She studies me, then slowly, she reaches for my hand again.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Let’s choose that.”
And something about that simple agreement steadies me.
This isn’t the end of something.
It’s the beginning.
A boundary drawn not from fear, but from trust.
From faith.
From love.
It’s quiet again.
Not awkward quiet. Not the kind that’s full of unspoken tension or words left unsaid.
Just…peaceful.
Ivy leans her head on my shoulder, her hand still in mine, and we sit there like that—still and steady—for a long time. The earlier heat between us has cooled into something deeper. Weightier. Like the decision we made just now solidified something that was already being written underneath the surface.
Still, the moment is delicate. Fragile in its holiness. And I know if I stay here too long, the clarity I feel right now might start to blur.
I turn slightly, brushing my lips against her temple. “I should go.”
She doesn’t argue.
She just nods and looks up at me with eyes that are somehow both soft and fierce—like she knows the cost of this kind of love and is still willing to pay it.
I stand, stretching slightly, and she walks me to the door, the weight of our promise following every step.
Her fingers graze mine as I reach for the handle. “Thanks for telling me everything tonight.”
I look at her, heart full. “Thanks for listening.”
She gives me a small smile that says she gets it, all of it. “Text me when you get home?”
“I will.”
And then I pause, one hand on the doorknob, the other reaching for her waist one last time. I press my forehead to hers, not kissing her—just breathing her in, letting this closeness anchor what we just decided.
“I care about you so much,” I whisper.
She nods slowly. “I know.”
“I want this to last, Ivy.”
“So do I.”
“I love you Ivy.”
“Love you too.”
I take a steadying breath, then let go.
The door clicks shut behind me, sprint down the stairs until the night air hits my face, crisp and quiet. My truck’s parked under the streetlight, and as I climb in, I don’t feel regret.
