Chapter 16
IVY
“I’m going to take you somewhere I think you’ll like,” he says. “This one isn’t quite as fancy. I trust that’s okay with you.”
He says it like he already knows the answer.
“Yes, that’s more than fine,” I smirk. “Preferred even.”
I’ve always been more of a dive bar girl than someone who cares about fancy champagne.
“I figured,” his grin is crooked. “Just didn’t want you to think I was doing some kind of bait-and-switch after last night. Downgrading you or something.”
I laugh. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy changed the effort he put into a relationship after he got what he wanted.
The more time I spend around him, the more times I catch myself sneaking looks.
It’s not just his appearance, either. There’s something about his presence. From the way he moves to his general aura—something about him does something to me.
Whatever it is, it’s working. Because each hour, it’s getting harder not to touch him.
We’ve been home for a minute. Soren had a little work to do, and I relished the opportunity to put my feet up for a little bit and mindlessly scroll through my phone.
“I’ll go get ready,” I say, and he nods.
So I head to the closet that seems designed for me.
I stand in front of its contents longer than I need to, fingers dragging slowly over hangers like something in there will tell me who I’m supposed to be tonight.
It’s overwhelming, because everything in here feels so intentional. Like the clothes belong to a version of me who already knows what she wants, how she wants to be seen, how she wants to be touched.
I don’t feel like that version of myself.
Not yet.
I finally settle on a pair of black denim shorts—ripped, frayed at the edges, soft from wear.
I hesitate for a second, then grab a pair of black lace tights.
They’re delicate, almost too pretty to go under something this rough, but that’s exactly why I choose them. The pattern stretches over my thighs as I pull them up.
The shorts sit low on my hips when I pull them on, the tears exposing more skin than I usually go for.
The tights are intricate and feminine beneath the destruction of the denim. Soft underneath something torn open.
I reach for a tank next. Black again—thin straps, fitted, just slightly cropped so a sliver of skin shows when I move. It clings without feeling restrictive, like it’s there to highlight instead of hide.
Simple.
But not innocent.
The leather jacket is draped over the chair.
The one he bought me.
I don’t even pause this time. I slide it on, letting the weight of it settle over my shoulders, grounding and sharp all at once. It pulls the whole look together—taking it from thrown-on to intentional.
My boots are an easy choice—the ones I traveled in, the ones I wear almost everywhere. Worn-in black, scuffed just enough to feel real. I tug them on, anchoring myself in something that still feels like mine.
My makeup ends up darker than usual. I smudge liner along my eyes, not bothering to make it perfect, letting it blur slightly at the edges. My lips stay soft, just a muted tint—like I didn’t try too hard, even though I definitely did a little.
Now, ready to go, I give myself one last once-over. And when I look at myself in the mirror, I go still.
Because I don’t look like the girl who walked in here. I look like someone else.
Or someone I could be.
Edgier. Sharper. Like I belong somewhere louder, darker, less forgiving than I usually let myself exist in.
The lace peeks through every rip in the shorts, catching my eye.
Delicate. Intentional. Exposed.
My hand drifts to the hem of the jacket, smoothing it down without thinking.
And then the thought slips in—quiet, uninvited, automatic.
He’s going to like this.
My stomach tightens.
I don’t know when that started mattering.
Or when I stopped pretending it didn’t.
He’s already in the living room when I step out, and I feel it before I see him.
The atmosphere adjusts.
Like the room has narrowed to a single point and I’ve just walked straight into it.
I look up.
He looks as hot as ever, this time in a T-shirt that stretches tight across his chest and biceps. His distressed jeans cling to him in all the right places.
He’s leaning against a side table, one arm braced behind him, the other loose at his side, and for a second nothing happens. No reaction. No obvious change.
And then his eyes settle on me.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The way his gaze moves over me makes my skin tighten, like it’s being touched without being touched at all. It drags, unhurried, catching on the lace where it shows through the tears in the denim, tracing the line of my thigh without ever making contact.
My breath shifts before I can stop it.
I feel seen in a way that’s too specific.
Like he’s not just looking at what I’m wearing—he’s seeing what I was thinking when I chose it.
Heat flickers low in my stomach.
I shift my weight, adjusting the jacket without meaning to, suddenly aware of every inch of skin the outfit exposes.
His mouth curves slightly. Not a smile—something quieter.
He pushes off the table and walks toward me, unhurried, his focus never breaking, and the closer he gets, the harder it is to hold his gaze without feeling something inside me give.
I don’t step back.
I don’t move at all.
I just wait.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the space between us charged in a way that makes everything else fall away.
His hand lifts. Slow. Deliberate.
For a second I think he’s going to touch my face.
Instead, his fingers slide along the edge of the ripped denim, right where the lace shows through.
He doesn’t touch my skin.
But it feels like he does.
Heat pulses low. I press my thighs together, trying to contain it.
“You chose this.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s something in it that makes my pulse jump. Not a question. Something closer to recognition.
“I—yeah,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I just—”
“It suits you.” He cuts in gently, his thumb pressing slightly into the fabric, anchoring me there.
The pressure sends a quiet reaction through me.
His eyes lift to mine, and there’s something darker in them now.
Focused.
Certain.
“You stop trying to disappear,” he says, like it’s a simple observation, “and you look like this.”
His hand slides from the edge of the shorts to my waist, settling there like it belongs, like there was never a version of this moment where it wouldn’t.
My body reacts before my brain does, a subtle pull toward him, a shift I don’t consciously make.
He feels it.
His fingers press slightly, guiding my hip—just enough to turn me, to adjust me, to align me the way he wants.
“There,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Satisfied.
His gaze moves over me again, slower now, heavier, and this time I feel it everywhere—the weight of it, the way it lingers, the way it doesn’t rush past anything.
My skin heats under it.
My breathing shifts.
“You don’t need to overthink it,” he says quietly. “It’s already there.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “What is?”
His eyes flicker back to mine, and something tightens in his expression. “This.”
The word lands low.
Vague.
Loaded.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back, firmer now, grounding, and he draws me half a step closer without asking, without making it feel like something I can refuse.
My chest brushes his for a fraction of a second.
It’s enough.
Enough to make my pulse spike, enough to make something low and instinctive respond before I can catch it.
His thumb shifts slightly against my back—a slow, absent movement that feels anything but absent. Like he’s aware of exactly what he’s doing, and exactly what it’s doing to me. “Come on,” he says, his voice quieter now, closer. “We’re going to be late.” But he doesn’t move right away.
And neither do I.
For a second, we just stand there—too close—the air between us thick with something unspoken, something that could tip either way.
Then his hand presses lightly, guiding me toward the door—like the moment is over because he decided it was.
And I go with him.
I don’t know when being looked at like this started to feel good.
But it does.
And that realization settles somewhere deep, quiet, and a little dangerous.