Chapter Twenty-two – Ivy #2
I shift slightly, brushing my fingers along the curve of his jaw, feeling the short, scratchy stubble and the slow exhale of his breath against my temple.
“I needed that,” I murmur.
His laugh is low, almost shy. “Yeah. Me too.”
Silence stretches—warm, humming—until the obvious slides between us and sits down.
“Rowan,” I say, barely above a whisper. “We didn’t use anything.”
He stills. Then his arm tightens around my waist like I might float away. “I know,” he says, voice rough. “I got… lost in you. That’s not an excuse. I should’ve—” He breaks off, forehead tipping to mine. “Are you okay?”
“I’m covered,” I tell him, steady. “I have an IUD.” I feel him breathe out a small, honest relief. “But I still want us to be smart.”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Tomorrow, I’ll go get tested. Not because I don’t trust you—but because I want to do this right.” He searches my face. “And I haven’t… since before all the PR noise. It’s been a long time.”
“Same,” I say, the word easier than I expected.
He nods once, like that answers a question he hasn’t let himself ask. His thumb drifts over my hip. “I’ll pick up some condoms. Keep them where I can’t forget what matters when you look at me like that. It will be your choice, always.”
I huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You mean like you’re mine?”
His mouth curves. “Already am.”
Something tender lodges under my ribs. I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft and grateful. “Thank you. For not making it weird. For choosing the careful thing with me.”
“I want the long thing,” he says simply. “If that means patience and errands and doing this like grown-ups, then I’m in.”
The string lights hum. The loft holds. I curl closer, palm over his heart, and let the truth stop being scary. “Me too,” I whisper into the space between us. “All the way in.”
A long pause stretches between us. The kind that usually comes before the part where everything changes. I can feel it hovering, that invisible line we keep toeing. But this time, I don’t want to wait for it to crack open on its own.
I lift my head, meeting his gaze. “I need to tell you something.”
Rowan tenses beneath me, just barely. “If you’re about to say you’re leaving again…”
“No,” I say quickly, pressing a palm to his chest. “No. I’m not. At least—not unless you tell me to.”
His brow furrows. “Why would I do that?”
I look away for a beat. “Because of what I’ve been hiding.”
That gets his attention.
He pulls back slightly, still keeping one hand anchored on my thigh. “Ivy…”
“My mom. The label. They’ve been on me nonstop since I left Nashville the first time.” I swallow. “There were meetings lined up. Press tours. Brand deals. They kept dangling this image of who I’m supposed to be and panicking that I’ve been ‘off-script.’”
Rowan’s jaw tightens. “That’s what they called it?”
“Yeah.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Like being with you—being here —was some sort of detour I wasn’t allowed to take.”
His fingers flex against my leg. “You’re not a detour.”
“I know that,” I say, heart catching. “Now. But I didn’t for a long time.”
He waits, silent but open, eyes locked on mine.
“I told them I wouldn’t do it anymore.” I go on. “The press circuit. The fake romance rumors. The glossed-over version of my life that they keep trying to rewrite.”
Rowan raises an eyebrow. “Fake romance rumors?”
I wince. “There’s been a… lot. Articles. Speculation. Mostly about Crew and me. Some… implying you’re the other man.”
Rowan lets out a low curse. “Jesus.”
“I didn’t write any of it. I didn’t agree to it,” I say, then the rest just tears loose.
“And then the aura hit—this bright edge in my vision—and I was in that stupid cold apartment by myself.” My throat works.
“The seizure—it wasn’t long. Under five minutes.
I didn’t pass out. I did the breathing, tucked in, then waited for it to crest and go.
But afterward I just… shook. I was scared and furious and so, so alone.
The kind of alone that makes you feel like a headline instead of a person.
I turned my phone off because every call felt like someone trying to own a piece of me.
” I lift my eyes to his. “That’s why I left.
Not the press. Not the meetings. I couldn’t do another minute of being a body they plan around. ”
Rowan steps in, palms open. His thumb sweeps one tear I didn’t feel fall. “You’re not doing that alone again,” he says, voice low and certain. “Not while I’m breathing.” He tips his forehead to mine. “You don’t have to be brave by yourself anymore, Ivy. Not here. Not with me.”
