Chapter 29
IVY
The shift starts before I even leave the plane.
It moves through me without warning, a physical release that doesn’t wait for me to catch up. My shoulders drop as if something has unhooked from them. My lungs pull in a deeper breath than I’ve taken in days.
The tight, restless edge that followed me out of Miami loosens all at once, not fading slowly but breaking clean, like it was only ever held in place by distance.
I don’t try to understand it. My body has already decided.
By the time I step into the terminal, everything feels quieter. More settled. The noise around me fades into something in the background—something irrelevant—and the only thing that feels clear is direction.
I know where I’m going before I think about it, my steps falling into place without hesitation, without the constant second-guessing that had been running underneath everything before.
The first time I came here, every moment felt sharp. I was watching him, watching myself, measuring every interaction like it could tip in either direction. There had been tension in it, a constant awareness of risk that made everything feel heightened and unstable.
That sharpness is gone now.
I move through the airport like I belong here, like this is a return, not an arrival.
He’s waiting exactly where I expect him to be.
There’s no searching on his part, no scanning the crowd. His attention locks onto me the second I come into view, immediate and certain, like there was never a version where he didn’t know the exact moment I would appear.
The recognition lands in my chest in a way I feel more than understand, something steady and grounding that pulls me forward without hesitation.
I don’t slow down.
I go straight to him.
He closes the distance before I can stop, his arms closing around me with a firmness that leaves no space for uncertainty.
My body folds into him instantly—the response automatic—like I’ve stepped back into a position that was already waiting. The breath that leaves me is heavier than it should be, deeper, pulled from somewhere low in my chest that had been tight for longer than I realized.
His mouth brushes my hair as he speaks, voice low, controlled, satisfied in a way that settles under my skin. “Welcome home, stray.”
The word stays.
There’s no resistance to it anymore. No instinct to correct him or push against the implication. It fits too easily, sliding into place like something that was already forming before he said it out loud.
“I’m so happy you’re here.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze moving over my face slowly, deliberately, like he’s confirming something he already knows.
There’s nothing casual in it. Every second of his attention feels placed—intentional—and I stay exactly where I am while he does it, letting him take what he’s looking for without interrupting it.
Two men in dark clothing step out from the background, give him a nod, and whisk my suitcases away. At least these ones arrived.
I glance after them for a second. I don’t ask. He doesn’t explain. Then His hand finds my waist and I stop thinking about it.
My backpack disappears from my hands before I think to adjust my grip, Soren effortlessly hoisting it onto his shoulder, even though this time it’s weighed down with everything I own.
His other hand finds me immediately, first at my wrist, then shifting to my waist as he turns us toward the exit. The contact is light but exact—guiding, not forcing—and I follow without hesitation, my body responding before I decide to move.
The transition from airport to car to his place happens without friction.
There are no decisions to make, no moments where I have to pause and figure out what comes next. I don’t have to think.
By the time we step inside, it doesn’t feel like I’ve arrived somewhere new.
It feels like I’ve resumed something.
The rest of the morning comes with the same ease.
When I return from hanging up some clothing in the spare room closet, there’s coffee waiting, already made—already placed exactly where I would reach for it. I take a sip and register the taste a second later, the detail catching up after the action.
It’s just right.
Not the way I used to drink it.
The way I do now.
The realization flickers and passes without resistance. I don’t question it. I take another sip and let it settle.
I move closer to the counter, drawn more by proximity than intention, and his response is immediate.
“No.” The word lands clean, firm enough to stop me without force.
I pause where I am.
There’s no irritation, no instinct to push back. The boundary holds because it makes sense in the space he’s created.
I step back slightly, letting the moment resolve the way he intended it to, and the rhythm of it continues without disruption.
The moment with my wrist happens too fast for me to avoid it.
I’m reaching for something, and I’m so used to them being there that I make no effort to conceal them.
I see him glance at me, look away and double-take as if he missed something for the first time.
I start to pull my arm back—the instinct sharp and immediate—but his hand closes around it before I can complete the movement.
The grip isn’t tight. It’s decisive, stopping me exactly where he wants me, and holding me there long enough for him to turn the underside of my arm into the light.
The marks are faint.
Easy to miss if you weren’t looking.
He is.
“It’s nothing,” I say, the response automatic.
His thumb moves over one of the lines, slow and deliberate, the contact sending a sharp reaction through me that has nothing to do with pain.
I shift slightly, the movement small but noticeable, and his hold adjusts just enough to keep my arm where he wants it.
“They’re ugly—” I add, quieter now, trying to close it down before it becomes something bigger.
“They’re yours.” The interruption comes without hesitation, his voice steady, leaving no room for the conversation to move in the direction I was trying to take it. His fingers trace the line again, more deliberately this time, like he’s committing it to memory. “That makes them mean something.”
My throat tightens, the response immediate and hard to contain. I feel it before I understand it, something sharp and unfamiliar pressing up under my ribs. “You don’t even know where they came from.”
“I don’t need to. I already know enough.
” The certainty in it lands heavier than anything else he’s said.
His hand shifts slightly, brushing over another mark I forgot was there, his attention moving with the same precision he’s used for everything else.
“I know what they are.” He pauses just long enough for it to settle.
“And I know you don’t get to diminish them. ”
The pressure of his thumb returns to the inside of my wrist, grounding and deliberate, holding me exactly where I am. “They’re part of you. So they’re mine to understand.”
My breath catches, the reaction immediate and impossible to hide.
“And that means they matter.”
Something turns over in my stomach, sharp and disorienting.
I don’t pull away.
I don’t argue.
I stay exactly where he’s put me, letting the moment settle the way he wants it to, even as the weight of it presses deeper than I’m prepared for.
And the worst part is that it doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels like something locking into place.
Something I’m not going to be able to undo.