SEBASTIAN
Ivy looks especially unhinged tonight.
That’s not a criticism. It’s an observation.
She’s wearing tight dark jeans, heeled ankle boots, and a white button-down pressed within an inch of its life—clean lines, sharp collar, sleeves rolled just enough to look intentional.
It’s the kind of outfit you wear to a meeting. Or a first date.
Not to climb over deck railings and slip through unlocked patio doors like you own the place.
At least she didn’t scale my second-story balcony like she has a couple of times in the past few weeks. Drew would’ve had a heart attack.
Her hair is down, glossy and controlled, her expression bright and alert like she planned this entrance and executed it flawlessly. Which, knowing Ivy, she probably did.
Drew is still going on about her appearing outside the patio door like this is a normal way to enter a house she doesn’t live in.
I have to look away before I smile.
Ivy is completely unbothered. She steps toward Drew like she belongs here—because in her mind, she does.
That’s the problem.
And the appeal.
Ivy knows it’s always unlocked. I tell myself I don’t lock it because it’s inconvenient. I don’t want to carry keys when I run. And the neighborhood is safe. And I just… forget.
None of that is true.
I know exactly why I leave it unlocked.
I like knowing she can come and go.
Drew stares at the unlocked patio doors and freezes again.
He keeps doing that.
His body hasn’t adjusted to the fact that the rules he’s lived by—locks, warnings, personal space—don’t apply here.
Ivy moves through the house like she’s memorizing it again. Her eyes skim the shelves. The furniture. Me. She’s cataloging everything. She does that.
“I folded your clothes and put them away.”
My brother blinks at her. “You folded his clothes?”
“Yes,” she beams. “Just the way he likes. Including his socks.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing. Ivy is careful and methodical with my clothing. She separates what I’ll wear again from what goes into the hamper. She gets annoyed when I leave them on the floor too long, which is inappropriate and strangely comforting.
Arguing with her doesn’t work.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped trying. I’ve gotten used to her doing it.
Drew looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
He’s not wrong.
I pour a drink and lean back against the counter,watching the slow unravel. Ivy’s voice stays light. Cheerful. Polite. She never raises it. Never pushes too hard.
