Chapter 15
IVY
By the time we leave his apartment an hour or so later, I’m not moving on my own anymore.
I’m moving because he is.
Because he decided I would.
Soren doesn’t ask what I want to do today. He doesn’t ask if I want to rest. He doesn’t ask if I want to explore Ravelle on my own.
And that makes me feel a little resentful, and then a little guilty for feeling resentful.
Relax and go with the flow, Ivy. Be grateful for this moment.
He tosses me a light jacket. “Put this on,” he says, already holding it open.
I blink. “I’m fine.”
He pauses like I’ve interrupted something.
Then he smiles, his eyes flat. “You’ll be cold,” he says.
And because I’m tired of pushing back, because I’m still hungover on relief, because I don’t want to ruin whatever this is, I put it on. It smells like his cologne—cedar wood with a hint of smoke.
And as soon as I zip it up, I feel it. That subtle shift. Like I’ve just stepped into his territory.
Soren nods once, satisfied. Then he takes my hand. He doesn’t hesitate, and his grip isn’t gentle.
It’s more like it’s normal for him to do it—like it’s expected. Like we’ve always been this way, and it would be strange if I pulled away.
His fingers lace through mine as he leads me down the hallway and out of the building.
Outside, Ravelle is bright and loud and alive. Too loud, almost. Like it’s trying to drown something out.
The sky is a washed-out blue, the sun already warm on my skin. But there’s a grit behind it, like someone has inserted a grungy overlay.
I take a deep breath and for a moment, I almost feel normal. Like I’m just a woman on a weekend trip with a man who wanted to see her.
Like I’m not carrying a cracked nervous system inside my ribs. In my throat. In my chest. In my stomach. In every cell of my body, vibrating under my skin like a thousand angry dragonflies.
Soren opens the passenger door of his car for me, giving a wave to the valet who brought it to the front of the apartment building.
I hesitate before getting in, still not used to being handled like a ritual.
There’s a fine line between chivalry and control.
He watches my pause. “You think too much,” he says.
It sounds like reassurance, but it lands like instruction.
I slide into the seat.
Soren shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
When he starts the engine, he glances at me. “Phone,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He holds out his hand.
I stare at him. “What for?”
He exhales through his nose like I’m making something difficult that shouldn’t be. “You don’t need it,” he says.
My stomach tightens. I should say no. I should. But something in his tone makes my body react the way it always does when a man sounds certain enough.
I pause. Just for a moment.
Then I hand it over.
Soren tosses it into the center console and closes it with a soft click.
Then he smiles at me, satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Now we can have fun.”
He drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, like he owns the streets.
He doesn’t ask where I want to go first. He already knows.
We stop at a café that looks like it belongs in an influencer’s dream—white brick walls, whimsical plants hanging from the ceiling, chalkboard menus written in elegant cursive.
“This is cute,” I smile, trying to relax. Trying to lean into a day he’s clearly planned out carefully for me.
The barista lights up the moment Soren walks in. “Soren!”
Not sir. Not welcome.
Soren.
I bristle slightly at the familiarity. She’s pretty, and looks genuinely happy to see him.
He nods at her like he’s granting her the privilege of his presence.
I glance at the menu on the wall, but Soren doesn’t even look.
He doesn’t need to.
He just leans against the counter, casual and confident. “She’ll take an oat milk latte,” he says.
I blink. “I don’t—”
Soren turns his head slightly, eyebrows raised. A look. Not angry. More… corrective.
I stop. “Sure,” I say.
His mouth curves like he’s pleased. “Make her the good one,” he says.
The barista laughs like it’s a joke between them.
My stomach twists again.
“You got it.” She nods and starts making it.
Soren pays before I can even reach for my wallet. Then he guides me to a table by the window, his hand resting lightly at my lower back.
Possessive or protective. Maybe both.
We sit.
The latte arrives, perfectly foamed, cinnamon dusted on top.
Soren watches me take the first sip like he’s watching a performance.
I try to smile.
