Chapter 2
IVY
Ishouldn’t be here.
The thought arrives cleanly, without warning, settling somewhere low in my chest before I smooth over it with a smile that comes just as easily as everything else I don’t want to examine too closely.
Across the table, Soren tears a piece of bread in half with his hands, ignoring the knife entirely, and there’s something about the way he does it that pulls my attention in without asking for it.
It isn’t messy, and it isn’t careless. It’s deliberate in a way that feels instinctive, like he doesn’t see the point in doing something differently just because it’s expected.
He dips the bread into the oil, his fingers steady, unhurried, and when he brings it to his mouth, he actually tastes it. Not distracted and halfway somewhere else, but fully there in the moment, like nothing else exists for the second it takes him to take the bite.
His eyes close briefly. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”
Something in my stomach tightens—a small, unexpected reaction that I don’t immediately understand, because it isn’t about the food. It’s about the way he allows himself to experience something without filtering it first, without checking how it might look.
I blink, looking away for a second before I realize I’ve been watching him too closely.
Most men I’ve been around lately don’t react like that. They explain things, or they turn them into something performative, something slightly removed from the moment.
Soren doesn’t.
He just exists inside it.
“You always swear at food?” I ask, my tone light, even though my attention hasn’t fully shifted away from him.
“Only when it deserves it.” He says it like it’s obvious, like there’s no reason to soften it or make it more acceptable, and something about that lands deeper than it should. There’s no adjustment in him. No awareness of how he might be perceived.
Or maybe there is.
Maybe he just doesn’t care.
I take a sip of the wine I didn’t order and didn’t question, and the realization lands a beat too late, because I usually check. I usually know exactly what I’m agreeing to before I agree to it, even in small, inconsequential ways.
For some reason, I didn’t this time.
The glass is cool in my hand, the taste clean and dry, and I swallow before I can decide whether I should be more cautious.
I shouldn’t be here.
The thought returns, quieter now but heavier, threading through everything else instead of interrupting it.
Not because of him.
Because of how easily I got here.
Because of how quickly I said yes.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
I look up, and he’s already looking at me like he never stopped.
There’s something in the steadiness of his gaze that makes me more aware of myself in a way I wasn’t a second ago—of how I’m sitting, how I’m holding the glass, how much of me is visible across the table.
He doesn’t fill the silence after. Doesn’t soften the statement.
Just lets it sit between us.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
It’s true, but saying it now feels different than it did earlier, like the meaning has shifted slightly without me fully understanding how.
A few hours ago, this felt like an out.
Now it feels like something I’ve stepped into.
He nudges the plate toward me. “Try it.” His hand stays on the edge of the plate, his fingers resting there just long enough that I notice them before I look away. Before I can think too much about why I noticed them at all in the first place.
I hesitate.
It’s small, but it feels bigger than it should, like the moment stretches just slightly.
Like he sees it.
So I take the bread.
Because it’s easier than sitting in that pause and letting it turn into something I can’t name.
Our fingers don’t touch.
They could have.
But they don’t.
And somehow that feels more deliberate than if they had. Like the absence of contact is something he chose.
Something he’s controlling.
The food is good. Really good.
Warm, rich, simple in a way that feels grounding, and the first bite hits harder than I expect. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until my body reacts before I can control it, before I can keep everything held in the same tight place I’ve been keeping it.
My shoulders drop.
My breath shifts.
Something in me loosens.
“There you go,” he says.
I glance up. “What?”
“You’ve been tense since you sat down.”
His gaze doesn’t move away from me, and now that I’m aware of it, I can feel it more clearly—not just that he’s looking at me, but that he’s paying attention in a way that isn’t casual.
My hand subconsciously goes to my scalp, and I force myself to lower it to the table. “I have not.” The denial comes out automatically, but it feels thinner now, less convincing.
He gives a short, quiet laugh. “Okay.” But he doesn’t believe me.
And the worst part is, I know he shouldn’t.
“You okay?” he asks.
It sounds like a normal question, but he doesn’t move on after he says it. He stays there, watching me, waiting in a way that feels more intentional now that I’ve noticed it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just have a lot going on.”
His gaze shifts slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that I feel it move—taking me in, not just my face but everything else I haven’t consciously adjusted.
I become aware of it in a way that makes my skin feel a little warmer.
He nods. “Yeah. I figured.” A pause. “You needed to get out.”
Something tightens in my chest again, lower this time, sharper, and I look down at my hands, focusing on the glass because it’s easier than holding his gaze while he says things like that. “I mean… yeah.”
I don’t tell him about the apartment. Or the cameras. Or how small I’ve made myself just to keep things from escalating.
But he doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t need to.
He saw enough. Enough to reach out. Enough to say come here.
And I came.
That thought sits differently now.
“You’re here now,” he says.
Like that was always going to happen.
Like there was never another version of this.
I nod. “Yeah.”
I’m here.
He watches me for another second, and this time I don’t look away immediately.
I hold his gaze just a fraction longer than I should, and something shifts—subtle, but enough that I feel it.
Then he leans back slightly, like he’s made a decision and set it aside. “Eat,” he says. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in a while.”
I laugh softly. “That obvious?”
“Yeah.” There’s no hesitation, no softening, and instead of feeling exposed in a way that makes me pull back, I feel something else.
Seen.
I take another bite, slower this time, and I don’t stop the reaction when it comes.
I let my body settle into it, let the tension ease out in a way I’ve been holding back without realizing how much effort it takes.
And this time, I’m aware of him watching it happen.
Not just noticing.
Watching.
And I don’t stop it.
That’s the part that registers a second too late.
Across the table, his attention sharpens slightly, like he’s been waiting for that exact shift. Like he recognizes it for what it is.
And that—the way he sees it, the way he doesn’t look away, the way it feels like I’m being understood without having said anything—lands low in my chest, unfamiliar and difficult to ignore.
Not wrong.
Not uncomfortable as such.
But not neutral anymore.
And underneath everything else—quieter now but more certain than before—the thought returns.
I shouldn’t be this comfortable here.