Especially my parents.
It’s as if even strangers can sense that I was born out of pain. Or maybe—if I’m real with myself—that’s a wound I carry, and I project it onto other people’s behavior. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
But around Soren, it’s different. I can let things drop. I can fail and it’s not a testament to my entire character. And it’s like he doesn’t just tolerate the worst parts of me—he’s… interested in them—captivated, almost. The way he pays attention, the way he turns things over in his head, like he’s studying something rare and precious, instead of something broken.
I should be afraid of that. In fact, I reallyshouldleave.
Because if I’ve learned anything from past relationships, it’s that the moment something feels even slightly off, you go.
You don’t wait to see how bad it can get.
But “normal” hasn’t exactly worked out for me. Normal is what left me crying in the street with nowhere to go. Normal is what made me feel small. Replaceable. Easy to discard.
Soren doesn’t look at me like that—he never has. Sometimes, it feels like he truly thinks of me as his. The way he says it, as if it’s not just some cute comment to convey that he likes me or wants to be with me. It’s like he’s decided that he owns me.
At first, it made something in me recoil. Like I should push back, correct him, remind him that I’m not something that belongs to anyone. Maybe that’s just a natural reaction for someone for whom belonging is a foreign concept, something that’s always been fake before. My body is just scanning for threat and attacking anything that seems to be one, even though it usually ends up being at my own expense.
He always listens to me—not distracted, not half-present. Fully. Like what I say lands exactly where it’s meant to.
I’ve never known this until him. I’m used to the half-distracted guys, the ones who zone in and out even when you’re talking about something important. The ones whose eyes glaze over and their heads nod as they pass out from too much wine—who think it’s funny to admit they’re only listening to part of what you say.
But Soren is attentive. He leans in, makes eye contact. Asks relevant follow-up questions. I rarely have to repeat myself.
I’ve noticed that his touches last longer now, too. A hand at my waist as I pass him. His fingers lingering at the back of my neck, or brushing my wrist as he hands me something. His thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against my skin like he’s mapping something out. The light pressure at the back of my neck when he wants my attention focused on him.
How when he kisses me, it’s not as quick as before. He takes his time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s learned how I’ll respond.
And I do. Every time.
My body reacts before I can think about it. Before I can decide or question. It’s automatic, no pause between the guidance and my response. My body turns when he guides it, stops when he redirects it, settles where he positions it. The movement feels continuous—unbroken, like I’ve stepped into a current that’s carrying me forward. Each contact directs something. And I follow.
I don’t precisely remember when it started, and I don’t remember choosing it or initiating it. But I remember how it felt. There’s a flicker of something in my memory. A fragment. His hand on my wrist. His voice low in my ear. The feeling of being pulled closer. Warm, safe and certain. And that seems more important.
The changes in me have started to stack. And it’s not just the response to his careful direction, it’s a general response to—him.My shoulders loosen whenever he enters the room, the tension leaving them before I consciously register him. My breathing deepens when he gets close, the shift happening automatically, like my body recognizes his proximity as something safe to settle into. Heat gathers low in my stomach at the smallest things. His voice when he says my name. The brush of his fingers against my skin. The way he looks at me when I’m not expecting it. Thereaction is physical, immediate, and it builds without asking permission, layering over itself until it becomes something steady and present.
And with this being fully present, he’s earned my trust. If I want something, I go to him—no hesitation. If something shifts inside me—something quiet, something I would’ve previously turned over and softened before speaking, now I just say it.
He’s always right, too. About how I’m feeling and what I need, pre-empting me even feeling or needing it in the first place. He anticipates me better than I anticipate myself, as if he’s even more aware of me than I am.
I’ll be honest—that does create a level of uncertainty… it leaves me wondering if I’m being tended to but also formed. It makes me wonder how much of what I do these days is my intention—my true desire—and how much is shaped by his suggestion. Am I being manipulated?
But then again, does it even matter if he’s acting in my best interests and I’m happy at the end of the day? Because goodness knows, I love a spot of self-sabotage.
Why can you never just be happy, Ivy? Why do you always have to conjure something up in your mind to ruin it?
Because that’s what it feels like I’m doing—ruining something pretty fucking copacetic.
It’s bottom-feeding—self-sabotage that has me looking for the lowest vibration. The thing to keep me trapped in a stasis where I focus on the negative.
It’s a threat mechanism, designed to keep me scanning for danger, locked in a loop of never realizing true happiness.
Because happiness makes you soften, it makes you weak. It makes you susceptible to loss.
And I’ve always been good at ruining things.
Stop it, Ivy. Focus on all the good that’s happening here.
It’s not like his behavior should come as a shock. Soren’s clearly an intense guy—about everything. Look at the way he treats his spiders, for fuck’s sake. He believes in doing thingswell, properly—that much is clear—and that extends to taking care of me.