“He’ll adapt,” I reply mildly.
Mr. Pickles flicks his tail and stalks off, dignity in tatters. He pauses at the entrance and glances back at us, eyes bright and unreadable, before disappearing.
We clean up the spill. Drew complains theatrically. Ivy nudges my hip with hers as she moves around the kitchen,humming softly, already settling into a rhythm that feels routine.
The house relaxes around us.
Outside the kitchen window, the hedge line rustles once, then goes still.
Ivy begins chopping vegetables while Drew retreats to the living room and returns to his numbers. I lean against the counter and watch her.
The scene is unremarkable. Ordinary. Peaceful.
And that’s what makes it dangerous. Because ordinary things are the easiest to lose.
I push the fear aside.
The kitchen smells like garlic and heat, with something sweet underneath it.
Ivy moves through the space like she’s been here forever—barefoot, unhurried, the tantalizing curve of the back of her neck exposed. She hums softly as she stirs spaghetti sauce over the stove, utterly unbothered by the fact that she’s dismantling my sense of order one step at a time.
She glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes twinkling.
When she moves to the refrigerator, her hip brushes against me. I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.
The contact lingers—a warm line of awareness that travels too fast and settles too deep. My hand flexes at my side. My jaw tightens.
She flicks her gaze up at me, green eyes darkening. “What’s wrong?”
“You did that on purpose,” I say quietly.
Her lips curve into a wicked smile. “Did I?”
She shifts again, reaching past me for a utensil, her arm sliding slowly across my chest this time. Slow. Intentional.When she pulls back, her fingers graze my ribs like she’s testing a live wire.
I catch her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb.
“Ivy,” I warn.
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s cataloging reactions. “You’re the one standing in the way.”
I step closer, crowding her until the counter presses cold against her back. Her body fits against mine like it was designed for this exact moment.
My voice drops. “You’re pushing.”
“Yes,” she says unapologetically.
My other hand finds her waist, gripping it possessively. The restraint I’m proud of frays, thread by thread.
“You need to stop,” I murmur near her ear, my breath uneven. “Before I forget why I should.”
Her breath catches, and then she smiles. “Maybe I don’t want?—"
“Hey,” Drew pads into the room. “Do either of you know where?—”
I let go immediately.
