Chapter 14
IVY
Iwake up already tense.
Even tangled in luxurious sheets, there’s an immediate, creeping unease that slides through me the second my eyes open. For a brief, disorienting moment, I forget how I got here at all.
The room is too quiet.
No traffic. No voices. No distant clatter from neighbors or the street below. Just a thick, unnatural silence that presses in on me from all sides.
I realize I’m scanning for the sound of the espresso machine, which I don’t find.
Then I feel it.
Warmth.
Close.
Soren.
He’s beside me—not touching, not quite—but near enough that the heat of him settles against my skin in a way that feels deliberate. Measured.
I don’t move. I just lie there and look at him.
He’s on his back, one arm thrown above his head, chest rising in slow, even breaths. The tattoos curling out from beneath his shirt shift with the movement—dark lines stretching and contracting, controlled even in rest, like everything else about him.
He looks untouched, like nothing ever happens to him.
Only things he allows.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
My gaze drifts over his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the faint scar there. I hadn’t noticed the one at this throat before, partially hidden beneath ink. Up close like this, they feel less like imperfections and more like markers. History I don’t yet know.
I try to recall whether he had them back in college, but our meeting was so fleeting that I have no idea. And it’s not like they’re something he’d post about on Facebook. In fact, he barely posts at all, except for those spiders.
I have the sudden urge to reach out. To touch. To follow one of these lines with my fingertip and see if he reacts.
I don’t.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
It’s different, seeing him like this—there’s something almost vulnerable about it. I like that more than I should.
Heat builds in me.
I don’t know how long I watch him before his eyes open.
There’s no transition. He’s not groggy, doesn’t take his time to rouse. He’s focused from the jump.
Like he was already aware of me. Like he felt me looking.
“Morning, Ivy.”
My throat tightens. “Morning.”
His gaze moves slowly over my face, unhurried, taking me in like there’s no rush and nowhere else he needs to be. Then his hand lifts, sliding into my hair with an ease that feels practiced. Familiar.
My body stills.
His fingers thread through the strands, then drift down, his thumb brushing along my jaw, settling lightly against my cheek.
Testing.
I don’t move.
And something shifts in his expression when I don’t. “You slept well,” he murmurs.
The way he says it lands strangely. Like I did something right.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
His mouth curves, just slightly. Satisfied.
And for a fleeting, uncomfortable second, something in my chest lifts in response—something dangerously close to pride.
Jesus, Ivy. Get it together. Your people-pleasing is officially out of hand.
“Good.” He sits up, the sheets sliding down his waist, and I look away too quickly.
Not out of modesty or not wanting to see—because I most definitely do want to inspect more closely—but because I don’t know what I’m allowed to look at.
He notices.
A quiet laugh escapes him. “You do that thing,” he says.
“What thing?”
“Where you try to disappear.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m not—”
“You are.” There’s no argument in his tone. Just certainty.
He stands, completely unbothered by his state of partial undress. His boxer briefs allow a strong outline of what’s inside, which is impossible to miss. And he’s not completely soft—that much I can tell.
But he doesn’t cover himself. Doesn’t hesitate. Just moves through the room like his body is another extension of the space.
I try not to look, but I do anyway. The broad line of his shoulders beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt, the definition underneath it, the way his strength shows without effort.
It’s not the sculpted perfection of someone obsessed with the gym.
It’s something else.
Something functional.
Real.
A flicker of heat moves through me before I can stop it.
He pauses at the doorway, glancing back. “Stay.”
The word lands immediately.
Clean. Final. Not a suggestion.
There are a dozen ways I could interpret it. Another dozen ways I could push back.
I don’t ask.
He disappears into the bathroom. The door shuts. A moment later, the shower turns on, the sound of water filling the silence.
And I don’t move.
I should get up. Get dressed. Do something.
But I don’t.
Because he said stay.
And something in me listens.
I hate that it does.
I hate how familiar it feels.
The water runs in the other room, steady and loud, and my mind drifts despite myself. It’s too easy to picture him under it—steam curling around his body, water sliding over inked skin I’ve already started mapping in my head.
Heat gathers low in my stomach, building between my thighs so rapidly I have to squeeze them together, trying to ground myself.
Get a grip, Ivy, you giant perv.
As I sit there, wrapped in his sheets, wearing his shirt, surrounded by his space, I feel it happening.
The shift.
Where I stop deciding.
Quiet. Subtle.
When the water shuts off, I force myself to move.
I feel awkward sitting here, waiting for instructions. Wearing his T-shirt, as cozy and comforting as that is.
I push back the covers, standing quickly, almost abruptly, like I’m trying to outrun the feeling.
I change into my own clothes, somehow reclaiming my body.
Even if none of it feels entirely like mine.
The living room is just as silent when I step into it. Just as controlled. Nothing askew or overly soft. Nothing accidental.
It doesn’t feel lived in.
It feels curated.
Like everything here exists because he decided it should.
I hear the bathroom door open. A few moments later, Soren walks out, hair damp, skin still warm from the shower, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
He looks at me.
Not surprised that I got up.
No question.
Just a single nod. “Okay.”
My chest tightens. “Okay what?”
He steps closer. “You look like shit,” he says calmly. “Still the most gorgeous woman on the planet—but for you? Like shit.”
My breath catches. “That’s some wild backhanded compliment. And I’m fine.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’ve just said something mildly incorrect. “You’re not,” he says. “You need more quality sleep. I’ll make sure you get it.”
It lands like fact. Like my opinion doesn’t factor in.
He ushers me through the living room and into the kitchen.
The shift in space is immediate. Where the rest of the apartment is controlled, this feels even more precise. Clinical almost. Every surface gleams. Every line is clean. Stainless steel, marble, glass—nothing soft, nothing out of place.
