Ivy
Hampton, Virginia
The music fills the garage, echoing softly off the walls—strings and piano, something slow and aching.
I move through it.
Turn. Extend. Breathe.
The concrete beneath my pointe shoes is unforgiving, but I welcome it. I need the focus. The control. The precision.
Everything else feels too loud lately. Too close. Too heavy.
But this, this I understand.
My arms float up, muscles burning as I hold the position a second longer than I should. My calf trembles as I rise en pointe again, pushing through the strain, through the ache, through the sharp pull at my ankle.
Good.
I want to feel it.
A slow turn. Another. My wrap skirt flutters lightly against my thighs, sticking in places where sweat has soaked through my leotard. My hair is mostly fallen from its bun, strands clinging to the damp skin at the back of my neck.
I don’t stop.
I don’t think.
I just move.
I’m thankful for the quiet. For the solace.
Because there are no overly worried ex-husbands I worry I’ll never fully get over or sweet three-year-olds who mean well but always need something or hot roommates who are clearly trying to mind their own business and failing or loving, suffocating best friends who know you’re not okay but haven’t figured out how to get you to admit that.
Hadley’s at preschool for a few more hours, which means for once the house is quiet. I caved and let Kyler convince me to move her to the one on base. And I hate to admit it but the added layer of security clearance required just to drive on is a comfort.
By the time the music begins to fade, my chest is heaving, lungs pulling in air that doesn’t feel like enough. Sweat slides down my spine, along my ribs, catching at the waistband of my tights.
I hold the final position for a beat longer than necessary.
Then I drop out of it, breathless.
And that’s when I feel it.
Not hear.
Feel.
Like the air in the room has tightened.
My head turns and my heart nearly stops.
Dalton is standing just inside the door from the kitchen.
Still.
Watching me.
I let out a sharp, startled sound, stumbling back off pointe so fast I nearly fall.
“Oh my—” I press a hand to my chest, breath coming too fast now for an entirely different reason. “How long have you been standing there?”
He raises his hands in surrender, making his dark green flight suit hug his biceps a little too well. “Not long,” he says, but there’s too much hesitation in it.
His eyes are still on me.
Not rushed. Not guilty.
Just…fixed.
And suddenly I’m very aware of what I look like.
Black leotard. Thin straps. Clinging to me from sweat. A tiny black wrap skirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that I’m essentially half dressed in the middle of his garage.
My pointe shoes are still tied, ribbons wrapped tight around my ankles.
I swallow.
“You scared me,” I say, pushing a loose strand of hair back with slightly unsteady fingers.
“I should’ve texted,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to.” He steps a little closer, not enough to crowd me—but enough that the space shifts. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
His gaze flicks over me again. Slower this time. Less surprised. More…deliberate.
Something warm curls low in my stomach.
“It’s fine,” I say, even though my pulse is still racing. “I just didn’t hear you.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. His eyes drift briefly toward the speaker in the corner. “I figured.”
There’s a pause. Then, “You’re good.” His voice is earnest, like he means the words he’s saying.
I blink, caught off guard.
“At dancing,” he adds, almost like he has to clarify it. But his eyes are still on me in a way that makes it feel like he’s not just talking about that.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Thanks,” I say, quieter now.
The moment stretches. Too long. Too aware.
I shift, suddenly conscious of everything—my breathing, the sweat on my skin, the way his gaze hasn’t quite let go of me yet. “You uh…” I clear my throat. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He drags a hand through his hair, like he’s resetting himself. “I forgot my lunch.”
I blink. “You drove all the way back here for that?”
He shrugs, but there’s something faintly distracted about it. “I kind of need to eat.”
I narrow my eyes slightly and put my hands on my hips. “Or you just wanted to check on me.”
That pulls something like a smirk from him. “That what you think?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “that you’re exactly the kind of person who would use a forgotten lunchbox as an excuse.”
He studies me for a second. Then turns and heads into the kitchen.
I follow.
And sure enough, sitting right in the middle of the butcherblock island is a lunchbox. Fully packed. And clearly forgotten.
“Well,” I mutter.
Dalton picks it up, glancing inside like he’s double-checking its existence.
“I stand corrected,” I finish.
He looks back at me then, a smirk on his handsome face.
And I feel it. The awareness. The fact that I’m still flushed from dancing. That sweat is sliding slowly down my exposed spine. That my leotard and tights are barely clothes and hide nothing. Especially not the hideous scars on my back.
“If I’d known,” I say, suddenly very interested in the condensation on my water bottle, “I could’ve brought it to you. I dropped Hadley off at preschool this morning.”
“It’s fine. Honestly, I only noticed an hour ago because Wells wanted to grab burgers but I knew I brought food. Then I realized it never made it to work with me.” He leans his hip against the counter, arms folding across his chest.
The movement pulls his flight suit tighter across his shoulders. Which, annoyingly, I notice.
“How long have you been dancing?” he asks.
“Since I was three. I did it professionally for a few years. But now I just use it to process and think. My head is always clear after and if it’s not, I didn’t dance long enough.”
His eyes narrow. “How long did you dance today?”
I glance at the clock on the oven and cringe. “Three hours.”
