Chapter 20
IVY
The next morning feels muted somehow. Like the world is holding its breath.
I wake up slowly, my body heavy with sleep. As if the fact I’ve gotten a couple of nights of solid slumber is reminding my body just how far in the hole of sleep debt I really was.
My limbs are loose, like I’ve been drugged. Like my nervous system has been lulled into forgetting what danger feels like.
For a second, I’m disoriented.
I open my eyes, expecting to see Soren beside me.
But he’s not.
I roll over, rubbing my eyes, as if that’s going to magically conjure him from thin air. Or maybe he’s on the other side of me. I’ve somehow managed to roll smack-bang into the middle of his monstrous bed.
The space next to me is empty but still warm, like he left recently. Like he was here and then decided to disappear before I could wake up and remember to be afraid.
I sit up slowly, the oversized T-shirt twisting around my thighs.
The room is quiet. No footsteps. No voices. No TV. Just the low hum of the city outside, distant and indifferent.
There’s noise from the other room. He’s already up and about, moving around, already handling goodness knows what.
I know he’s taken time away from work while I’m here, but it doesn’t mean he can completely turn it off.
Guilt gnaws at me. Why do I think I’m so important I can just come here and laze around while he drops everything to entertain me?
My clit throbs, reminding me of where we left things last night. I didn’t expect him to be so good with his fingers.
He can entertain me like that all he wants, his job be damned.
Yet my chest is a little tight. What does last night mean for us? Why did he stop?
Maybe he thinks I’m special and he doesn’t want to rush things. Maybe he’s asexual. Maybe, maybe—
Stop it, Ivy. You’re spiraling again.
Enjoy the moment. You got finger banged. He gave you what you needed, made you come. Just let it be.
I make peace with the universe, and get out of bed.
Then I smell it.
Coffee. Butter. Something warm and rich, like a kitchen already in motion.
I blink at the ceiling. Dark linens. The faint glow of Ravelle light leaking through the blinds.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The floor is cool under my feet.
I walk down the hallway carefully, like I’m moving through someone else’s life. Like I’m trespassing.
When I reach the kitchen, I see him.
Soren is barefoot, wearing a different pair of gray sweatpants—bless him—and a fitted black T-shirt that makes his arms look especially ripped. Tattoos run down his forearms like warnings disguised as art.
He’s standing at the stove, flipping something in a pan with calm precision, like this is what he does when he wants to make someone feel safe.
Like this is what he does when he wants to win.
I can’t remember a time when a guy made me breakfast two days in a row. It’s usually been a one-and-done type situation, if at all.
He glances up when he hears me. His mouth curves immediately. “Morning, stray,” he says.
That word again. The way he says it is warm. Possessive. Like it’s meant for me.
I clear my throat. “Morning.”
He turns the heat down, then pours coffee into a mug, adding cream and sugar just like yesterday.
He approaches me, setting down the mug. Then his hand closes around my throat and he pulls me to him. His lips brush mine, his tongue pressing through.
I moan as he tilts my head back, taking from me what he needs. Electricity beelines for my clit.
Just as quickly, he pulls away, leaving me wanting more, and moves back to the other side of the kitchen.
The mug is hot against my palms.
Soren watches me take the first sip like it matters.
The coffee is strong, smooth, perfect. I can’t help but close my eyes, savoring the roasted perfection.
Satisfied, he turns back to the stove.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Better than I have in a while.”
He smiles faintly. “Of course you did.”
It isn’t arrogant. It’s certain.
Like my rest is something he created.
I lean against the counter and watch him move.
He plates food like he’s composing art. Eggs. Toast. Something green… if it’s the same as yesterday, I think I’ve figured out that it was dinosaur kale. A little avocado. Fresh fruit sliced with obsessive symmetry.
It looks like a professional brunch dish.
It also somehow looks like control dressed up as care.
I’m not used to someone feeding me, deciding what I eat or when. It’s foreign. Nice if I describe it out loud, but it settles strangely in my gut.
He sets a plate in front of me. “Eat,” he says.
My stomach tightens at the word.
Eat.
Not do you want breakfast? Not are you hungry? Just eat.
I sit down.
I take a bite. And once again, it’s incredible.
Soren doesn’t cook like a normal man. He cooks like he’s proving something. Like he’s building a case.
I chew slowly, feeling my chest loosen despite myself. “Jesus,” I murmur. “This is really good.”
Soren leans back against the counter, espresso in hand, watching me like I’m a performance. “You’ve been eating like crap,” he says casually.
The sentence hits my ribs. I blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “You’re malnourished. I can see it.”
My cheeks burn. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in smoothly, like he’s correcting a child. “You’re thin in the wrong places. Your skin’s dull. Your body’s been in survival mode.”
He says it like he’s diagnosing me. Like he has the right.
My throat tightens. I swallow. “I’ve been stressed,” I say quietly, suddenly self-conscious of my form. Of the way he sees me…
Soren takes a sip of coffee. His gaze stays on me. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s why you need me.”
The words land softly, but they don’t feel soft.
They feel like a hook.
I laugh weakly, trying to lighten it. “I’m enjoying my visit, but I don’t need you.”
Soren’s mouth curves again. His eyes don’t.
Memories flood back of how well it hasn’t gone when I’ve let guys know I didn’t need them.
They don’t tend to like that.
Even when it’s true.
Especially when it’s true.
“You do,” he says simply.
Then he walks behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat brush my back, and he reaches past my shoulder to grab something from the cabinet.
It’s such a normal movement. So casual. But my body still flinches inside. Because having someone behind me has never felt safe.
Soren notices.
I feel it in the way his presence stills for half a second. Then he leans down, his mouth near my ear. “You don’t have to flinch around me,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips. I stare down at my plate. “I wasn’t flinching.”
Soren chuckles quietly. “You were.”
He straightens and walks back to the other side of the kitchen like he didn’t just call me out with surgical precision. Like he didn’t just let me know he’s watching everything.
I take another bite. The food is too good. The apartment is too quiet. The morning is too… perfect. It feels like the beginning of a relationship montage, or the beginning of a movie where the woman gets saved.
But I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I didn’t choose any of this. Not the breakfast. Not the way he decided my morning.
Soren checks his phone, then looks up. “What time’s your flight again?” he asks. He’d booked my return flight a day into my visit, showing me how last-minute non-stop flights out of Ravelle really do tend to pop up at a moment’s notice.
My stomach drops. I swallow. “Two,” I say. The day of my return has arrived earlier than expected, and it still feels like we have unfinished business.
His expression changes. Not dramatically. Just a flicker. Something behind his eyes tightening like a fist. He nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. But his voice doesn’t match the word.
I eat in silence for a few moments, my fork scraping softly against the plate.
Soren watches me. Then he says, like he can’t help himself—“You’re not going back there.”
I pause mid-bite. My fingers still. “What?” I ask.
His tone stays calm. Controlled. Like he’s stating a fact. “Back to that apartment. Back to him. That whole situation. It’s not good for you.”
I set my fork down carefully. “I have to,” I say. “My stuff is there.”
His jaw flexes. “No,” he says. “Your stuff is replaceable. Your mental health is not.”
My pulse kicks. “It’s not just stuff,” I say, my voice tight. “It’s my life.”
Soren steps closer to the counter. His gaze pins me. “You don’t have a life there,” he says. “You have a cage.”
My throat tightens. The words hit too close. Because he’s right. He is. And I resent him for it.
As accurate as his words are—and as validated as they make me feel— I hate how good it is to have someone else say the truth out loud.
Because when he says it, it becomes real.
And if it’s real, then I have to do something about it.