Chapter 31 #2
“Great,” I say, trying to conceal a flicker of pain at my sudden excitement. “When can I go back to dance training?”
Dane’s hold tightens on me. “Ivy, slow down.”
“What?” I bristle. “I’m fine.” Straightening, I immediately regret it; the pain so intense that my breath hitches. I smooth it over before either of them can comment. “I just don’t want to lose momentum.”
The nurse glances at Dane, a small, knowing smile touching her mouth, then looks back at me.
“Your scans look good,” she says gently. “But this was a high-impact collision. Between the concussion symptoms and the rib bruising, you’re looking at three to four weeks before returning to training.”
My heart sinks when I think of how hard I worked to get my latest role. I can only hope they don’t replace me, as being ready for opening night will be their priority.
“And you’re sure she’s fine to go today?” Dane says, the lines on his forehead deepening.
The nurse smiles at him. “Yes. With supervision. No driving. No stairs if you can help it. And rest means rest.”
“I’m excellent at supervising,” he says.
I snort and immediately regret it, hissing as my ribs protest.
“There it is,” he says, eyes twinkling. “The attitude survived.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
The nurse leaves, and Dane helps me dress slowly, methodically, like we’re not in a rush to be anywhere except together. When I sway, he steadies me without comment, one hand warm and solid at my back.
On the way out, he keeps a hand on my elbow. Outside, the city seems louder than it should, like someone cranked up the volume. When a car passes too close, my breath catches.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, fingers threading through mine.
On the drive out of the city, I’m quieter.
The road opens up, wet and gray, and every sudden brake light makes my stomach knot. Dane notices before I say anything. He reaches over and laces our fingers together.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
I nod, swallowing. “I know. It’s just... my body hasn’t caught up yet.”
“It will,” he says. “We’ll give it time.”
My phone buzzes, Jennie’s name flashing across my screen.
Jennie’s voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying all night. We talk quietly about things neither of us is ready to feel yet. I ask if she’s spoken to Brody’s parents. She hasn’t.
“I don’t know how to,” she whispers.
“Not today,” I say. “But you will.”
Before we hang up, I tell her I love her because in moments like this, it’s all that we’ve got. All the trivial stuff we worry about day to day just seems pointless.
Dane doesn’t ask questions when I end the call. He just squeezes my hand once and keeps driving.
The Catskills house feels like home as we drive up. Dane insists on carrying me inside despite my protests.
“I can walk.”
“You can,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
He lays me carefully on the sofa, cushions adjusted until I’m comfortable, then crosses the room to build the fire. When he comes back, the fire is going, flames licking gently at the hearth.
As he walks over, he still has that look in his eye like he still can’t quite believe I’m real, that I’m still here living and breathing.
I close my eyes and listen to the fire crackle and fizz when he disappears into the kitchen. He brings me food—soup, toast—and sits beside me, feeding me careful spoonfuls when the angle makes my ribs ache.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
His mouth twitches. “Immensely.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, then groan, clutching my side.
“Don’t,” I warn him. “You’re actually dangerous.”
“Noted,” he says solemnly. “No jokes. Only stern reassurance.”
“That’s worse.”
Later, when the house has fully warmed, and my eyelids are heavy, he helps me upstairs. We lie facing each other in the dim light; the world narrowed down to the quiet between us.
His finger traces my cheek.
“Can I kiss you, baby?” he murmurs. “I’ll be gentle.”
I nod, barely more than a breath, and he’s already there—his mouth brushing mine as if he can’t quite help himself. It’s like a first kiss, slow and careful, testing me out, seeing how much he can take.
I shift toward him on instinct, and he feels it, his hand tightening at my waist to steady me. A low moan slips out—part pleasure, part pain—and he catches it instantly.
“Too much?”
“No,” I whisper, even as my breath shakes and I grit my teeth.
“So stubborn,” he says, his fingers brushing my lips.
“We need to take it slow. I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”
I close my eyes, his hand still warm against my cheek, and for the first time since the crash, my body believes it.
