Chapter 6 - Owen #2
She's not wrong. There are books on shelves, books stacked on the coffee table, books piled next to an overstuffed armchair that looks like the most comfortable thing I've ever seen.
But it's not messy. It's lived in. Cozy.
The kind of place that actually feels like a home instead of just somewhere to sleep between shifts.
My apartment looks like a hotel room by comparison.
"I love it," I say honestly.
"You're just saying that."
"I'm really not." I take in the details: the throw blanket draped over the couch, the mug on the side table with a bookmark sticking out of it, the framed photos on the mantle above a small fireplace. "It looks like you, Ivy. It feels like you."
She bites her lip, that nervous habit again, and looks away. "The kitchen's this way. For the tea."
I follow her into a small kitchen that's exactly as she described. Two dishes in the sink, a couple of cookbooks on the counter, a calendar on the wall with neat handwriting marking library events and what looks like a Sunday dinner.
She fills a kettle with water and sets it on the stove, then pulls out two mugs from a cabinet. Her hands are shaking slightly.
"Ivy," I say gently. "You don't have to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're shaking."
"I'm cold." It's not a convincing lie.
I move closer, but not too close. Giving her space. "Talk to me. What's going on in that spreadsheet of yours?"
She lets out a shaky laugh. "There are too many variables. Too many unknowns."
"Like what?"
"Like... what happens tomorrow? You're only here for the weekend, and then you go back to the city, and I stay here. And we'll text for a while, maybe talk on the phone, but eventually, you'll get busy with work, and I'll get busy with the library, and we'll just... fade."
"We don't have to fade."
"Everyone fades, Owen. That's what people do." She's not looking at me, focusing intently on arranging the tea bags in the mugs. "I've watched it happen my whole life. People say they'll keep in touch, they'll visit, they'll call. And then they don't."
"I will."
"You say that now—"
"No, Ivy. Listen to me." I move close enough that she has to look at me.
"I've spent fifteen years thinking about you.
Fifteen years comparing every woman I met to a memory of you.
Do you really think I'm going to just fade away now that I've actually gotten to know you?
Now that I know the reality is even better than the memory? "
Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "You don't know that yet. You've known me for four hours."
"And every one of those hours has confirmed what I already knew.
" I reach up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"That you're kind, and thoughtful, and funny in this quiet way that catches me off guard.
That you see beauty in small things, like autumn leaves and good books and probably this kettle that's about to whistle. "
As if on cue, the kettle starts to whistle. Ivy turns off the stove and pours water into the mugs, and I watch her hands steady as she focuses on the task.
"Chamomile," she says, handing me a mug. "It's supposed to be calming."
"Do you need calming?"
"I need something." She leads me back to the living room, and we sit on the couch, her on one end, me on the other.
We sip our tea in silence for a moment. It's good. Floral and soothing, exactly what chamomile should be.
"On your spreadsheet," I say. "What's in the pro column?"
She's quiet for so long I think she's not going to answer. Then: "You."
My heart stops. "Me?"
"Everything about you is in the pro column. The way you look at me. The way you talk about your patients like they're people instead of just cases. The way you kept my book for fifteen years." She's staring into her tea like it holds answers. "The way you make me feel seen."
"And the cons?"
"Fear, mostly. Fear that I'm not enough. Fear that you'll realize you built me up too much in your head and the real me is disappointing. Fear that I'll fall completely in love with you—" She cuts herself off, eyes widening like she can't believe she just said that.
I set my mug down on the coffee table. "Ivy."
"I didn't mean—"
"Will fall? Or already have?"
She closes her eyes. "I can't answer that."
"Why not?"
"Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it's real, it can hurt me."
I move closer, taking the mug from her hands and setting it next to mine. "Look at me."
She does, reluctantly.
"I can't promise this will be easy, or that long distance won't be hard, or that we won't have moments where we question everything." I take her hands in mine. "But I can promise that I will try. Every single day, I will try to be worth the risk you're taking on me."
"Owen—"
"I'm in love with you, Ivy Rose. I have been since I was seventeen years old.
And sitting here in your living room, drinking tea, seeing how you've built this beautiful life for yourself…
I'm even more in love with you now." I squeeze her hands.
"So, whatever you're afraid of, whatever's in that con column, I need you to know that I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
She's crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I've waited my whole life to hear someone say things like that to me. And now that you are, I don't know what to do with it."
"You don't have to do anything. Just let yourself feel it." I reach up, wiping away her tears with my thumb. "Let yourself believe that someone sees you and wants you exactly as you are."
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know. Me too."
"You're not scared. You're brave. You told me how you felt without hesitation."
"Are you kidding? I was terrified. I still am. Because you could still tell me no. You could still decide I'm not worth the risk." I smile softly. "But I decided being scared was better than spending another fifteen years wondering what if."
She's looking at me with those hazel eyes, and I can see her processing, thinking, weighing her options on that mental spreadsheet.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "The pros are winning."
"Yeah?"
"By a lot." She takes a shaky breath. "I'm in love with you too. I have been since that day on your porch when we talked about Jane Eyre and you actually listened to me ramble about the Bronte sisters like it mattered."
Everything stops. The world, my heart, time itself.
"Say that again," I breathe.
"I'm in love with you, Owen Harper. I have been for fifteen years. And it terrifies me because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be someone's person. I don't know how to be enough for someone like you."
"Ivy, you're already enough. You're more than enough." I pull her closer, and she comes willingly, until there's no distance between us anymore. "Can I kiss you?"
Her breath catches. "I… I've never…"
"I know. We don't have to. I just wanted to ask."
"No, I want to. I just don't know if I'll be any good at it."
I smile, cradling her face in my hands. "There's no good or bad. There's just us."
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
I lean in slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to pull away. But she doesn't. She meets me halfway, and when our lips touch, it's gentle and sweet and perfect.
She tastes like chamomile tea and hope, and when she sighs against my mouth, something in my chest clicks into place. Like a piece of me I didn't know was missing has finally come home.
When we finally pull apart, she's looking at me with wonder.
"Wow," she says.
"Yeah." I'm grinning like an idiot. "Wow."
"That was my first kiss."
"I'm honored."
"At thirty-three years old, I just had my first kiss. That's pathetic."
"That's perfect. Because it means every first from here on out, we get to do together." I kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips again quickly. "And for the record, you're very good at it."
She laughs, and it's that real laugh I love. "You're biased."
"Extremely. And I plan to stay that way." I pull her against my side, and she fits there like she was made for it. "So, what happens now?"
"I have no idea. I didn't plan this far ahead."
"What does your spreadsheet say?"
"My spreadsheet is officially closed. I'm winging it from here."
"Look at you. Being spontaneous."
"Don't get used to it. This is terrifying."
"Want to be terrified together?"
She tilts her head up to look at me. "Yeah. I really do."
We sit there on her couch, tea forgotten, holding each other like we're afraid to let go. And maybe we are. Maybe we're both scared of what happens next, of all the unknowns and variables.
But for now, in this moment, we're enough.
And that's all that matters.