Chapter 16 Ivy
IVY
I climb over the railing just before sunset, landing lightly on the wooden boards. The door slides open easily.
Drew is on the couch, his laptop balanced on his knees, his attention fixed on the screen. He doesn’t hear me at first.
“Hello, Drew.”
He jumps. The laptop slides off his lap and thumps onto the couch beside him as he scrambles upright, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.
“I really need to start wearing a bell,” I add thoughtfully. “For your heart health.” I smile and lift the bag in my hand. “I brought stuff for dinner.”
“You—you can’t just—” He stops himself and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean. Hi.”
I stroll inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, slipping off my shoes and heading straight for the kitchen.
Drew follows, clearly torn between fleeing and supervising. “You really don’t have to do this,” he says as I unload the bag onto the counter.
I glance at him over my shoulder. “I know, silly. I want to.”
Setting my bag on the table, I pull out the vegetables and a bag of potatoes. Then I turn, open the refrigerator, take out the steaks I know Sebastian has, set them on a plate, and hum softly as I reach for the seasoning.
“I always use this brand for Sebastian,” I tell Drew, sprinkling it evenly over the meat. “It’s his favorite. I hope you like it too.”
“Yes—yes, it’s fine,” Drew says quickly. “But—”
I turn to the cutting board and start chopping the onion I brought, the knife moving quickly and efficiently.
He goes quiet.
I feel his eyes on my hands.
“What is it, Drew?” I ask, lifting my eyes.
“That looks… good,” he says, though his eyes never leave the knife.
I stop chopping.
“I don’t think that’s what you were going to say,” I tell him gently. “And don’t worry about the knife.”
His shoulders tense.
“I won’t hurt you.” I give him a reassuring smile. “I took a cooking class.”
He nods, but the doubt lingers as I resume chopping.
“My mom loved to cook,” I say. “It’s one of the only things she never let the staff do.”
“That’s sweet,” he says. “She sounds amazing.”
“Yes, she was.”
His brow furrows. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I nod. “Me, too. I miss her a lot.” I finish chopping the onion. “The house feels empty without her.” At Drew’s curious look, I say, “I still live at home. My dad didn’t handle her death well. And now... well, he’s improved. But he travels a lot. So I stay there.”
I move on to the potatoes, slicing them thin and arranging them on a baking tray. I scatter bits of onion and seasoning over them, then slide the tray into the oven.
Next, I pull out the vegetables and rinse them off. Carrots. Broccoli. Cauliflower.
“Oh,” Drew says. “Sebastian hates broccoli.”
I smile at him over my shoulder. “He used to. Then I started mixing it with carrots and cauliflower. A little seasoning.” I glance at him. “He loves it now.”
“Stockholm syndrome,” Drew mutters.
“Exposure therapy,” I correct.
Drew snorts despite himself. “That tracks.”
I start chopping the carrots, then the broccoli, then the cauliflower, moving with practiced ease.
We continue chatting while I work. The conversation moves to Drew’s job, his marriage ending, and how he hated living in the city, but did it for her. He relaxes without noticing he’s doing it—leaning against the counter, laughing softly when I tease him about his reflexes.
By the time the front door opens, we’re laughing like old friends.
Sebastian steps inside, jacket slung over his shoulder, taking in the scene in a single, assessing glance. His expression stays neutral.
He crosses to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. He twists the cap slowly, like he’s giving himself an extra second to recalibrate.
“Smells good,” he says, nodding at the oven.
“Thank you,” I reply, keeping my tone light as I turn the steak in the pan.
He nods once, like this information has been filed away, then leans back against the counter—arms folded, posture contained.
Drew clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. It smells great.”
Sebastian glances at him. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” Drew says quickly.
“Good.” Sebastian takes another sip of water. His gaze flicks back to me—brief, measured. “Thanks for cooking.”
“Of course.” I finish cooking and begin plating their food. “I can head out if you want,” I add casually. Like I haven’t already rearranged my evening around him.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, I hear the scrape of a chair as Drew shifts behind us, the subtle pause that tells me he’s noticed the change in the air, even if he doesn’t understand it.
Sebastian clears his throat. “You can stay.”
Drew looks between us, brows lifting like he’s witnessing something he hadn’t expected either.
I smile, slow and pleased. “Okay,” I say, moving toward them with the plates. After setting them down, I return to the stove and fix myself a smaller plate.
When I return to the table, Sebastian pulls out a chair at the table and gestures for me to sit.
I observe him as I grab my silverware.
He’s not pushing me away.
But he’s not pulling me closer, either.
And I can work with that.