Chapter 6 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I like routines. They keep things orderly. Predictable. Safe.
Or so I tell myself.
Since moving to Hollow Creek a month ago, I’ve established a routine. Morning run while not thinking about Ivy. Coffee. Shower. Work. Home. Sometimes another run if my thoughts get too loud. Pretend to watch TV while actively not thinking about Ivy Hart. Sleep. Repeat.
It’s been four days since I last saw her. Not that I’m counting.
This is what I wanted. Quiet. Distance. Normalcy.
So why does her absence feel like someone removed a background noise I didn’t realize I depended on?
I return from my run just before eight, my breath steady, muscles warm, mind unsettled. The late January air is damp and heavy, thick with the promise of snow.
I head inside, make coffee, then—on a whim—take the mug back outside instead of going straight for the shower.
I step onto the deck as the first flakes begin to fall, shivering as the cold bites through my shirt.
I take a sip and immediately regret it. I make a face, staring down at the mug like it personally betrayed me.
It’s awful.
Nothing like what I drink when I’m in the city for work. I swear the café near my office puts something illegal in theirs.
“I’m good at making coffee.” The voice comes from my left.
I choke and jump. Coffee sloshes everywhere as my heart attempts to escape through my ribs.
Ivy pops out from behind the shrubs beside my deck like she’s been summoned by the ghost of caffeine dissatisfaction.
I don’t remember planting an Ivy bush.
She swings one leg over the railing, then the other, completely unfazed by my near-death experience. She drops lightly onto the deck. The boards shake slightly.
“Ivy,” I manage once I stop choking, pressing a hand to my chest. “What are you doing?”
“I was out walking,” she says cheerfully, approaching like this is normal. Like she routinely emerges from foliage and climbs onto my property.
I’m completely paralyzed.
She strolls past me, opens the patio door, and walks inside.
I stare after her, mouth gaping like a fish.
My body finally reboots, and I follow, still holding the mug like evidence.
She’s already at the counter, dumping the remnants of the pot containing my sad excuse for coffee into the sink.
“What are you doing?” I ask faintly.
“You use good beans,” she says, starting a fresh pot as the machine gurgles to life. “But you’re missing the magic touch.”
I blink. “How do you know that?”
She glances over her shoulder and points at the bag beside the pot. “Your face. You looked like something was missing, but you weren’t sure what.”
I gape at her, unsure what to say to stop this... madness.
She shrugs, grabs a sponge, and wipes down my counter. “Don’t worry. It’ll be just the way you like it.”
I just stare at her.
Despite never having been in my house, she moves through my kitchen with a comfort level that short-circuits my brain.
“Trust me,” she says.
The unsettling thing?
I do.
I trust this woman who just emerged from my shrubs and took over my kitchen like she’s been doing it all week.
Which, unnervingly, might be true.
Probably not a good idea to trust your stalker.
Even if she is gorgeous.
“Ivy.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I appreciate this. Really. But you don’t have to—”
“I know,” she says lightly. “I want to.”
She turns to me with a smile, wearing the sweatshirt I gave her like it belongs on her.
Every coherent thought leaves my body.
“How’s work been going?” she asks, rinsing dishes and loading them into my dishwasher.
“Uh…”
Work. What’s work?
My brain feels like it’s been put in a blender. Ivy moves through my space with confidence—efficient, comfortable—like she belongs here. Like this is her routine, too.
She finally faces me, an expectant look on her face.
I just stare.
She’s standing there like a—
I swallow hard. Girlfriend flashes through my mind like a warning sign.
Panic slams into my chest.
I don’t do girlfriends.
“It’s fine,” I manage. “But Ivy, really. This is unnecessary. I can make my own coffee—”
She’s already pouring some into a mug and handing it to me. Her other hand pats my shoulder. “Go enjoy it on the deck. I’ll finish up in here.”
“You don’t need to—”
She waves me off and gently pushes my shoulder. “I’ve got it under control.”
Somehow, I end up back outside.
I watch through the glass as she finishes loading the dishwasher, then grabs a Swiffer and starts on the kitchen floor, humming softly.
I take a sip of the coffee—and groan.
It’s perfect. Bitter and sweet in the exact balance I like. Like Christmas morning in a mug.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Ivy followed me into the city and watched the barista make my coffee.
But that’s ridiculous.
She doesn’t drive.
I take another sip—and scald my tongue.
Shit. Did she have her driver drop her off just to follow me?
The burn barely registers. Or maybe I just don’t care.
When I look back inside, she’s folding the blanket I used on the couch last night. Still humming. Unhurried. Completely at ease.
Like she belongs there.
I shouldn’t like any of this. At all.
But I do.
God help me, I do.