CHAPTER 43
IVY
Idon’t notice the shift at first.
It arrives quietly, slipping beneath everything else, settling into the spaces between moments until it starts shaping them without permission. Like friction has been removed from something I didn’t realize was grinding.
The days don’t start anymore. They don’t have edges. No second-guessing trails my thoughts.
Everything just flows.
I wake when Soren shifts beside me, my body responding before my mind does, pulled toward him without thought. I’m not fully conscious—just aware enough to feel his hand already there, sliding over me, drawing me closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there was never any distance to begin with.
“Drink.” The word is low, close to my ear. The glass is already there, condensation fresh on its outer surface. Cool against my fingers when I reach for it, even though I don’t remember deciding to move.
Always.
I don’t question it anymore. I don’t think about why it’s there, or when it started. I just drink. Slowly. Automatically. Set it back down where he expects it to go.
His hand follows the movement, sliding along my arm, deliberate, making my body soften without asking permission.
By the time I set the glass down, he’s already moving. Pulling me gently back against him. His arm drapes across my waist like it belongs there. “Up in ten,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re tired.”
I frown slightly. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” A pause. His hand slides slowly up my arm, then back down. Grounding. “You’ll feel it if you wait.”
I don’t argue, even though I hate it and want to fight him. Because I already know he’s right.
Ten minutes later, like clockwork, I feel it. The heaviness. The slight fog. The way my body starts to drag just a little.
And I get up, as per his instructions. Not because I’m tired. Because it feels right.
Because the moment he says it, the world narrows back down into something warm, held. I sink into it without resistance.
I’ve gotten used to eating when he expects me to. The food is usually there before I realize I’m hungry. My body responds the second I start, warmth spreading through me in that same familiar way.
It’s easier to take what’s given than to pause and decide for myself.
And it feels better.
That morning, though, I skip breakfast. It’s not intentional. I just wake up slower than usual, the light already spilling through the curtains in soft, pale streaks. My body heavy in a way that makes it difficult to move right off the bat.
For a while, I stay where I am, stretched out across the bed, suspended in that quiet space where nothing is required of me yet.
Where he isn’t touching me.
The thought comes and goes before I can catch it.
Eventually, I push myself up, moving through the routine without thinking, still wrapped in that strange, detached calm. By the time I reach the kitchen, he’s already there. Coffee made. Breakfast half-finished.
The space smells warm. Controlled. Intentional. Like everything is exactly where he wants it. There’s something about that—about the way he occupies the space before I even arrive—that usually settles me.
But today, it sharpens my awareness instead.
“Morning,” I say, my voice softer, almost tentative as I move past him toward the counter.
He looks at me, and something in his expression changes. It’s subtle—almost imperceptible. But I feel it immediately, like a shift in pressure before a storm. “You need to eat.” Not a question.