Chapter Five – Ivy #2
My breath catches. He reaches out—slowly—and tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers barely brush my skin, but the contact sparks something deep. Something alive.
We’re suddenly too close. Or maybe not close enough. His hand lingers near my cheek, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I. My breath hitches. Then the power flickers. The lamp dims and flares, then steadies again.
We both jump as his hand drops. The moment snaps like a taut string pulled too far.
He clears his throat and stands abruptly. “I should check the fuse box.”
I nod, heart pounding. “Okay.”
He disappears down the hallway, and I sit there on the couch, blanket wrapped around my legs, pulse racing like I’ve just sprinted a mile. The storm outside howls again. The trees shudder.
The lights settle, a low hum returning to the room just as Rowan reappears, hair slightly mussed, expression unreadable.
“All good,” he says.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He hovers in the doorway for a moment like he’s not sure whether to sit again. I don’t ask him to, but I want him to. He sits anyway.
The house creaks around us. A shutter claps once, then falls still.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time.
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just… storms.”
He waits.
I sigh, running a thumb over the stitching in the blanket. “It’s not just the thunder or the lights. It’s the way it messes with my head.”
He stays still, eyes on me.
“The epilepsy,” I say, softer now. “Controlled, mostly. But storms—they do something to me. Sometimes it’s not even physical. It’s like my body remembers how to panic before my brain does.”
“Sensory overload?” he asks gently.
“Exactly.”
I stare down at my empty mug. “I’m okay when I’m calm and I feel safe. But today? Between the calls and the hotel and the storm—” I break off, the words sticking.
Rowan leans in just a little. He’s not trying to fix it, just carry some of it.
“I’ve had people treat it like an inconvenience,” I say. “Or like it’s dangerous. Something to hide. And I hate that I still feel that shame—like it’s mine to carry.”
“It’s not,” he says. His voice is firm. “And anyone who makes you feel that way is an asshole.”
I huff a soft, surprised laugh. “You always this direct?”
“When it matters.”
A slow warmth spreads through me. Not heat. Not arousal. Something gentler. More dangerous.
Trust.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For letting me come here. For not treating me like I’m breakable.”
“Stop thanking me. And you’re not,” he says without hesitation. “You’re still standing. That’s strong.”
The words hit me in the chest.
I glance away, blinking fast. “You make it hard to keep my guard up.”
He doesn’t smile, not really, but something flickers at the edge of his mouth. “Good. You shouldn’t have to carry that alone.”
I want to lean into him and say something reckless. To tell him the way his steadiness steadies me, but I don’t. Instead, I scoot a little closer on the couch.
And when my head eventually tilts against the back cushion, eyelids too heavy to fight, I don’t flinch when he tucks the blanket tighter around me.
And I don’t move when he sits on the couch.
The couch dips beneath his weight, and for a long, quiet moment, we don’t speak.
The storm outside hums through the walls, soft now, like it’s catching its breath.
He settles beside me, his body still and solid, like he’s anchoring the whole house in place.
I let mine go.
The blanket he draped over me is warm, but not as warm as the steady pulse of him beside me. We’re not touching, not exactly. But I can feel him. In the way the air shifts with his breath. In the way the silence wraps around us like it belongs to both of us.
My eyelids flutter. My body sinks. The kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical—but bone-deep, soul-tired– softens my muscles.
I drift.
And for what feels like forever, I don’t wake with a jolt. I don’t gasp myself upright or reach for something I can’t name. I just… rest.
When I blink awake again, it’s dark.
The storm has passed. Or maybe it hasn’t. The windows are fogged, and the world outside looks blurred and heavy, like the sky hasn’t made up its mind yet.
I shift slightly and realize my head rests on Rowan’s shoulder. My breath catches. His arm is along the back of the couch, not quite around me, but not distant either. His head tips just a little toward mine, like he’s trying not to move. Like maybe he’s afraid I’ll wake and bolt if he does.
And I might, but I don’t. Because this—whatever this is—it’s safe. Gentle. Unspoken.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I murmur, voice raspy.
His chest rises. “You needed it.”
My cheeks burn. “You didn’t have to stay here with me.”
“I know.”
I glance up. His eyes are already on me. Not intense. Just… aware.
“Rowan—” “You don’t have to say anything.”
But I do. “I don’t do this,” I whisper. “Show up. Fall apart. Stay in one place too long.”
His eyes search mine, steady as a fence post. “I’m not built for leaving,” he says quietly. “I set roots, not tents. If you need to go, you go. I’ll still be here. And if you stay…” His mouth tips, almost a vow. “I’m not a man who changes his mind when something matters.”
A silence settles between us—dense and humming and full of things we’re both too cautious to name. Neither of us budges. His thumb brushes the edge of the blanket where it’s slipped off my shoulder, tugging it back into place. It’s such a small thing. Barely a touch. But my entire body notices.
I trace the pattern on the blanket with the tip of my finger. “I thought I was just passing through.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
When he does, his voice is rough. “Are you?”
I want to lie. To say yes. That this is just a detour, a misstep in the carefully controlled choreography of my life. But the truth has already settled in my bones.
“I don’t know anymore.”
He nods once, accepting it like it’s an answer.
The wind picks up outside, rustling the trees again, but I barely hear it. All I hear is my own heartbeat. And his, steady beneath my cheek.
I close my eyes, just for a second, letting myself imagine what it might feel like to stay. To belong to something that doesn’t ask me to perform or explain. To be wanted not for headlines or singles or streaming numbers—but for showing up in the rain with shaking hands and asking to be let in.
I’m still not sure what this is, but I know what it’s not.
It’s not hollow.
It’s not fake.
It’s not alone.