3 Weeks Later
The rain is so loud that it drowns out everything else.
I’m in the back seat, hands braced against the front seat, the road slick and shining under the headlights. The wipers can’t keep up. Water streaks the glass faster than they can clear it.
Brody is driving.
“Slow down,” I say. My voice sounds strange in my own ears—thin, swallowed by the storm. “Brody, please.”
The car fishtails. My hand claws at the seat in front of me.
“Stop,” I say, louder now. “Just stop the car.”
He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are rigid, his grip locked on the wheel. Then, slowly, he looks at me in the rearview mirror.
But it isn’t Brody anymore.
It’s Dane.
The same green eyes. The same mouth. The same expression I’ve learned to read too well.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
The headlights flare white. The world lurches—
I wake with a gasp, my body slick with sweat, my heart hammering hard enough to hurt.
For a second, I don’t know where I am. My chest burns with panic; the echo of the crash is still ringing in my ears.
Then I hear him.
Dane is asleep beside me, breathing slow and evenly. I reach for him without thinking, my hand pressing flat against his chest, right over his heart. I wait for the thump beneath my palm, solid and sure.
There.
Only then does my own breath begin to settle.
Outside, thunder rolls low and distant. Rain lashes the windows. Storms still do this to me—set my nerves on edge before anything even happens. The night Brody died, the sky had sounded like this, too.
I ease out of bed carefully, padding barefoot down the hall. The house is quiet, wrapped in darkness and howling wind. I fill a glass at the sink and carry it into the living room, stopping in front of the towering window that looks out over the lake.
Usually, the view is breathtaking. Tonight it’s wild.
Rain pelts the water hard enough to dimple the surface, thousands of ripples colliding and disappearing as fast as they form. The mountains beyond are half-lost in mist, their outlines blurred by the storm. I stand there longer than I mean to, watching the patterns come and go.
It’s been nearly three weeks since Dane brought me here. My ribs are mostly healed now. The headaches come less often. I’m moving more, doing more—long walks, light stretching, anything that reminds my body it still belongs to me.
Dane has barely left my side through all of it. Before, he kept himself closed off in ways I couldn’t quite reach, always holding something back. No matter how close we got, there was a part of him I never touched. Now it feels like he’s finally opened that door and handed me everything.
And his touch. It’s constant, grounding—hands in my hair, his fingers curled through mine, his lips brushing mine like he needs the contact as much as I do. I’ve never felt this close to anyone. Honestly, I’m going to miss this bubble we’re in when life returns to normal.
But we haven’t been without visitors. Charlotte and Julian come frequently.
And Elsie loves it here, especially outside, collecting stones by the lake and insisting on showing Dane each one like it’s the most important discovery she’s ever made.
The first time she came with Sloane, she latched onto Dane immediately, small fingers wrapped around his hand like she’d claimed him.
He didn’t seem to mind. He let her pull him from room to room, answering her questions seriously, kneeling to her level, steady and patient in a way that made my chest ache.
Jennie came too. Brought food I didn’t need and stayed longer than she probably planned. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed her until she was here.
In a couple of days, I’ll go back to the studio.
They kept my role open. Told me to take the time I needed. The thought of walking back into that space makes my stomach flutter with something close to fear, but also relief. Like I’m finally stepping forward again.
Another roll of thunder shakes the windows, and I shiver, hugging myself tight.
As my physical health returned, conversely, the nightmares became more vivid.
More real. I try to fight the tears, but they always come, hot and salty.
I see one drop on the wooden floor by my bare feet, forming a circle like the rain on the lake.
“Ivy?” His voice carries from the hallway, tearing through the silent dark.
A heartbeat later, his footsteps echo down the hall. The living room door flies open. “Jesus, baby, I woke up, and you were just...” His words cut off in a rush of breath, a sound of pure relief. I feel him before I see him. His heat at my back.
