He kisses my forehead. Soft. Almost reverent. Then he whispers— “I’m not done with you.”
The words make my breath catch. My pulse spikes. Because it sounds like romance. It sounds like obsession.
But standing in his kitchen, with his hands on my face, it doesn’t feel like a compliment.
It feels like a claim.
CHAPTER 22
IVY
My departure time looms over me.
There’s something about airport days.
It doesn’t matter if my flight is at nine in the morning or eleven-thirty at night—I can’t relax.
Even if I have hours to spare, I’m antsy—on edge—checking my watch every five minutes to make sure I don’t miss my window to get there.
If I leave at this time, I’ll get there early.
If I wait ten more minutes, I’ll still be fine.
But what if traffic—what if security—what if something goes wrong?
My brain keeps running the math—hypotheticals, contingencies, over and over.
I try to fold a tank top and unfold it again. I pace from the bed to the window and back, palms damp, bones buzzing.
And there’s something about it that seems heavier today.
I don’t want to leave Soren. Or Ravelle, for that matter. It’s only been a few days, but there’s a sense of belonging here forme already that I never had in Miami, or many of the places I lived prior.
I’m not fully comfortable—and I definitely feel like a guest—but I also don’t feel judged, or the need to hang out in a stifling little room.
It’s as if something inside me has finally unclenched. Just a little, but it’s something.
Taking a break, I walk into the kitchen.
Soren watches me, never getting too far away. He leans against the counter, arms folded, lazy smile tucked in one corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly how wound up I am—and exactly how to unwind me.
His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every twitch, every restless shift.
And he’s wearing those damn gray sweatpants again.
They should be a crime.
The fabric clings to his thighs, dips at his hips, and the longer I look, the more the outline right at the center presses against the cotton—thickening, nudging at the seam.
God.
It’s unmistakable. Thick. Heavy. Already hard.
Heat blooms across my chest and creeps up my throat. I can’t not look. My gaze sticks there, like I physically can’t pull it away. My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, a sudden rush of saliva flooding in.
I want it.
The thought hits hard, settling low in my belly, spreading heat outward.