“Soren?” I call out, hesitant.
“Come in, Ivy,” he says, voice calm, as if he left the door ajar to pique my interest and lure me into whatever this is.
A lair of some sort, perhaps.
Inside, a long walnut desk stretches beneath a window, an aerial view of distant rooftops laid out beyond. Three monitors glare in perfect alignment—green lines of code scrolling in crisp columns, each character precise and unwavering.
I lean against the frame. “You work in here?” My voice softens to match the hush.
“Sometimes,” he says, not looking up. The single word hangs between us, filling the space completely.
I shuffle closer, guided by some invisible thread. His swivel chair turns with a quiet click. I slide onto its edge, perched against him. As I settle, his hand finds my hip, its weight warm and firm against my jeans, anchoring me.
Glow from the screens dances across his cheekbones, catching in the angles of his jaw. He’s absorbed, calm, every breath measured. It should feel intimidating—those lines of code, the precision of his workspace—but instead I feel steadied, as if my thoughts line up in neat rows just watching him.
I don’t know exactly what he does—takes care of things, he said when I asked—but I know it involves computers. Technology. The odd trip on a private jet.
And I don’t feel the need to become enmeshed in his day-to-day work life. If he wants to tell me, I know he will. On his own terms.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, fingers pressing gently into my side.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like it in here,” I say, my voice barely above the hum of the machines.
His thumb drifts in small circles. “Why?”
I blink at the monitors, searching. “It feels… enclosed,” I finally admit. “As if nothing floating around in my head can escape.”
He glances at me, eyes unreadable in the screen-light. “It’s designed that way.”
I glance at him, suddenly nervous. “Soren, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
He nods. “The messages?”
My mouth opens and then closes. “How do you?—”
“Ivy, I told you—I’ve got you,” his voice is low as his fingers massage the back of my neck. I tilt into his grip as he undoes the knots built by the tension from anticipation leading to this conversation. “I do appreciate you telling me, though. It seems you learned your lesson after all.” He smirks.
“So what should I do?”
“Nothing.” His reply is instant. “It’s already being handled. You don’t need to think about it. That’s my job.”
I don’t know exactly what that means, but in the moment it’s easier not to question it. The thought of the messages stopping is comforting, and that’s all I really need to know to look forward to.
So instead of asking more questions, I just lean into him, fitting my hip against his. His arm slides around my waist, more secure than before but no tighter.
Just enough to remind me where I belong.
By evening we’re on the couch, work completed for the day for both of us, the living room dark except for the last ember of sunset leaking through the blinds. No TV slashing light across the walls or music threading through the quiet. Only the soft weight of us together.
I curl against him, my legs tucked under, my head resting on the rise of his chest. His arm curves around my shoulders, palm resting at my collarbone. I pull my fingers along the weave of his sweater, tracing the path again and again without realizing it.
Time drifts. My breaths slow to match the rise and fall of his ribcage. “I feel different here,” I say after what might be minutes.
His hand stills on my arm. “How?”
I close my eyes, tasting the silence. “Calmer,” I whisper. “Like my mind finally stops racing.”
I lift my hand and brush his chest, fingertips sliding over the textured fabric. He shifts, guiding my face with gentle pressure at my jaw, tilting me toward him. His other hand presses lightly to my hip.