My pulse is still racing. My thoughts are too loud. But underneath it, something else is already happening. That same pull. That same heat. Building. Responding. Even now. Even like this.
His hand slides slightly higher along my waist. He turns me slightly toward him, redirecting me. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I do anyway.
His eyes lock onto mine. And everything else drops, enough to relieve the tension so I lose the urge to race out the door. “That’s better,” he murmurs.
My breath falters. Because that shift happens so fast. An unstoppable trajectory from resistance to tension to release. My body is on autopilot and my mind has no option to intervene.
His other hand comes up, fingers brushing along my jaw, steadying me. Not asking. Never asking. “You don’t need anything out there,” he says. Quiet. Certain.
My chest rises too fast. “That’s not true,” I whisper, but it feels thin. Weak, like I don’t fully believe it.
His thumb presses lightly under my jaw, tilting my head just enough. “You’re fine here.”
My stomach twists. Because I know this is wrong. And still, I’m not moving. I’m not fighting the way I should be.
His hand is still on me. His body still close. His voice still steady.
And everything in me is starting to settle. That’s the worst part. Not the control, and the way he stopped me.
The way all of this works.
The way my body gives in before my mind catches up. The way I feel better. Safer here with him.
My fingers curl slightly against his shirt. I don’t mean to. It just… happens.
His gaze drops for half a second. Noticing. Of course he fucking notices, just like everything else. Then back to my eyes. And something in his expression shifts, certainty growing as he gazes at me. “There you are,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. Because I know what just happened. I gave in and stopped pushing. I chose to stay, and this time I can’t pretend I didn’t choose it. My chest tightens now, because I’m actually afraid. Not of what he might do, but of how deep I already am.
My breathing is uneven while I think too much and feel way too much, pressed between him and the wall. And sinking far deeper than I should be.
But then it hits me all at once. What he’s built me up to be in his mind. This symbol of perfection—this thing he thinks he wants but who doesn’t actually come close to the made-up thing he makes me out to be.
I cry out, unable to contain it. “That’s the fucking problem!”
“I don’t understand!” His eyes are wide.
“The way you’ve built me up in your head over the years, Soren. You’re obsessed with theideaof me. You don’t know theactualme at all!” Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I realize the truth in my words.
“Idoknow you,” he protests. “I know you better than anyone else! I’vestudiedyou. I knoweverythingabout you!” His voice is pained, like he’s taken aback that I’d doubt his devotion to learning me.
“But you put me up on some unrealistic fucking pedestal like I’m the woman of your dreams. And the truth is, I’m a real human being—flawed.Veryfucking flawed!” My voice is a roar. “I am a fuckingmess, Soren! A human disaster!”
I gulp in air and force my breath to slow.
“I have layers and layers of trauma that it would take twelve therapists and two hundred years to dissect. I’mfarfrom healed.” I pause, pinching my lips together and jutting my jaw, furious now. Keen to prove my point. “And—what you need to realize—is that I maynever, everbe! And I’m sure as hell never going to live up to the fake image in your head that you’ve imagined me into! Because that’s not fucking me!”
Tears roll freely now, sobs wracking my body. I feel so hopeless, like this was doomed to fail. Because how could I ever be like the Ivy he’s imagined—that he’s dreamed about and twisted in his fucked up mind for literal years.
I’m sure she’s poised and always knows the right thing to say. She’d never freak out over something small. Never have a random, inexplicable mood swing in the middle of the grocery store, or a panic attack over something minor. How could I ever live up to that? I’m a train wreck on a good day.
“Hey,” he says, pulling me to him. “Come here.”
I cry more now, leaning into his chest which feels like a small comfort to my distress. Pissed at myself for letting him physically comfort me. I have the urge to gouge his eyes out with red-hot pokers, but I’m letting him wrap me into his body with his big, strong arms.