I frown slightly, caught off guard by the sudden change in mood. “Of course not,” I say, shaking my head. “If it had been, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you again, would I?”
Theo searches my face, like he’s still not entirely convinced.
I soften, setting the ice cream aside before shifting fully to face him. My fingers find his, lacing them together as I choose my next words carefully.
“But,” I continue, voice steady, “you did say in the letter that you loved me.”
His throat bobs as he swallows, his grip on my hand tightening slightly.
“Yeah,” he admits, low and rough.
I nod, keeping my expression open, my tone light despite the way my heart is suddenly pounding. “Did you mean… as a friend? Or…?”
I hesitate, then add with a small, wry smile, “I’m not fishing, I just figured I should ask. You know, so there are no confusions or miscommunications.”
Theo’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing in mine.
I hold my breath, waiting.
Then, finally, he exhales, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over my knuckles.
“I meant,” he says slowly, carefully, “that I love you.”
My stomach flips.
His eyes are locked on mine, steady and serious, as if he’s making sure I hear him properly, making sure there’s no room for doubt.
“Not as a friend,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “Not as anything casual or complicated.” A dry laugh escapes him. “I mean, it has been all so different, complicated, I know that. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love you, Ivy.”
He means it.
It’s real.
And I have no idea how to breathe.
My heart stumbles over itself.
He loves me.
Not as a friend. Not as something casual. Not as a maybe or a possibility.
He just does.
Theo watches me, his breath uneven—like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s terrified of whatever I’m about to say next.
I don’t make him wait.
I reach up, cupping his face between my hands, my thumbs brushing lightly over the stubble on his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, his pulse steady but fast.
He swallows hard. “Ivy—”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
For a moment, he just looks at me, his expression unreadable, like he’s trying to process the words, make sure he’s heard them right.
Then, all at once, something in him breaks.
His lips crash into mine. It’s not slow. Not careful. It’s deep, urgent—like he needs to kiss me, like he’s making up for every moment he’s ever wanted to and couldn’t.