It looks less like a kitchen and more like somewhere something is executed perfectly every time. Everything is professional-grade, from the double oven to the huge fridge-freezer that looks like it could fit multiple bodies.
There are separate prep zones, and when he touches a couple of panels, they spring open to reveal more top-of-the-line appliances.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning slowly. “I didn’t realize you liked to cook.”
He glances at me, a small, knowing curve to his mouth. “I do,” he says. “When I have someone to cook for.”
Something tightens low in my stomach.
I picture it without meaning to—another female standing where I am, sitting where I’ll sit, being guided through this space the same way I am now. The thought lands sharp.
I wonder how many women he’s brought into this space before me. The thought makes me feel sick.
Then he turns away, already moving. “Sit.” A command, not an option.
I hesitate, just for a second.
Long enough for him to notice.
He looks back.
Waits.
The stool is cold beneath my legs, grounding in a way the rest of this place isn’t.
Soren moves through the kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times. Fridge open. Pan out. Flame lit. Everything happens quickly, efficiently, with no wasted motion. No pauses. No uncertainty.
I catch glimpses as he opens cupboards, and everything in there seems well-organized as well.
Clearly labeled in matching Tupperware containers.
Lined up neatly like little plastic soldiers full of exotic flours and grains.
Probably alphabetized or color-coded or following some kind of pattern I can’t see from my seat.
He doesn’t ask what I want.
Doesn’t ask if I’m hungry.
Doesn’t ask anything at all.
He just starts cooking.
Like feeding me was already decided.
I watch him for a moment, trying to make sense of it.
He has no idea of my breakfast preferences. Whether I’m more of a French toast or scrambled eggs girl. If I can endure cooked onions in an omelet. But that doesn’t seem to matter, because he doesn’t ask.
And then it hits me that this isn’t just about breakfast.
Or maybe it is just breakfast and I’m overthinking.
When a guest stays over, it’s normal—hospitable—to cook for them. People do this all the time.
Right?
Jeez, get it together, Ivy.
He cracks eggs into a bowl, the sharp sound echoing softly in the quiet space. Whisks them with practiced ease. Adds cream. A pinch of salt—the fancy, flaky kind. Something green I don’t recognize.
The smell hits quickly.
Warm. Rich. Comforting.
My stomach tightens—not just with hunger, but with something deeper.
Because it feels good.
And I don’t trust anything that feels good anymore.
“You drink coffee?” he asks, not turning.
I nod. “Yeah.”
A quiet huff of amusement leaves him. “Of course you do.”
“What does that mean?”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking over me like he’s reading something I can’t see. “It means you’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline,” he says, “and calling it functioning.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”
“Sure.” The word lands lightly. Dismissive without needing to be.
He pours coffee—black—and slides it toward me.
Then plates the food, setting it in front of me with the same quiet precision.
It’s perfect.
Too perfect.
The kind of plating you see in a Michelin-starred restaurant, where everything is intentional, where even the placement of a garnish means something.
Like he wants me to notice.
Like he wants me to understand something I can’t quite name.
“Eat.”
I pick up the fork.
My hand shakes. Just slightly, but enough.
He sees it immediately. His gaze sharpens, narrowing just a fraction. “Why are you shaking?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” A beat. He steps closer—not touching, just entering my space. Close enough that I feel it. The shift in the air. The awareness of him. “You’re safe here,” he says.
The word lands wrong.
Not because it’s unkind. Because it’s something he controls.
I take a bite.
The food is incredible. Soft, rich, perfectly balanced. My body reacts instantly, hunger rising fast and sharp, like I didn’t realize how empty I was until now.
Soren watches me.
And there it is again—that look.
Not outright pride or satisfaction.
Something quieter. Like something has settled into place exactly the way he expected it to. “There,” he murmurs.
Like he fixed something.
I reach for my coffee.
His hand closes over mine before I can lift it.
I blink. “What—”
He takes the cup instead, bringing it to his lips. Takes a sip. Makes a face. “You actually drink this?”
“It’s coffee.”
“No,” he says, already turning away. “It’s punishment.”
He moves to the counter, adding cream. Sugar. Stirring without asking, without checking.
Like he already knows.
“Try it.”
“I don’t like sweet—”
“You do now.” The words land clean. Certain.
Something tightens in my chest.
Because I’ve heard that tone before.
Not about coffee.
About everything.
I take a sip.
It’s better.
Of course it is.
And I hate that it is.
Because now he’s right about something I was sure about five seconds ago—or so I thought—and he just…changed it.
Something small, still mine—or, at least I thought it was.
Soren watches my face, tracking the shift like it matters. “Better,” he says softly.
My throat tightens.
He steps behind me, his presence settling at my back before I fully register it. His hand finds the nape of my neck—warm, steady, not squeezing, but not light either.
His thumb presses just enough to be felt.
A reminder he’s here.
Then he leans down, pressing a brief kiss to the side of my head—casual, familiar. Like a habit he hasn’t formed yet, but intends to. “I’m going to take care of you while you’re here, Ivy,” he murmurs. “So well you’re not going to want to leave.”
The words slide under my skin.
They should be comforting.
Protective.
Safe.
And they do serve that purpose—to a point.
But there’s something else underneath them. Something quieter. Heavier.
Like something settling around me. So gradual I didn't notice until it was already set.
Take care of you.
As if I can’t do that for myself.
As if the decision isn’t mine anymore.
His hand lingers for a moment, then disappears.
Like he’s already done enough.
Like I should be grateful.
I take another bite.
And another.
And the worst part is, I am grateful.
Because it’s been so long since anyone has looked at me like I matter.
Even if the way he’s looking at me now feels less like care—
and more like ownership.