35. Ivy
IVY
I tell myself I’m not sitting on the couch with my hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea, staring at the door like it might open any second.
I tell myself I am just tired. That my body is heavy from the pregnancy, that my eyes are slow from too little sleep, that my mind is worn thin from too many thoughts and too few answers.
But the truth is simpler. I’m waiting for him.
For the sound of his key in the lock, the familiar rhythm of his footsteps in the hall, the way he fills a room without trying, just by existing in it.
I try to pretend I’m not, that I’ve found something compelling in the show flickering on the television, that I am perfectly content curled into this couch with my blanket and my half-eaten apple.
But every few seconds, I glance at the clock, and each time I do, my heart tumbles a little faster.
I tell myself he has every right to be late.
That the meeting with Claire was probably nothing. That I trust him.
But trust, I’ve learned, is a strange thing. It doesn’t always live in your chest where it should. Sometimes, it sinks into your stomach and curls there like a knot you cannot untie.
A gust of wind shivers against the windows, making the glass tremble faintly.
Outside, the city glows in fractured color, car lights reflecting off the slick streets, casting long, rippling shadows across the floor.
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders and lean my cheek against the pillow.
My body is warm, but my skin feels cold, as if some part of me already knows the answer to the question I have been too afraid to ask.
Is he coming back?
The thought echoes, and I press my fingers hard against my temple, as if I can drive it away by force.
I think of his hands. The way they steadied me when I was shaking.
The way he cupped my face when the world was falling apart.
I think of the way he kissed me after the trial.
As if I were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
And I wonder if I imagined it. If I imagined all of it.
Then I hear it.
The sound of keys. The soft, metallic jangle followed by the familiar click. The door creaks open, and a rush of wind spills in, swirling around my ankles like a whisper.
My heart lodges in my throat.
I sit up, the blanket falling away from my shoulders, forgotten. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I just watch as the door opens all the way and Ethan steps inside.
His chest rises and falls like he ran the last few blocks, hair slightly damp, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.
He is windblown, breathless, and utterly beautiful.
There is snow clinging to his shoulders, melting in streaks down the collar of his coat.
He looks at me like I’m the sun breaking through storm clouds, like he hasn’t seen light in days and forgot how to look away from it.
His eyes are wide, and they find mine instantly, like he had been looking for me the entire time.
And then he moves.
I don’t have time to speak, to stand, to do anything before he’s in front of me, dropping to one knee.
It happens so quickly I almost don’t process it.
One moment, he is by the door, and the next, he is kneeling in front of me with his coat still on, his hair still wet, his eyes brighter than I have ever seen them.
My breath catches.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out. A small velvet box. He opens it, and inside is a ring so simple and stunning it makes my throat close up. A slender band. A single stone. Timeless.
“I love you,” he says.
The words land on my chest like a heartbeat.
His voice is low but certain. There’s no hesitation in it, only truth. “I think I’ve always loved you,” he says. “From the moment you stormed into the hospital with that fire in your eyes and refused to let me look away.”
Tears fill my eyes.
He keeps going, his voice thick but unwavering.
“I’m done fighting it. I don’t want to spend another second pretending like I can live without you.
Because I can’t. And I don’t want to. I don’t care what we’ve been through.
I don’t care that we broke in places we thought couldn’t heal. I care that we found our way back.”
I cover my mouth with one hand, the other pressed to the center of my chest where something soft and trembling is beginning to unfurl.
“I know I’ve made mistakes,” he says. “And I know you’re scared. But if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m not going anywhere. That you and our baby are my family now.”
He lifts the box.
The ring glints in the low light. Pure and delicate. A promise made visible.
“Marry me, Ivy.”
The room tilts.
I blink and realize I’m crying. The tears stream down without warning, hot and full, but not heavy. They are not the tears of heartbreak or confusion. They are something else. Something like joy. Something like home.
I don’t need to think.
