We stand there in silence all while her eyes hold mine. I can feel the air thicken between us.
“Come here, you.” I pull her back into another hug, tighter this time.
I want to press a kiss to her hair, to tell her she’s safe here with me, but I don’t want to scare her off. So, I just breathe her in and pull away gently.
“Let’s get some food,” I say, voice a little rough. “I know I’ve set myself up being all chivalrous and should ask the lady where she wants to go, but there’s this killer Mexican restaurant that just opened up. I’d love to take you there if that’s okay.”
She smiles. really smiles, and nods. “I’d like that.”
As we turn to leave, I’m fighting the urge not to grab her hand. It’s like a magnet pulling me toward her, and man if it doesn’t make my heart race. I just don’t want to make her hesitant by moving too fast.
But then I remember, she was the one who grabbedmy hand first.
So, I reach out slowly, my fingertips brushing hers, silently asking for permission.
She looks up at me, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Are you asking if you can hold my hand Gray?” she teases.
I grin. “Well, it’s polite to ask first…though some people don’t.”
“Hey,” she laughs softly, slipping her hand into mine. Our fingers intertwine, and the same electric spark pulses through me like that very first time.
“You don’t really need to ask,” she whispers. “After all, this is how it all started, right?”
Si Señor smells like sizzling fajitas and warm tortillas the second we step inside. The place still has that “new in town” feel—sunbaked terracotta walls, hand-painted tiles climbing halfway up, strings lights above fluttering in the AC breeze. Every table is alive with chatter, the clink of silverware, and the hum of Spanish guitar drifting from overhead speakers.
We grab a booth by the window, sunlight pooling over the polished wood.
Ivy leans forward, elbows on the table, totally focused on conquering the tacos in front of her. She tries to take a bite, laughing when half the filling threatens to spill out.
“These are incredible,” she says, setting the taco down and swiping salsa from the corner of her mouth.
I smile, not just because she looks effortlessly beautiful, but because an hour ago she was sitting in the middle row at New Chapter Church. My church. She didn’t just show up—she leaned in, listened, and stayed through the last note. I keep replaying the moment I spotted her walking in from backstage, a mix of surprise and gratitude settling in my chest.
“You like it here?” I ask.
She nods. “Might be my new favorite.”
I hope she’s talking about more than the tacos.
I lean back, eyes on her. “I get it, I’ve already eaten here twice this week.”
Ivy looks down for a second, then meets my eyes. “Can I tell you something weird?”
I glance up from my plate, giving her my full attention. “Always.”
She lets out a breath, not quite a sigh, more like a release of something she’s been holding onto. “I’ve always wondered about God. Not in a deep way, not really. I think I just never had the space, or the people, to ask questions.”
I nod, silently urging her on.
“It’s like…” she pauses, searching for the words. “Like I’ve been walking around with this low-level ache I couldn’t name. And now that I’m here, now that I’m seeing all of this, it’s not that I suddenly get it. I don’t. But something in me, I don’t know, something kind of wants to.”
I let her words settle, the weight of them both familiar and sacred.
“That’s not weird,” I say quietly. “That sounds honest.”
She looks up, seeming surprised by the lack of judgment in my voice.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. “I used to think faith was about having all the right answers. But it’s not. It’s about asking the right questions and being brave enough to sit in the in-between.”
