Chapter 35
IVY
The next morning, the sunlight slants through half-closed blinds, but my confession hasn’t shifted an inch.
What I told Soren feels as solid as the oak floor beneath my bare feet. It hasn’t curled into shame, or shriveled into regret. There’s none of the usual hollow ache that follows me when I dare to open up.
Instead it sits, firm and unyielding.
Usually by dawn, I’m rewiring every sentence in my head—softening the edges, tucking away anything too raw, terrified that my vulnerability will be twisted into ammunition.
I usually overanalyze every interaction, reading into tones of voice, body language, over-indexing on punctuation in the words on my phone screen.
But today I don’t reach for the undo button. I don’t tug at the thread to make it vanish.
It’s as if Soren heard me without judging me—as if he pocketed my truth exactly as I offered it. For once, I’m free of the dread that it’ll be weaponized, or warped into something ugly.
I drift through the apartment more slowly than usual, toes brushing over the cool tile by the front door, the hush of morning so complete I can hear my own blood pulsing through my ears.
I notice the sculptured gray bowl on the coffee table, the faint citrus scent from last night’s candles, the way the walls lean in—supportive almost—around me.
And I’m acutely aware of him.
He’s already up. I find him in the kitchen leaning against the quartz countertop, dark espresso steaming in a tiny charcoal mug. He sips, eyes half-closed in concentration, the soft gray T-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders.
When I step into the room, he lifts his gaze as if he’s been listening for my footsteps all along. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, setting the cup down with a muted clink.
I nod, my voice low, a whisper against the hum of the refrigerator. “Morning, Soren.”
A beat of silence.
I expect him to pivot, to let the moment rest. To tuck last night away in some corner of our silence and pretend it never happened.
But he doesn’t.
“Thank you for sharing what you did with me last night. About feeling like you never fit in.” His words land with calm precision.
My chest tightens, not from shock at what he’s said, but because he remembers every detail. And because he chose to acknowledge it when he could have just never spoken of it again.
I swallow, searching his face in the soft glow of the pendant light overhead. “You’ve been thinking about that?”
His brow lifts, as though the question doesn’t quite justify itself. “Of course I have—I think about everything you tell me. I pay attention.” No drama. No weight behind the declaration. Just plain truth.
Something inside me shifts, deeper than I expect.
“When my parents would argue, I used to stay in my room and count the minutes,” I whisper before I can stop myself, voice brittle.
“Until it felt safe to come out again. It was safer than saying something wrong and drawing my mother’s attention to myself. ”
He sets his espresso cup aside like he’s clearing a stage for something important, then walks toward me in long, sure strides.
He stops just in front of me. His fingers brush my wrist, thumb tracing the quick pulse beneath my skin.
The touch is light but charges through me like a quiet thunderclap.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that. You shouldn’t have had to figure that out on your own. ”
His tone is flat, unwavering. No apology, no false comfort—just the unvarnished truth. My throat constricts around the words I haven’t yet spoken.
“I think that’s why I find it hard to share these things. I would just sit in my room, keeping them bottled up.”
His hand slides up my arm, fingers tracing the curve of my jaw until my head tilts and I have no choice but to meet his gaze.
His grip lingers a second longer than necessary.
There’s no force in it, though, just an invitation and the knowledge that there’s no escape.
“You adjusted the best to a situation you shouldn’t have been in, with people who didn’t deserve you.
” He pauses. “That’s not who you are here. ”
The words don’t crash over me all at once.
They settle slowly, seeping into my bones.
“I thought it was normal,” I admit, my breath a fragile exhale. “I had nothing to compare it to. And I was grateful to have people who wanted me in their family. They picked me—which they’d remind me of all the time—even though sometimes it seemed like they wished they didn’t.”
“I know.” His voice is softer now—steady, like a foundation. His thumb glides once along my jaw, deliberate, grounding me in this moment. “And no one told you otherwise. They kept you guessing. No one stepped in.”
It lands like a small stone in my chest. Because it’s true. There was no one to interrupt that story. No one to offer a different narrative.
“Intermittent reinforcement gives you breadcrumbs that keep you striving to prove yourself over and over again,” he nods, as if it’s all clicking. “It’s no wonder you always felt a few steps away from gaining their approval. The goalposts kept shifting.”
He moves his hand behind my neck, fingertips tangling in my hairline, warmth radiating from his palm. Not clinging, but unwavering.
His eyes bore into mine as if he’s searching behind my gaze. “I see you exactly,” he says.
Something inside me unclenches. The part that always recoils stays still. The tension I’ve carried unspools.
Without thinking, I lean into him. His other arm wraps around my waist, drawing me close. My body molds against his, fitting exactly where it belongs. The smooth fabric of his shirt brushes my cheek. His heartbeat is steady against my ear.
He understands me.
And beneath that, deeper and quieter, a new certainty settles in my chest—he knows what to do with all of me. And he doesn’t hesitate.
Nobody else has come close to that before.
“Come with me,” he says, motioning for me to stand up. He takes my hand, leading me down the hall. “I have something to show you.”