I’m shivering. I’m only wearing his old, soft t-shirt, the hem brushing my thighs, and nothing else. The storm outside decorates the night in streaks of silver and violent purple, the rain lashing the wall of glass I’m staring through. My face is wet, too.
His thumbs stroke the tight cords of my shoulders. “What’s up, baby?” he murmurs into my hair, his voice low and sleep-rough.
“I had a nightmare,” I whisper, my voice a thin thread. “It’s nothing.”
“You should have woken me.” His lips press against the crown of my head.
I give a watery half-laugh, finally turning my head enough to see his shadowed profile. “Looks like I did.”
He doesn’t laugh. His hands slide down my arms, a slow, possessive caress. Then his mouth finds the side of my neck, just below my ear. A press of warm lips. Then another, lower, following the line of my throat.
The tears come faster, hot and silent. He kisses them away as they trail down my cheeks, his lips a soft murmur at my ear. “It’s okay, baby, I’m here.”
I turn fully then, my back against the cool glass. The storm is a wild painting behind me. Dane’s face is all concern, all fierce love in the semi-darkness. He runs his fingers along my jaw, tracing the path his kisses just took. His eyes search mine, seeing the ghost of the dream I can’t shake.
The need is sudden. A physical ache, to replace the cold fear with his heat. To feel alive, not broken.
My hands come up, gripping the hem of my shirt. I pull it up over my stomach; the air kissing my bare skin.
He freezes. “Ivy... what are you doing?”
My voice is steadier than I feel. “I want to feel you,” I say it simply. It’s the truest thing I know right now. “All of you.”
Worry clouds his beautiful eyes, but there’s heat there as his gaze slides over my body.
“What if I hurt you? The doctor said—”
“I’m fine now,” I insist, cutting him off.
“In two days, I’m going back to training.
” I step into him, closing the gap. I take his hand, his fingers slightly calloused, and place mine over his, guiding his palm up to cup my breast. His skin is so warm.
I arch into the touch, a soft sigh escaping me. “See? Perfectly fine.”
“Fuck Ivy,” he groans, a broken sound of surrender. “You damn well know you have me wrapped around your little finger.”
“Yeah?” I murmur against his lips, my hand sliding to the waistband of his loose boxers, pushing them down. He’s already hard as my fingers wrap around his length.
“Seems that I do,” I purr, feeling him thicken and pulse under my grip.
He hisses, taking a sharp intake of breath, and in one fluid motion, he bends, hooks an arm under my knees, and lifts me.
I cling to his neck, burying my face against his shoulder, inhaling his scent.
He sits on the couch, and I straddle him, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips.
We’re face-to-face. The only light is the frantic pulse of lightning outside, illuminating the stark hunger on his face, the desperate love in mine.
He guides himself to me, the blunt head nudging my entrance. I’m already wet, aching for him. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, his hands firm on my hips.
I stare straight into his wild eyes as I sink down, taking him in excruciatingly slow.
The stretch is perfect, a deep, burning fullness that pushes every ghost, every memory of pain, out of my mind.
There is only this. Only him. A low moan escapes me, long and shuddering, as I settle fully onto his lap, him buried deep inside me.
Then I begin to move. A gentle, rolling lift of my hips, then a slow, sensual sink back down.
I lean in, capturing his mouth with mine.
The kiss is tender, deep, a shared breath.
Our tongues slide together in time with the rhythm of our bodies.
His hands roam my back, his palms branding my skin. He shifts his angle, just slightly, and on my next downward slide, he brushes a spot inside me that makes my vision swim.
“Oh, God... right there,” I gasp, my rhythm faltering.
“I love you,” he says, the words a rough promise against my lips. “I love you so damn much.”
“I love you more,” I whisper, my hips finding a new, steady cadence.
I’m not sure how long we make love. Long enough for the first pale gold of dawn to creep over the mountain peaks and spill into the room.
Long enough to know I love every little thing about this man.
The way he saw through the version of myself I was pretending to be—and wanted what was underneath, anyway.
The way loving me hurt him.
And he stayed anyway.