I take a sip, the frothy and warm liquid instantly providing comfort I didn’t know I needed. “It’s good,” I say.
He nods. “I know,” he replies.
And I feel that familiar flicker again. That subtle, invisible thing. Like my enjoyment is secondary.
We don’t linger long. Soren is already moving again. With a wave to the barista, we head out into the craziness.
We walk through streets lined with boutiques and restaurants and live music spilling out of open doors. Deeper in the alley, something shatters. No one looks.
Then a little shop where he insists I try on a leather jacket—black, of course. It’s butter-soft with distressed detailing, obviously custom-made, and it fits me perfectly.
He doesn’t ask if I want it. He just buys it.
“Soren,” I protest, my laugh soft. “You don’t have to do that.”
He looks at me like I’m ridiculous. “Of course I do,” he says. “You’re with me.”
The words hit harder than they should.
You’re with me.
I put the jacket on, because refusing would feel ungrateful.
And because the truth is, I like it. I like being treated like I matter. Being spoiled just a little.
Even if it doesn’t feel entirely like mine.
By late afternoon, my feet ache. My brain feels overloaded.
Soren hasn’t stopped moving. We haven’t sat down for more than ten minutes at a time.
I stop walking. Not on purpose. My body just hesitates.
He doesn’t ask why. He just turns back, takes my hand again— firmer this time—and keeps going, like stopping wasn’t an option.
And I realize, suddenly, that I haven’t made a single decision all day.
Not one.
Not what we ate. Not where we went. Not what I drank. Not what I wore. Not when we left. Not when we stayed. Not even when I checked my phone.
Because I didn’t.
Soren kept it in the console like it was nothing. Like it was normal. And somehow… it is. I haven’t checked it once, and I don’t even miss it.
At sunset, he takes me to a place overlooking the river. The sky is orange and pink, the water catching light like molten metal. It’s beautiful, cinematic. There’s a smell under it. Metal. River rot. I try not to notice.
Soren stands behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. His chin rests near my temple.
His voice is soft. “This is what you needed,” he murmurs. “You needed someone to take over for a while.”
My stomach tightens, and something lower pulls with it.
He kisses the side of my head. Then he pulls his phone out, wrapping his arm around me, and takes a photo before I can react.
The flash is off, but I hear the click.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
He smiles, still holding me. “Capturing the moment,” he says.
He looks down at the screen, his thumbs moving.
Then he tilts it toward me.
An Instagram story. A photo of me, half turned toward the sunset, his arm around my waist. Text overlay already typed:
Finally.
My throat tightens. “Soren—”
He posts it before I can finish.
Just taps and it’s gone. Live. Out there.
No undo. No draft. No pause.
I stare at the screen, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
“You posted me,” I say. “Us.”
He looks up, amused. “Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I?”
My mouth opens. Then closes. Like it would be rude for me to say I didn’t say he could.
His expression doesn’t change. But something in his eyes sharpens. Not anger. Maybe a flicker of impatience. Like I’m disrupting something.
“Ivy,” he says softly, like he’s correcting me. “Relax.”
My stomach drops.
He slides his phone back into his pocket. Then he tightens his arm around me slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me I’m held. “You’re with me,” he says again, voice calm. “That’s not a secret.”
The words land like a stamp. A label. A claim.
I swallow hard. I should push back. I should tell him to take it down. I should tell him I don’t belong to him—that we’ve barely even met.
But I don’t.
Because he’s smiling, warm, and he’s been generous all day. Because I don’t want to be the difficult woman who ruins the vibe, or come off as ungrateful.
And because the sickest part of all is—some part of me likes it.
Likes being visible.
Likes being chosen—wanted loudly, even.
Soren kisses my temple again.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go get dinner.” He takes my hand again. Not asking. Expecting.
And I go with him. Because it’s easier than stopping him. Because it’s easier than thinking. Because somewhere between the coffee and the jacket and the way he looks at me, I’ve stopped deciding things.
And the worst part is—
I’m learning to like not having to carry it.