He nods, clearly reading into what I just said.
“Did you just finish flying?” I ask.
“I did.”
“Everything go okay?”
“Routine sortie.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“So,” I say lightly, forcing the moment to move on, “lunch crisis averted.”
“Looks like it.”
I push off the counter and take a long drink of water, careful to keep my back out of his view. “You should probably get back before someone realizes their star pilot disappeared.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “I’m pretty sure Logan’s still in the hangar.”
I shake my head. “And I’m pretty sure it’s not just Logan who’s extremely capable in the cockpit.”
“Wells is competent, too. Most of the time.” He smirks.
“Right.”
Another quiet beat stretches between us.
Then I shrug. “Well, Lieutenant, you should probably get back so Logan and Wells can teach you a thing or two.”
His eyes narrow slightly then he laughs. “Are you dismissing me?”
“I am.”
That gets a real smile out of him. He grabs his lunchbox and heads toward the door, pausing just before he steps into the garage. “Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
His gaze flicks over me one last time before settling on my face again.
There’s something different in it now. Less amused. More…focused.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a step back toward me. Not a big one. But enough that my breath catches. My grip tightens slightly around my water bottle. Dalton doesn’t stop there. Another step. Slow. Intentional. My heart starts pounding for an entirely different reason now.
“Dalton—” My voice comes out softer than I mean for it to.
He stops just in front of me.
Close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that if I leaned forward—
I don’t.
His eyes drop.
Not to my clothes this time.
To my mouth.
And my stomach flips so hard it’s almost dizzying.
I shouldn’t notice that. I definitely shouldn’t mirror it. But I do.
His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek, like he’s thinking. Deciding.
The air between us goes tight. Charged.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice rougher than it was a second ago, “you make it really hard to just come home for a lunchbox.”
My breath stutters. “Dalton…”
It’s barely a warning. Barely anything at all.
His gaze lifts back to mine. And for one suspended second, I think he’s going to do it. I think he’s going to close the distance and kiss me. Every part of me goes still, like I’m bracing for it. Waiting for it. Wanting—
Dalton exhales.
Sharp. Controlled.
And then he steps back.
And the space between us rushes back in, cool and empty and wrong.
His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s irritated with himself.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” he says, voice steadier now. Neutral again.
Like nothing just happened. Like I didn’t just almost—
“Yeah,” I manage. “You too.”
He huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh, then shakes his head once and turns away. “See you tonight, Ivy.”
And then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him. And I just stand there. Heart racing. Skin still warm where he was too close. Staring at the space between us like I can still feel it.
I force myself to leave the kitchen, glancing out the window as I pass.
It’s sunny outside, the zinnias in Dalton’s front garden beds in full bloom—soft pinks, deep reds, a few bursts of orange that refuse to be ignored.
He said he planted them weeks ago from seeds and now they’ve taken over the space, bright and unapologetic.
I should go clip a handful for a bouquet. I’m almost sure he wouldn’t mind.
I slow, already picturing where I’d set them on the table.
And then I stop.
Because sitting along the curb two doors down, half tucked beneath the shade of an oak tree, is the beat-up blue Honda.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like I’ve missed a step on a staircase.
I can’t see the license plate from here, but I don’t need to. I know the dent in the rear bumper. The faded patch of paint on the passenger-side door. I’ve seen that car enough times now to recognize it instantly.
I notice everything, even things that shouldn’t matter. It’s a coping mechanism, though not a healthy one. It’s more like paranoia.
This is the same car. I’m positive.
The same one I saw right after I drove off base.
The same one from the Trader Joes parking lot.
My pulse roars in my ears.
I rip the rattan shades closed so hard they slap against the window frame, my fingers clumsy as adrenaline spikes sharp and fast through my bloodstream. My breath comes shallow, too quick, my chest tightening in a way that feels terrifyingly familiar.
Phone.
I need my phone.
I spin in a frantic circle before remembering I left it in the garage beside my speaker. The short walk feels endless, every shadow stretching longer than it should, every sound too loud.
I yank open the door, grab my phone from the concrete floor, and rush back inside, locking the door behind me with shaking hands.
Dalton answers on the second ring.
“Ivy?” His voice is instantly alert. Focused. “Are you okay?”
“It’s—it’s the…the car.” The words tangle in my throat, my teeth chattering so hard I have to force them apart.
“What the fuck? Where is it? Where are you?”
“I’m—I’m inside.” My voice trembles despite my effort to steady it. I press my palm flat against the cool kitchen counter. “Across the street. Two houses down.”
There’s a sharp rustle on his end, the unmistakable shift of movement.
“I’m turning around,” he says immediately, voice tight in a way I’ve never heard before. “I’ll be there in five minutes, Ivy. Stay on the phone with me.”
My gaze flicks back toward the window even though the shade is closed, dread coiling tighter in my chest.
“What if they see me?” I whisper.
“They won’t,” Dalton says firmly. “You’re inside. Doors locked. I’m almost there.”
Almost there.
I cling to the words, even as my mind betrays me—flashes of crumbling buildings, muffled voices, the constant awareness of unseen eyes.
Waiting.
Watching.