I don’t need to run through every mistake we made or every scar we earned. I don’t need to weigh the past against the future. Because everything I need is kneeling in front of me, holding out a ring with shaking hands and eyes full of love.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Then louder, stronger. “Yes.”
Ethan exhales hard, his shoulders sagging in relief, and then he’s reaching for me, standing and pulling me into his arms before I can blink again.
I rise into him without hesitation, my arms wrapping around his neck, the box tumbling forgotten onto the couch.
His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is deep and full of everything we have never quite said right, everything we have always meant.
His hands slide into my hair, his breath warm against my cheek, and I sink into the safety of it. Into the truth of it.
He kisses me like he’s sealing a promise. And maybe he is.
Because this is not a beginning. Not really.
This is a return.
When we break apart, his forehead leans against mine, and I feel his breath fan across my skin.
“I was going to wait,” he murmurs, voice raw. “Make it special. I even stopped to pick up flowers. But I couldn’t. I just needed to see you.”
I pull back just enough to look at him, to really look.
“You didn’t need flowers,” I whisper.
His eyes shine. “You said yes.”
“I meant it.”
He laughs, almost breathless with relief. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to leave until you did.”
I smile through the tears and press my hand against his chest, right over his heart. It pounds beneath my fingers, wild and real and strong.
The ring is still in the box. I pick it up with shaking hands, and he takes it gently, sliding it onto my finger like he was always meant to do it.
It fits perfectly.
“I want you to know something,” he says quietly, his voice a shade softer now. “Claire didn’t matter. I saw her. We talked. But the entire time, I was just waiting to get back here. Back to you.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses the inside of my wrist. “There’s no one else. There never was.”
We stand in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around each other, the scent of melting snow and eucalyptus candles drifting between us.
I don’t remember when the television turned off.
I don’t remember setting the mug down. All I know is this.
Him. Me. The ring on my finger. The beat of our hearts.
I tilt my face up to his. “I love you,” I say. “I love you so much, Ethan.”
His eyes darken with emotion. “Come here.”
And then his lips find mine again, hands curving around my hips, mouth tracing the edge of my jaw. I melt into him, every part of me responding like I’ve been waiting for this, like my body knew he would come home.
He lifts me gently, hands cradling my thighs as I wrap around him, his breath catching as he carries me toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine. He pushes the door open with his shoulder and my breath leaves my mouth in a moan as he sits me down at the edge of a vanity.
He tears my panties clean off with one brutal rip, the sound splitting the air like a promise.
His grip is rough, almost punishing, as he spreads me open on the edge of the table, shoving my knees apart without asking, without hesitating, like he owns every inch of my body—and I let him. I want him to.
Then he’s inside me.
No warning. No patience. Just the thick, brutal stretch of him filling me in one hard thrust that makes me cry out, loud and broken.
"That’s it," he growls against my ear, his cock buried deep, grinding into a place that makes my vision blur. "Take it. Just like that. Fucking perfect."
I can't breathe. Can't think. I’m already shaking, my hands scrabbling at the edge of the table for something solid, something real, but he doesn’t stop.
He fucks me like he’s feral, hips snapping hard, each thrust hitting so deep it knocks sound from my lungs.
"Please," I sob, the word a filthy little prayer. "Please don’t stop, please—I need it, need you?—"
"You’ll take what I give you," he snarls, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my hip so tight I know it’ll bruise. "My good girl’s gonna come on my cock just like this. Ruined for anyone else."
"Yes," I choke out, shameless and breathless. "I’m yours—I want it, want all of it?—"
He laughs, low and dark, then pulls out just enough to make me whimper before slamming back in, so deep my eyes roll back.
"Filthy little thing," he mutters, dragging me up off the table, spinning me toward the mirror. "Look at you. Look at how cock-drunk you are."
I barely recognize myself—lips swollen, hair tangled, eyes wild with need. He bends me over, one hand between my shoulder blades to keep me in place as he slides back into me from behind, harder now, relentless.