But I don’t.
Because he’s smiling, warm, and he’s been generous all day. Because I don’t want to be the difficult woman who ruins the vibe, or come off as ungrateful.
And because the sickest part of all is—some part of me likes it.
Likes being visible.
Likes being chosen—wanted loudly, even.
Soren kisses my temple again.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go get dinner.” He takes my hand again. Not asking. Expecting.
And I go with him. Because it’s easier than stopping him. Because it’s easier than thinking. Because somewhere between the coffee and the jacket and the way he looks at me, I’ve stopped deciding things.
And the worst part is?—
I’m learning to like not having to carry it.
CHAPTER 16
IVY
“I’m going to take you somewhere I think you’ll like,” he says. “This one isn’t quite as fancy. I trust that’s okay with you.”
He says it like he already knows the answer.
“Yes, that’s more than fine,” I smirk. “Preferred even.”
I’ve always been more of a dive bar girl than someone who cares about fancy champagne.
“I figured,” his grin is crooked. “Just didn’t want you to think I was doing some kind of bait-and-switch after last night. Downgrading you or something.”
I laugh. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy changed the effort he put into a relationship after he got what he wanted.
The more time I spend around him, the more times I catch myself sneaking looks.
It’s not just his appearance, either. There’s something about his presence. From the way he moves to his general aura—something about him does something to me.
Whatever it is, it’s working. Because each hour, it’s getting harder not to touch him.
We’ve been home for a minute. Soren had a little work to do, and I relished the opportunity to put my feet up for a little bit and mindlessly scroll through my phone.
“I’ll go get ready,” I say, and he nods.
So I head to the closet that seems designed for me.
I stand in front of its contents longer than I need to, fingers dragging slowly over hangers like something in there will tell me who I’m supposed to be tonight.
It’s overwhelming, because everything in here feels so intentional. Like the clothes belong to a version of me who already knows what she wants, how she wants to be seen, how she wants to be touched.
I don’t feel like that version of myself.
Not yet.
I finally settle on a pair of black denim shorts—ripped, frayed at the edges, soft from wear.
I hesitate for a second, then grab a pair of black lace tights.