My gaze drifts over his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the faint scar there. I hadn’t noticed the one at this throat before, partially hidden beneath ink. Up close like this, they feel less like imperfections and more like markers. History I don’t yet know.
I try to recall whether he had them back in college, but our meeting was so fleeting that I have no idea. And it’s not like they’re something he’d post about on Facebook. In fact, he barely posts at all, except for those spiders.
I have the sudden urge to reach out. To touch. To follow one of these lines with my fingertip and see if he reacts.
I don’t.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
It’s different, seeing him like this—there’s something almost vulnerable about it. I like that more than I should.
Heat builds in me.
I don’t know how long I watch him before his eyes open.
There’s no transition. He’s not groggy, doesn’t take his time to rouse. He’s focused from the jump.
Like he was already aware of me. Like he felt me looking.
“Morning, Ivy.”
My throat tightens. “Morning.”
His gaze moves slowly over my face, unhurried, taking me in like there’s no rush and nowhere else he needs to be. Then his hand lifts, sliding into my hair with an ease that feels practiced. Familiar.
My body stills.
His fingers thread through the strands, then drift down, his thumb brushing along my jaw, settling lightly against my cheek.
Testing.
I don’t move.
And something shifts in his expression when I don’t. “You slept well,” he murmurs.
The way he says it lands strangely. Like I did something right.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
His mouth curves, just slightly. Satisfied.
And for a fleeting, uncomfortable second, something in my chest lifts in response—something dangerously close to pride.
Jesus, Ivy. Get it together. Your people-pleasing is officially out of hand.
“Good.” He sits up, the sheets sliding down his waist, and I look away too quickly.
Not out of modesty or not wanting to see—because I most definitely do want to inspect more closely—but because I don’t know what I’m allowed to look at.
He notices.
A quiet laugh escapes him. “You do that thing,” he says.
“What thing?”
“Where you try to disappear.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m not?—”