I blink back the sting in my eyes. “I want you to know that I didn’t choose them. I chose this. You. ”
He stares at me for a long beat, like he’s trying to decide whether he believes me. Then he says, “I know.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. He brushes my hair back behind my ear, fingertips lingering against my cheek.
“You wanna know something else?” he asks quietly.
“Always.”
He smiles a little. “I’ve never seen the kids at the farm light up like they did today.”
My heart swells. “Really?”
“Yeah. And it wasn’t just the animals or the rides. It was the music. The way you sang. The way you made them feel like they mattered.” He pauses. “You’re part of this place now, whether you realize it or not.”
I curl against his chest, heart thudding.
“I used your sketch,” he adds. “The flyer you drew on the napkin at the café. I made copies. Ma’s friends handed them out all over town. Bailey helped get the volunteers lined up.”
The fact that he took my scribble and made it a plan loosens something in my chest—and with it comes the jolt of what I forgot.
“I left my notebook,” I whisper, voice breaking. “That’s how I knew I had to come back. Because it holds everything. My songs. My thoughts. You. ”
His expression shifts into something devastatingly tender.
“I know,” he says quietly.
I freeze. “You read it?”
He hesitates. “Just one page. The one it fell open to. I’m sorry. I know it was an invasion of your privacy, but it was like the world left me this little piece of you.”
“And?”
“And I’ve never been the subject of a song before,” he says, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. “Didn’t know it would feel like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe I’m not so bad at being loved after all.”
My chest caves.
“You’re not,” I whisper. “You’re… everything.”
We stay like that, wrapped in each other beneath the soft string lights, the whole world narrowed to this loft, this moment, this man. I press a kiss to his chest. “So… what happens now?”
He leans down and presses his forehead to mine. “We figure it out.”
At some point, the night cools and the lights hum softer.
He tugs his jeans back on, wraps the quilt around my shoulders, and kisses my temple.
“Ladder’s a two-hand job,” he murmurs, then scoops me anyway—one arm under my knees, the other at my back—carrying me to the loft ladder like I weigh nothing.
We descend slowly, my fingers looped at his nape, the barn dark and sweet with hay.
Outside, crickets thicken the air. He keeps me tucked to him as we cross the yard, my bare toes brushing his thigh where the quilt rides up.
“You can’t sleep on splinters,” he says, mouth curving against my hair.
Inside his house, he sets me on the bathroom counter and flips the light to low.
Warm water, a clean washcloth. He works carefully—wiping hay dust from my shoulders, the smudge on my knee, pulling a straw from my hair with a grin like he’s found treasure.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, dabbing at a tiny scrape.
He hands me a soft T-shirt that smells like line-dried cotton and him.
I pull it over my head. It hits mid-thigh. His eyes go gentle.
In the bedroom, he turns down the sheets, slides a glass of water and two ibuprofens to my side, and kills the lamp so only the hall glow remains.
When he climbs in, it’s careful—like he’s not sure I’ll stay.
I turn, fit my back to his chest, and his arm bands across my waist. “Right here,” he breathes at the nape of my neck, more vow than words.
“Right here,” I echo, and sleep takes us fast.
The morning sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, laying pale gold across the floor.
I stretch, deliciously sore in all the best ways, last night sparking a satisfied ache low in my belly.
My limbs are tangled in the sheets—Rowan’s sheets—and I don’t care that my hair’s a wreck or that a stray piece of hay still clings to my calf. I feel… alive.
The bedroom is quiet except for the low hum of a fan and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
The scent of cedar and Rowan clings to the room—earthy and warm, with just enough spice to make my thighs squeeze together under the covers.
I roll toward the empty space where he should be, my hand brushing over the spot where his body lay just hours ago.
Still warm.
I press my palm flat against it, eyes fluttering shut for a beat, and then I hear it—muffled clattering from the kitchen, a low grunt, and the clink of silverware.
My heart does something stupid. Something soft.
I slip out of bed and tug on his T-shirt from the floor, the hem brushing high on my thighs. My bare feet hit the cool floor, and I make my way down the hall, pausing just outside the kitchen.
He’s standing by the stove, hair damp from the shower, flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips. He holds a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s humming—off-key but earnest—and I want to bottle this moment forever.
I step into the room.
“Smells good,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
Rowan turns, a slow grin spreading across his face when he sees me in his shirt. “Figured you might be hungry. I wore you out last night.”
My cheeks flush. “Cocky much?”
He shrugs. “Just observant.”