begins to slow.
The dreams come quickly this time, no resistance, no fog, just heat and skin and the memory of Ethan’s mouth against mine, the way his hands knew how to find the places no one else ever thought to touch, the way he looked at me like I was not something broken but something worth holding anyway.
In the dream, he is beneath me, around me, inside me, our bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the world shrinking to the sound of his voice in my ear, low and reverent and so full of want it steals my breath.
He kisses me like he owns every secret I’ve ever kept, like he knows exactly how to unmake me and still chooses to piece me back together, and when I come in the dream, it is with his name on my lips and his hand in mine, grounding me to a reality I don’t know how to reach when I am awake.
And when I wake, heart pounding and thighs damp, I know exactly who I was dreaming of.
It was never Daniel.
It was always Ethan.
The light is soft when I wake, not the dull gray I’ve come to expect from the city in winter, but something warmer, something closer to gold, the kind that filters gently through the blinds and brushes across my skin like an unspoken promise.
For a moment, I lie still beneath the covers, curled around the faint ache that lingers behind my ribs, not from pain but from something quieter, something heavier and sweeter, something that feels almost like longing but doesn’t sting the way it used to.
The phone buzzes on the nightstand, sharp against the hush of the morning, and when I reach for it, eyes still heavy, I see his name on the screen and something inside me lifts before I can stop it.
The message is short, not in length but in breath—it fills the room as if he’s standing here saying the words himself.
Morning, beautiful.
You moan my name in your sleep. Not complaining. Just wanted you to know. Also, I hope you’re eating something that isn’t just peppermint bark today. Or I’ll come over and hand-feed you something decent. Shirtless. Your call.
My laugh comes out before I can swallow it back, small and surprised, and maybe a little giddy, because the effect he has on me hasn’t dulled, hasn’t faded, and no matter how complicated the rest of it is, this moment is light and easy and bright.
I sit up slowly, stretching, one hand drifting down to my belly with the kind of unconscious tenderness I didn’t used to have, not when the idea of motherhood still felt like a concept I was trying to grasp instead of a reality blooming inside me day by day.
But now, I can feel it—the slight change in shape, the gentle shift of weight when I move too quickly, the way my body is no longer mine alone.
There’s something profoundly intimate about that, a quiet bond forming in the background of everything else, and this morning, for reasons I can’t name, it feels more like a gift than a burden.
“Hey,” I whisper, palm spread gently over the curve of my lower stomach. “You and me, kid. We’ve got this.”
The kettle whistles in the kitchen while I brush my hair into a loose braid, the scent of vanilla and clove tea wrapping around me as I move through the motions of the morning, grounding myself in small rituals that make the world feel gentler.
There’s a sudden buoyancy in my chest, something light and fizzy, like hope dressed in caffeine, and by the time I finish my toast and pour the last of the tea into a travel mug, I’m already pulling out my phone again.
Cassie answers on the second ring, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that she’s still wrapped in fleece and attitude.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty herself. What’s got you calling before noon on a weekend?”
“I need a girls’ day,” I say, tugging on my coat with one hand while grabbing my bag with the other. “Baby stuff. Cozy shops. Flattering lighting. You in?”
There’s a pause, followed by the sound of her shoving off whatever couch she was burrowed into. “I’m wearing my softest jeans as we speak. Pick me up in twenty?”
We drive into Valleria’s old quarter where the sidewalks are narrow, uneven in places, but dressed now in pine garlands and red ribbons that sway in the cold breeze like the town has taken a deep breath and decided to be beautiful again.
The storefronts glow with pre-Christmas charm, windows dusted in faux frost and filled with paper stars, hand-knit baby hats, miniature rocking horses, and shelves lined with honey and pressed lavender soaps.
Cassie drags me into a boutique filled with muted pastels and impossibly soft fabrics, and the moment I run my fingers along the hem of a tiny onesie shaped like a gingerbread man, something inside me cracks wide open.
I press it gently to my chest, already imagining what it will look like against a sleeping cheek, and Cassie must see the way I blink too fast because she wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes.
“You’re going to be such a good mom,” she says, and I believe her, not because I’m certain but because she says it like it’s already true.
We wander for hours, sipping cider from paper cups and stopping to admire every little knitted cap and swaddling blanket.
I let her talk me into buying a pair of ridiculously tiny booties shaped like snow bears and a blanket so soft it feels like a hug, and by the time we settle into a quiet café tucked between an antiques bookshop and a toy store, my arms are full and my heart is lighter than it’s been in weeks.
Cassie stirs her coffee slowly, watching me with that half-smile she reserves for the moments she knows she’s about to drop a question I won’t want to answer.
“So,” she says, casually enough to make me wary, “where are you planning to be once the baby comes?”