“You post about your life,” he says, smooth and certain.
My stomach tightens. I try again. A different angle. “It’s just weird you measure your life by my movements.” I pause. “What about before that?”
He furrows his brow as he thinks back. “Before you cut your hair.”
My breath catches. I didn’t tell him that. Not like that. Not timed. But I guess I might have posted a selfie on social media. Ilet out a small laugh, but it doesn’t land right. “You’re being weirdly precise.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. “You like it shorter,” he says. “You just needed a reason to do it.”
Something cold slides under my skin. I swallow. “People don’t just know things like that.”
He watches me. “I know you,” he says. A beat. Then—“I always have.”
It hits harder than it should. My chest tightens. “That’s not—” I shake my head slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
Of course he would say that.
I push off the counter, needing space now. Actual space. “This is—” I exhale sharply. “I think I’m going to go out for a bit.” I turn toward the door, but I don’t get far.
His hand closes around my wrist. Firmer than before. Not enough to hurt, but enough to stop me.
My pulse spikes. “Soren?—”
“No.” The word is quiet. Flat.
Something in my chest drops. “I just said I was going out,” I push, turning slightly, trying to pull my wrist free.
His grip tightens. “That’s not happening.”
My breath catches, because his words land like correction. I tug again, sharper this time. “Soren, let go?—”
He moves, fast enough that I don’t get another step.
My back hits the wall. Not hard, but enough to knock the breath out of me.
His hand shifts from my wrist to my waist, holding me there, closing the space completely.
My pulse is racing now, my breaths sharp and uneven. “This is exactly what I mean,” I say, my voice thin. “You don’t just get to decide things for me.”
His gaze sharpens. Something in it changes. “You were always going to end up here.” The words land low and certain.
My stomach flips. “That doesn’t even mean anything,” I say, but it sounds weaker than I want it to.
His hand tightens at my waist. Not enough to bruise, but enough that I feel it. “You keep acting like this is something that’s happening to you,” he continues, quieter now. “Like you’re not part of it.”
My breath stutters. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” The interruption is immediate—clean and final. “You just don’t like that you can’t control it.”
Something in my chest spikes. “That’s not—” I shake my head, trying to push against him, create space?—
His grip shifts. Stronger. Holding me in place. “Ivy… stop.” The word lands heavier this time.
My body stills. I hate that it does. I hate that it keeps doing that.
“I learned you,” he continues, quieter now. “What you do when you’re alone. What you say when you think no one’s listening. What you reach for when things get bad.”