9. Ivy
IVY
T he warmth of his mouth is still on mine when the door flies open, jarring and invasive, like a spotlight cutting through the dark. My heart jumps, not from guilt, but from rage. The moment fractures instantly, and the air turns electric with the sting of intrusion.
Derek steps inside with the smug entitlement of a man who’s forgotten how many times he’s already shattered the trust between us.
He walks in like betrayal belongs to him, like every threshold he crosses is still his, like he still has the right to be anywhere I am.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass until it threatens to crack.
I don’t move. I’m too stunned, too angry, too caught between disbelief and fury to speak first.
He lets the silence stretch, his presence alone a provocation. He doesn’t have to say anything yet, because the tension is already creeping in, quiet and obvious, like heat rising in a room no one’s admitting is on fire.
His gaze flicks from Jack to me, landing like accusations.
The bottle of wine sits half-finished on the counter, an unspoken witness to the shift in atmosphere.
The space between Jack and me is still charged, too close to be accidental.
I’m barefoot, unguarded in every possible way, and painfully aware of how exposed that makes me feel.
Jack’s hand still hovers like it had been on my skin.
“Well,” Derek says, the word slicing the air. “This explains a lot.”
Jack straightens, his shoulders a slow rise of tension. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you,” Derek snaps. “But here we all are.”
My voice is brittle when I finally speak. “What the hell are you doing here, Derek?”
“I was just in the building,” he says, too casually to be believable. “Figured I’d drop by, see how you were settling in. Didn’t expect to find this.”
“There’s nothing to walk in on,” I say. The words land too fast, too defensive.
Jack doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at Derek like he’s two seconds away from losing whatever grip he has left on his temper.
Derek steps back toward the door. “Don’t worry. I won’t stay.” He lingers a second too long, then adds, “Careful, Ivy. History tends to repeat itself. And Jack? He’s got more secrets than I ever did.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the air thick with the weight of his hypocrisy and all the things he pretends not to be.
The silence he leaves behind doesn’t settle, it stretches, taut and breathless.
I set the wine glass down carefully on the counter, and when I finally look at Jack, he’s already watching me.
His expression has shifted completely. It’s softer now, stripped of all his usual restraint, open in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
He takes a small step toward me. "Are you okay?"
I nod, but it’s not convincing.
Jack runs a hand through his hair and exhales like he’s been holding his breath since Derek walked in.
"I didn’t want that for you," he says quietly. "Any of it. The lies, the way he blindsided you... you didn’t deserve any of it."
The words catch something raw in my chest. My throat tightens, but I swallow it down.
I walk past him toward the sink, the ache of unshed tears pulsing behind my eyes.
I need something to do with my hands, something that isn’t trembling.
I rinse my glass slowly, watching the wine swirl down the drain like the moment that had just unraveled.
“I’m not sorry it happened.”
He doesn’t look away. “Me too. Not even a little.”
And suddenly I want to cry, not because I regret it, but because I don’t. Because the moment Derek left, Jack didn’t pull back. He stepped in. Because something real is forming in the silence between us, and I don’t know how to protect it, let alone stop it.
Jack closes the distance, slow and careful, like he’s reading the space between us for permission. He stops just close enough for me to feel his warmth.
"You don’t have to be okay right now," he says, his voice a whisper meant only for me. "But you don’t have to go through this alone, either."
His words sit heavy in the air. I should walk away. I should put distance between us and pretend like tonight didn’t mean something. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I nod again, slower this time, my voice quiet. “Stay.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean. He just nods, moving to the living room with a stillness that feels reverent. I turn off the lights, the room dimming to a softness that fits the hollow in my chest.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. I sit beside him on the couch, knees tucked to my chest, and after a beat, Jack reaches for my hand.
His fingers wrap around mine, solid and steady.
And in the quiet hum of the city outside, I finally let myself lean in.
Not into the kiss. Not into the want. But into the truth of it, that whatever this is, it’s real. And I’m not alone anymore.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. His thumb moves gently over mine, not to comfort, not to calm, but simply to remind me he’s still here. That he didn’t run. That he stayed.
I shift slightly, leaning into the couch cushion until our shoulders touch. The heat of his arm against mine sends a quiet ripple through me, nothing urgent, nothing dangerous. Just presence. Steady, grounded, necessary.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper.
“I won’t,” he says. “Not unless you want me to.”
We sit there for a long time. I don’t know what happens next.
I don’t know if I’ll break again tomorrow or if I’ll wake up and find that strength has quietly returned to me overnight.
But for now, I rest my head on Jack’s shoulder, and he lets me.
No promises. No pretenses. Just this moment, carved out from the chaos, real and warm and safe.
The lights from the street below flicker softly across the ceiling as we sit in that hush. The longer I stay, the more I realize I’m not bracing for impact. I’m not shrinking away from the silence or flinching at shadows. I’m just breathing, finally breathing, beside someone who feels like home.
Jack shifts just slightly, adjusting the throw blanket around my shoulders like it’s second nature, his hand lingering for half a second too long.
It’s not a move of seduction, it’s care.
Conscious, and deep. I’ve spent so long waiting for the next crack in the floorboards, the next betrayal, that I almost forgot what it feels like to be treated like something fragile without being dismissed.
His body is relaxed now, but I can tell sleep isn’t coming easy for him either.
We’re both a little haunted, a little threadbare.
But under the wreckage, something steady is forming.
Something I don’t want to run from. He doesn’t ask questions.
Doesn’t press. He just sits there with me in the quiet, and when my eyes finally flutter shut, I feel his hand tighten slightly around mine.
That’s the last thing I remember before sleep claims me: Jack’s grip, sure and patient. Like a promise. Like he’s telling me I can fall, and he’ll still be there when I wake up.
I stir once in the middle of the night, unsure of what woke me.
The city noise is quieter now, muffled beneath the hour.
Jack hasn’t moved. He’s still beside me, still holding my hand.
His breathing is slow, his head tilted back against the couch cushion.
I watch him for a moment, the soft lines of his profile limned by the streetlight glow.
Even in sleep, he looks guarded, like peace is something he doesn’t quite trust. I know that feeling too well.
I adjust the blanket around him this time, careful not to wake him. Then I lean back down, my head resting closer to his chest. His heart beats steady beneath my ear, and something in me eases. The storm can wait till morning. For now, we have this, a breath, a heartbeat, a pause in the chaos.
I close my eyes again and let myself believe it might be enough. Because for once, enough doesn’t feel like settling. It feels like relief. It feels like the beginning of something I didn’t think I’d get to have. And this time, I’m not letting fear write the ending.