Chapter 37 Ivy
IVY
I glance at the clock. It’s eleven fifteen.
I’m in the kitchen when Drew comes in, shrugging off his jacket like it weighs twice what it should. His tie is loose, his hair a mess, his expression worn thin in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Please tell me you have caffeine,” he says, his voice hoarse.
I gesture toward the counter. “Fresh pot. Not the poison you tried to drink this morning.”
He exhales like I’ve offered him salvation. “You’re officially my favorite person.”
He pours himself a mug and leans against the counter, eyes closing as he takes the first sip. “God. Divorce lawyers should come with a warning label.”
I smile softly. “That bad?”
“The worst,” he says. “And expensive. Which somehow makes it worse.”
We fall into easy conversation after that. Drew’s hatred for the city. The emotionless attorney. The endless paperwork. The strange grief of ending something you knew was broken long before it shattered.
I listen and nod, offering sympathy and quiet humor where it fits.
The house feels comfortable again. Familiar. Safe.
Drew takes another sip of coffee, then studies me over the rim of the mug.
“You know…” he says slowly, “I still can’t believe he brought you here.”
I blink. “What?”
He lowers the mug. “Sebastian. This house. You.”
There’s no accusation in his tone. Just disbelief. Almost awe.
“He’s always been… private,” Drew continues. “But this?” He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “This is a whole new level.”
I lean back against the counter, curiosity replacing my easy calm. “Private how?”
Drew huffs a short laugh. “Okay. So. Story time.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, eyes going distant. “When we were kids, no one went into Sebastian’s bedroom. Ever.”
I frown slightly. “Like… parents’ rule?”
“No,” he says immediately. “His door was always locked. Even from me. Especially from me.”
That surprises me.
“When he wasn’t home,” Drew continues, “that door stayed shut. He’d know if someone went in. He could tell if things were moved.”
My stomach tightens, uncomfortably warm.
“As a teenager, it got worse,” Drew adds. “He’d reorganize everything before leaving. Like he needed the space to stay exactly how he left it.”
I think of Sebastian’s bed. The way he meticulously makes it every morning.
Drew shakes his head. “When he got his first apartment, I thought maybe he’d loosen up. You know, the freedom of adult life.” He lets out a humorless snort. “Nope. Even fewer people were allowed inside.”
“How few?” I ask quietly.
“Just me,” he says. “And Marcus. But definitely no women.”
That lands hard.
“No dates?” I ask.
“Plenty of dates,” Drew says. “He just… didn’t bring them home. He didn’t do sleepovers. No one stayed. Not even me.” He takes a drink of his coffee. “Not that I wanted to stay over. I was married.”
I absently nod. My mind flickers through images without permission.
Drew watches my face carefully. “So when you two came downstairs holding hands...” He exhales. “Yeah. That was new.”
I swallow. Something warm and fierce coils low in my chest.
Drew straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s said more than he intended. “Anyway. I just figured you should know. In case you ever wonder where you stand.”
I meet his gaze. “I don’t wonder.”
He smiles faintly. “Good.”
A faint scraping sound comes from outside. We glance toward the window, but neither of us sees anything.
I look back at Drew.
He shrugs. “Probably Mrs. Kline’s landscaper. Or that kid who cuts through yards.”
I let it go.
It’s probably nothing.
We talk a little longer about his marriage and what went wrong. Time slides by in that easy way it does when you feel grounded.
Eventually, Drew glances at his phone and grimaces. “I’ve gotta run an errand before rush hour turns the roads into a parking lot.”
I nod, walking him to the door.
When the front door closes again, the quiet returns, but softer this time.
I go back into the kitchen, absently tidying. That’s when I notice it. The back door isn’t fully latched.
I stare at it for a moment, trying to remember when I last touched it. Before Drew got home? After? I’m not sure.
A chill creeps up my spine.
I move to it, closing and locking it, listening to the click echo through the house.
I stand there for another second, my hand still resting on the lock.
If I tell Sebastian about the door, he won’t ask questions. He’ll act.
Besides, maybe I left it ajar. I’m not immune to mistakes, no matter how much I want to be.
Mr. Pickles was agitated by a bird on the deck earlier. I picked the cat up and set him on the couch, then opened the door and shooed the blackbird away. Wings flapped before it took off toward the woods.
I hurried back inside, the cold biting through my sweater. I didn’t check to make sure I latched the door.
I pivot toward Drew’s empty coffee mug and rinse it.
It doesn’t make sense to tell Sebastian.
Not until I have proof that something’s wrong.