Chapter 7 Ivy
IVY
I’m in the library, drinking an iced coffee and reorganizing my bookshelf by emotional vibe instead of genre.
The pounding of his feet against the frozen ground draws my attention to the trail behind my house.
He looks tense.
His stride is sharper. His shoulders are tight. Jaw is clenched like he’s arguing with someone who isn’t there.
When he disappears into the trees, I find myself frowning at the window.
Something’s off.
And I know exactly what will help.
I grab my coat, tug on my boots, and head out.
The woods are quiet, the air crisp, my breath puffing in little clouds as I follow the familiar path toward his house.
By the time I reach his backyard, the place is still and empty.
I slip around to the back patio—because I know the patio door is unlocked—and step inside like I’ve done this a hundred times instead of three.
The kitchen greets me with yesterday’s coffee cup in the sink and a dishwasher that’s full.
I smile to myself.
Don’t worry, Sebastian. I’ve got this.
I set to work immediately—unloading the dishwasher, rinsing dishes, moving with purpose.
I pull ingredients from the fridge, mentally mapping out a dinner that’s hearty without being heavy. Comforting. Grounding.
Chicken. Potatoes. Roasted vegetables.
Simple. Reliable.
By the time everything’s in the oven, I’m humming softly and wiping down the counters when I hear the back door open.
Sebastian freezes in the doorway, eyes wide like he’s walked into the wrong house.
“Jesus, Ivy,” he says. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Making dinner,” I reply easily, glancing at the timer. “It’ll be ready in ten minutes. Enough time for you to shower and change.”
His mouth opens. Closes. He rubs the back of his neck. Then sighs.
“Ivy, we really need to talk about boundaries.”
I tilt my head. “Oh, I don’t like that word.” I shudder. “It sounds…” I tap my foot, searching for the right word.
“True.”
“No,” I say, patting his shoulder as I pass him, grabbing the table runner I brought over. “Formal.”
When I’m finished, I smile up at him. “Go shower. We’ll talk about what’s bothering you later.”
He stares at me like I’ve just rewritten the laws of physics.
Then—still baffled—he turns and heads upstairs.
I almost giggle. Poor man has no idea what hit him.
I hum as I check the food, then set two plates on the table, silverware neatly aligned. I’m finishing up when I hear footsteps again.
Sebastian reappears, hair damp from the shower, a shirt slung over his shoulder like he was in too much of a hurry to put it on.
I forget how to breathe as I stare at his bare chest. And the way water droplets still cling to his skin.
The oven timer beeps, saving me from myself.
“You’re just in time,” I say brightly, pulling the chicken out.
“Ivy,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. You don’t need to do this.”
I glance at him as I scoop food onto his plate. “I don’t mind.”
“No,” he says carefully. “That’s not what I mean.”
I carry the dish to the table, then grab two glasses. “Sit. I’ll get you an iced tea.”
He sits, but I can feel his eyes on me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with too many pieces.
“Ivy,” he says again, slower now. “I really appreciate this. But I don’t think you should be doing this.”
I set his glass down and take my seat. “We’re friends, right?”
He blinks.
“Acquaintances,” he corrects stiffly.
“Sure,” I say lightly. “I guess we’re not friends until we’ve shared our darkest secrets.”
He rubs his forehead. “That’s not—”
“I like doing this,” I admit, my voice wobbling just a little. I steady it. “It gets me out of the house. Gives me something to do.”
My eyes meet his. “Someone to take care of.”
Something shifts in his expression. Sympathy flickers in his dark eyes before he masks it.
“I understand needing distraction,” he says carefully. “But aren’t there other hobbies—”
“I don’t consider you a hobby,” I say gently. “I consider you a man who needs help. Who enjoys being taken care of… even if you don’t want to admit it.”
He shoves a bite of food into his mouth like he’s buying time.
Then his face changes. His expression shifts from awe to pure bliss as he chews.
Gotcha.
He swallows slowly, staring down at his plate like it betrayed him.
I smile to myself.
He’s going to give up this ridiculous idea that he doesn’t need me.
Because he does.
He just isn’t ready to admit it yet.