Chapter 3
IVY
Midnight Messages
By the time I’m done for the day, I’ve given up on finding my phone. I drive home to my tiny apartment, exhausted, frustrated, and very much phoneless. I collapse onto the couch and stare at the ceiling, wondering how my first day could have gone so spectacularly wrong.
At least it can’t get worse.
I manage to distract myself for a bit—shower, leftovers, mindless pacing—anything but sitting still with my thoughts. The knock on my door comes at seven p.m., right as I’m debating whether crying into a pint of ice cream qualifies as a coping strategy.
Sloane stands in the hallway, wild curls doing their own thing like they haven’t seen a comb in weeks.
She’s holding my phone.
“You,” she says, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “are not going to believe this.”
My heart leaps. “You found it! Where was it?”
“A man called me.” She steps inside, still grinning. “A very handsome man. His voice is deep and sexy. His looks are a hundred percent. He probably has abs that you can grate cheese on…”
“Sloane. Focus.”
“Right, right.” She hands me the phone. “Apparently, he found this outside the facility—said it was lying on the sidewalk or something—so he called to arrange a pickup.”
Outside the facility? Did I go outside and drop my phone there? That doesn't make sense. But maybe I'm misremembering. The whole morning is a blur of embarrassment.
“Did he say anything else?”
She shrugs.
“Just that he wanted to make sure it got back to you safely.” Her grin turns wicked. “Oh, and he called himself ‘King.’”
“King?”
“Yeah.” She flops onto my couch, takes the ice cream, and wolfs it down. “Very intriguing, isn't it? I collected his number so you could thank him properly.”
She holds out a slip of paper with a number scrawled in her messy handwriting. I stare at it for a long while before taking it.
“Alright.”
The moment Sloane finishes the ice cream, she wipes her mouth and stands.
“I'd love to stay, but I've got to run. I'm meeting Dr. O'Connell early tomorrow to prep for a presentation.”
I stand and hug her. “Thank you.”
She smiles, then leaves.
I pick up my phone and type so I can get the thank-you text done with and forget about it.
Ivy:
Hi, this is Ivy. My friend said you found my phone. Thank you so much for returning it. I really appreciate it.
The response comes almost immediately:
King:
The pleasure was all mine. I couldn't leave a damsel in distress phoneless. That would be unchivalrous.
I blink at the screen. Unchivalrous? A giggle escapes before I can stop it. Who even talks like that?
And yet… it makes me smile.
As we keep texting, something in me slowly loosens.
King asks about my work—always a surefire way to get me talking—and the conversation just… flows. It’s nice. Really nice.
Talking to him feels easy. There’s no pressure, no need to be charming or impressive. I can just be me.
I admire him for taking care of his siblings. He sounds like a genuinely good brother.
After a brief pause, a text comes in that makes me laugh out loud—actual sound escaping my mouth.
King:
Since it’s getting late and you now have my number, I think I should interview you properly. You know. For my safety.
I snort, shaking my head as I type.
Ivy:
Your safety? I’m five-two and 110 pounds, King. I think you’ll survive a text conversation.
King:
It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. First question: Are you a native New Yorker?
I smile at my screen.
Ivy:
Close. Westchester. My parents are both doctors, so the house was less "home" and more "prep school for the gifted." Moving to the city for my PhD was my big act of rebellion.
I pause, wondering if that sounded dramatic. It felt dramatic at the time.
His reply comes fast.
King:
Moving 45 minutes away for more school? Watch out, we’ve got a real outlaw on our hands.
I laugh again, this time softer, smiling despite myself.
Ivy:
It felt like a big deal at the time! My parents were disappointed I didn't choose neurosurgery. Biomechanics was "too niche" for them.
That word still stings more than I like to admit.
There’s a beat before his response, long enough that I wonder if I overshared.
King:
Well, for what it's worth, I think the "niche" thing suits you. Most people are boring. You're... scientifically interesting.
My chest warms in a way that catches me off guard.
I glow at my phone like an idiot.
I mean, I know I’m interesting. Sloane knows I’m interesting. My work is endlessly fascinating to me. But to most people—especially my parents—it’s just something they tolerate politely before changing the subject.
And here’s this man I’ve never met, calling it interesting. Calling me interesting.
I tuck my knees closer to my chest on the couch, fingers hovering over the keyboard, suddenly very aware that this conversation feels… different. I can’t remember the last time anyone made me feel like that just by listening.
Ivy:
Can I ask you something slightly random?
I stare at the screen for half a second, suddenly weirdly nervous. Why do I care what he thinks?
King:
Go for it.
Okay. Here goes.
Ivy:
Why do you call yourself King?
The reply comes quickly, like he didn’t have to think about it.
King:
It’s an old nickname from high school.
I smile to myself. Of course it is.
Ivy:
Of course it is. Was it self-appointed or did other people start it?
King:
Sorry to disappoint you. It was other people. I didn’t exactly get a vote and I’m still embarrassed about it.
Ivy:
Embarrassed?
King:
High school versions of people are always a little embarrassing.
He’s not wrong. I send a laughing emoji, feeling strangely comforted knowing even someone like King has things he cringes over.
Ivy:
Okay, fair. I still reserve the right to make fun of it later, though.
King:
I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
Ivy:
So… what do you do now, King?
King:
I work a manual labor job. It’s very physically demanding. And chaotic.
I tilt my head, considering that. It’s not what I expected—and somehow that makes it more interesting.
Ivy:
Construction? That sounds hard. Do you like your job?
King:
Most days, I love it. It’s demanding. High-pressure.
Ivy:
And other days?
King:
Other days… it takes more than it gives.
I feel that land somewhere in my chest.
Ivy:
That sounds familiar.
The dots appear almost instantly.
King:
Yeah? Your work do that too?
Ivy:
All the time. Some days I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. Other days I wonder if I chose the hardest possible version of my life on purpose.
I bite my lip after sending it. That was… honest.
King:
I think people like us don’t know how to choose the easy road. We wouldn’t trust it if we did.
Ivy:
Maybe you’re right.
I glance at the clock and realize how late it’s gotten. How easily the time slipped by.
Ivy:
I should probably try to sleep. Big day tomorrow.
The dots appear. Linger.
King:
Same here. But I’m glad we talked.
I smile at my phone like an idiot.
Ivy:
Me too. Goodnight, King.
A beat.
King:
Goodnight, Ivy.
I set the phone down, my heart warm and restless all at once.
King is charming, thoughtful, and genuinely interested in what I have to say.
And for the first time all day, I’m not thinking about green eyes and a devastating smirk.