Chapter Twenty-four – Rowan
The days after the dinner settle into something that doesn’t quite feel like reality, but maybe that’s the point. Perhaps we’ve spent so long surviving, dancing around what we are, that now, in the quiet aftermath, we’re finally living it.
Ivy’s still technically uses the cottage.
She insists she needs the space, that she writes better in solitude, but most mornings, I find her curled into my side before the sun comes up, her legs tangled in mine like roots grown into the foundation of this place.
Her toothbrush is next to mine. Her hairbrush has claimed a corner of the dresser.
And every time she pads barefoot across my kitchen in one of my old T-shirts, I feel it like a shot to the chest—that quiet domestic ache that says this is it. She’s it.
The camp is running smoother than I ever imagined. We’ve got kids from three counties now, some coming back week after week with paint-splattered shoes and stories about the chickens they named.
But Ivy has turned this place into something more than a working farm.
She added a music hour. Storytime with Bailey.
Little picnic benches shaded by old pecan trees.
She strings fairy lights like she’s decorating for a backyard wedding, and I let her, because every time I see her humming under her breath with a strand of lights tangled around her shoulders, I fall in love a little harder.
I touch her constantly. I can’t help it.
A hand on the small of her back when she’s walking through a gate.
My palm slides across her hip as we pass in the hallway.
My fingers brush her neck when I tuck a curl behind her ear.
I don’t think she even realizes how often she leans into me now. Her body knows mine like second nature.
By midmorning, we fall into the rhythm of the farm like we’ve been doing it for years.
She coaxes Butterscotch out of a sulk with the bottle tucked in her elbow while I haul feed.
Later, she pilots the Gator with her hair in a messy knot and her laugh echoing off the trees as I jog beside it, tossing salt blocks like a show-off.
We restake tomatoes in the kitchen beds—her glove pressed to the stem while I tie a square knot and show her why it holds—and she hums under her breath, some half-finished melody I don’t ask her to name.
When the hose kinks, she fixes it and “accidentally” sprays my boots.
I retaliate just enough to make her squeal and then pull her in by the waist, water beading on her collarbone, both of us grinning like thieves.
We check a creek-side fence, trade sips from a sun-warm canteen, and I realize we’ve talked all day without once needing the right words.
The sky is painted in streaks of soft copper and blush pink, the kind of sunset that makes you stop and stare, even if you’ve seen it a hundred times.
Ivy’s sandal-clad foot nudges my boot as we climb the porch stairs.
She doesn’t say anything, just laces her fingers through mine and lets the quiet settle between us again.
Inside, the air is cool from the box fan in the hallway.
Ivy drops her ball cap on the hook by the door, her sunglasses beside it.
She shrugs out of the denim shirt she grabbed from the laundry room, revealing that old concert tee she stole from my drawer and tied at the waist like it was meant for her.
She disappears into the bathroom for a minute, and I hear the water run, then silence.
I wait on the porch.
The swing groans softly under my weight as I settle in, leaning back and stretching one arm across the top of the cushion, the other hand around a cold glass of sweet tea. I can still taste the sugar on my tongue and still feel the warm ghost of her hand in mine.
A few minutes later, the screen door creaks again.
I glance up, and the air leaves my lungs.
She’s barefoot, her legs bare, wearing nothing but one of my button-down flannels, with the sleeves rolled up. The hem hits just below the tops of her thighs. Her damp hair curls at the ends, falling over her shoulders. She’s holding something in her hand.
Her notebook.
My chest tightens.
She walks toward me slowly, like she’s not even sure she’s doing it on purpose. Like her body just… knows where it belongs now. She eases down beside me, curling one leg under the other, the notebook resting in her lap. She flips it open, pencil tapping against the edge of the page.
For a while, she doesn’t speak. She just hums.
It’s not the same old tune. It’s new. Softer. A little wistful, a little wild.
I don’t interrupt. Don’t even move a muscle. I watch her—watch the way her lips part slightly as she sings under her breath, the way her eyes skim the page like she’s chasing something only she can see. That fire I thought she lost? It’s flickering again, low but steady, catching wind.
She pauses.
Glances up at me.
“I think I’m ready to finish it,” she murmurs.
I nod, voice low. “Which one?”
“The one I started on the plane,” she says, tilting her head toward me. “The one I sang the day I came back.”
I smile, and she nods but doesn’t look away.
My body tenses under her touch. Not from discomfort—hell no—but from the unbearable sweetness of it. The way she always knows how to unravel me with something so simple.
“I’m not hiding anymore. I chose you over and over again,” she says, leaning in.
I turn, meeting her mouth in a kiss that starts soft but deepens instantly. There’s no urgency. No firestorm. Just a slow, steady burn that climbs higher with each pass of her lips.
She shifts, swinging one leg over mine to straddle me.
My hands slide automatically to her hips, steadying her. Her thighs bracket mine, warm and strong, and the swing creaks beneath us as she settles.
“This okay?” she murmurs against my mouth.
I answer by kissing her again—deeper this time. My tongue sweeps slow and deliberate until she whimpers.
Her hands find my shoulders, slipping beneath the collar of my T-shirt, fingers tracing down my back. She rolls her hips once—gentle, teasing—and I grip the swing chain beside me to keep from losing it right then and there.
“Jesus, Ivy…”
“Say my name again,” she whispers, breath hot against my jaw.
“Ivy,” I growl, pulling her tighter. “You feel like fire.”
She grins, teeth grazing my throat. “I feel like yours.”
That does it.
I lift her slightly, just enough to push the shirt she’s wearing higher. She helps, shrugging out of it without fanfare, leaving her bare to the warm night air and me.
I exhale sharply. “Fuck, baby…”
Her hands are already working at the hem of my shirt, sliding it up, over, gone. She leans in, chest pressing against mine, heat blooming between us like a live wire.
She kisses my jaw. My neck. Down my shoulder.
Her rhythm is slow. Intentional. Not rushed like the last time. This isn’t need. This is choice. Worship.
She grinds against me again, the thin cotton of her shorts the only barrier between her heat and my growing hardness. With deft fingers, she unbuttons my jeans and slips my erection free of its confines, pushing the edge of her shorts to the side as she guides me inside her slick core.
My hands slide up her back, down her sides, around her thighs. I kiss her like I’m starving for it because I am.
The porch swing groans with each shift, each roll, and I don’t care if the whole damn world hears it. Let them. She’s here, and she’s mine.
Her breath hitches, and I know she’s close. So am I. The pressure is maddening, the friction just right.
Ivy moans against my mouth, and I lose it.
My release crashes through me, teeth clenched, muscles straining as I bury my face in her neck and hold on. She gasps—then follows—hips trembling as her body arches into mine, perfect and powerful.
We stay like that for a long time. Tangled. Breathing hard. Sweating under the stars.
She kisses my jaw and laughs, soft and low as I rip my T-shirt off and use it to clean between her legs.
“I think the swing survived.”
I chuckle, chest still tight. “Barely.”
She rests her forehead against mine. “Next time, bed?”
“Definitely,” I groan.
She climbs off me slowly, body sated, cheeks flushed. She dashes inside, then returns in a blink. She reaches for her notebook and pencil, and curls up beside me again like she never left.
And when she starts humming again—soft and low—I swear, the rest of the world fades to black.
Just us. Just this.
Just Ivy writing her next song under the summer sky.