Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
“Are you tired?” Ivy asks, her golden eyes still locked with mine. I can’t tell if she's trying to change the subject or genuinely asking if she’s keeping me up.
“Not really. Are you?”
“I don’t think I could sleep if I tried,” she says on a slow exhale, like the words carry more weight than she wants them to.
“Watch a movie with me then,” I say. “We can turn on something mindless. Talk if you want…not talk if you don’t.”
She tilts her head slightly, considering, her long blonde hair slipping forward into her face. She tucks it behind her ear absently, still thinking.
“Okay,” she agrees softly. “What movie?”
“You choose.”
She steps past me, bare feet quiet against the floor, moving with the kind of effortless grace that always reminds me she spent most of her life in a studio, in front of mirrors, under stage lights. There’s something steadying about watching her exist in my space.
“I feel like this is a trick,” she says over her shoulder.
“No tricks.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Even The Devil Wears Prada?”
I scoff lightly, following her into the kitchen instead of answering right away. “I fucking love Meryl Streep.”
That earns a real smile.
She opens the cabinet finding the microwave popcorn and I lean back against the counter watching her. The domestic simplicity of the moment feels strangely intimate.
“You don’t have to impress me,” she says, tearing open the bag.
“I’m not. Meryl Streep is a national treasure.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head as she slides it into the microwave. The quiet hum fills the space between us and neither of us in a hurry to fill the silence.
The first pop echoes, then another, and soon the steady rhythm of popping kernels gives us something easy to focus on—something ordinary.
I hand her a bowl when the microwave beeps, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.
She doesn’t pull away immediately and neither do I.
We drift toward the couch together, the overhead lights dimmed low, the glow from the TV casting soft shadows across the room. She tucks her legs beneath her as she settles into the corner of the couch, leaving space for me beside her.
I sit close enough that our thighs touch.
She scrolls through the streaming menu, selecting the movie without another word, and the opening music fills the room.
Ivy pulls the throw blanket over her lap, then glances sideways at me.
“Are you actually going to pay attention?” she asks quietly.
“I resent the implication that I wouldn’t,” I reply, reaching for a handful of popcorn.
Her lips twitch.
A few minutes pass in comfortable silence, the soft rustle of the blanket, the quiet crunch of popcorn, the low hum of dialogue filling the space.
Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, she shifts closer.
It isn’t dramatic.
Just the subtle press of her shoulder against my arm at first.
Then her knee brushing mine beneath the blanket.
Then, after another quiet moment, she leans fully into me.
Her head rests just beneath my chin, fitting there like she’s always known the exact shape of the space.
I still without thinking, my arm automatically settling around her shoulders, pulling her just a little closer.
She exhales softly, the tension in her body easing as her weight relaxes against me. I keep my arm around her, thumb moving slowly along her upper arm, not wanting to disturb the fragile calm that’s finally settled over her. She went through hell and reliving it couldn’t have been easy.
“You okay?” I murmur softly.
She nods against my chest but doesn’t lift her head. “My brain isn’t,” she admits quietly. “It won’t shut off.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That makes sense.”
She shifts slightly, curling closer instead of pulling away. Her knee slides between mine, her fingers drifting idly under my shirt and along my ribs like she’s not entirely aware she’s doing it.
“I don’t think I want to try to sleep yet,” she says after a moment.
“You don’t have to.”
She tilts her head back enough to look at me, amber eyes still a little distant but clearer than they were earlier.
“You don’t mind saying up with me?”
“Of course not.”
Her fingers find my hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The contact sends a quiet tension through me.
I don’t push. Don’t assume. Don’t rush her.
Her thumb brushes slowly over my knuckles.
“I want that, too,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on the muted glow of the television.
“What?” I ask gently.
“Something serious and real with you.”
I turn slightly toward her. “Good because you’re not someone I could ever be casual about.”
Her gaze lifts to mine then, searching carefully. “You’re very sure of that.”
“Yes.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she’s weighing something internally.
She gets even closer, her hand sliding lightly along my jaw, fingertips warm against my skin. “You’re very calm for someone who just had a Special Forces operator basically threaten him,” she says softly.
“I didn’t feel threatened.”
“No?”
“No.”
She gives me a soft smile. “Good.”
Her fingers linger at my jaw a second longer. Then she leans in and kisses me. The kiss is soft at first, exploratory, but there’s nothing uncertain about it. No hesitation in the way her hand slides lightly to the back of my neck, the way she inches closer.
My hand settles carefully at her waist, giving her time to pull back if she wants to. Her fingers slide into my hair as the kiss deepens, unhurried but unmistakably purposeful. “I’ve wanted to do this all night,” she admits softly between kisses.
“Just tonight?” I ask.
Her lips brush mine again, a hint of a smile in the movement. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
I huff a quiet laugh before kissing her again, deeper this time. She climbs easily into my lap, movements fluid and natural, like she’s done overthinking and decided to just feel something good for once.
My hands settle along her waist, giving her every opportunity to set the pace. She does. Confident. Unhurried. Intentional.
The movie continues playing in the background, long forgotten as she draws me closer, her touch warm and certain despite everything she shared earlier.
There’s nothing fragile about her now. Nothing hesitant. Just trust. Just want. Just the quiet understanding that whatever this is it isn’t temporary.
Her fingers lace with mine briefly before guiding my hand back to her waist, silent permission.
My mouth finds hers again, slower this time, deeper, her breath catching softly as the kiss lingers.
“I don’t want to think tonight,” she whispers.
“Then don’t.”