Not one.
Not what we ate. Not where we went. Not what I drank. Not what I wore. Not when we left. Not when we stayed. Not even when I checked my phone.
Because I didn’t.
Soren kept it in the console like it was nothing. Like it was normal. And somehow… it is. I haven’t checked it once, and I don’t even miss it.
At sunset, he takes me to a place overlooking the river. The sky is orange and pink, the water catching light like molten metal. It’s beautiful, cinematic. There’s a smell under it. Metal. River rot. I try not to notice.
Soren stands behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. His chin rests near my temple.
His voice is soft. “This is what you needed,” he murmurs. “You needed someone to take over for a while.”
My stomach tightens, and something lower pulls with it.
He kisses the side of my head. Then he pulls his phone out, wrapping his arm around me, and takes a photo before I can react.
The flash is off, but I hear the click.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
He smiles, still holding me. “Capturing the moment,” he says.
He looks down at the screen, his thumbs moving.
Then he tilts it toward me.
An Instagram story. A photo of me, half turned toward the sunset, his arm around my waist. Text overlay already typed:
Finally.
My throat tightens. “Soren?—”
He posts it before I can finish.
Just taps and it’s gone.Live. Out there.
No undo. No draft. No pause.
I stare at the screen, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
“You posted me,” I say. “Us.”
He looks up, amused. “Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I?”
My mouth opens. Then closes. Like it would be rude for me to say I didn’t say he could.
His expression doesn’t change. But something in his eyes sharpens. Not anger. Maybe a flicker of impatience. Like I’m disrupting something.
“Ivy,” he says softly, like he’s correcting me. “Relax.”
My stomach drops.
He slides his phone back into his pocket. Then he tightens his arm around me slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me I’m held. “You’re with me,” he says again, voice calm. “That’s not a secret.”
The words land like a stamp. A label. A claim.
I swallow hard. I should push back. I should tell him to take it down. I should tell him I don’t belong to him—that we’ve barely even met.