“I know today was your first time in church,” I continue, my voice low. “And I know faith doesn’t happen overnight. I’m not expecting you to suddenly have it all figured out. But…” My words falter, and I run my free hand over my jaw, feeling awkward in a way I hate. “Would you be willing to try? To explore it? So that…we can move forward in this, together?”
I’m holding my breath without meaning to, my head lowering slightly, bracing for the polite letdown. Then her other hand comes across the table, gently cupping my cheek.
“I do feel it,” she says softly, and the way she looks at me—like she’s seeing straight through the walls I’ve built—makes my heart kick hard. “And I want to see where this goes. I want to try.”
I can’t move. Can’t speak. All I can do is take in the warmth of her touch, the sincerity in her voice.
She could’ve put on a show. Tried to act like she had it all figured out. But instead, she let me see the questions.
And that’s what wrecks me most.
Because this searching—it isn’t for me. She’s not doing this to impress me.
She’s doing it for herself.
And in that moment, I know—I’d wait as long as it takes. I’d walk beside her at whatever pace she needs. Because the last thing I ever want to do is rush what God is gently unfolding in her heart.
Her smile is small but genuine, lingering there like it’s holding onto the last thread of the moment we just shared. I want to stay in it, to keep holding her hand, but the air between us feels so weighted with meaning that I know we both need a breath.
I clear my throat and lean back slightly, still letting my thumb brush over her knuckles before releasing her hand. “So,” I say, a faint grin tugging at my mouth, “tell me about you. What’s a day in the life of Ivy look like?”
Her brows lift just a little, like she wasn’t expecting the question.
“I mean,” I add, still watching her, “when you’re notbravely walking into church for the first time or letting some guy ramble on about grace and mercy over lunch.”
She laughs, that easy, real kind of laugh that makes my chest tighten. “Honestly? Pretty boring. Freelance work keeps me busy. I’m still figuring out how to balance work and life without burning out. And weekends? Usually low-key. My perfect weekend would be staying in with some takeout and way too many Netflix episodes.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, grinning. “Sometimes I think I should do that more. Although my idea of low-key usually involves a guitar and late-night thinking.”
She leans forward, interested. “What do you think about when you’re up late with your guitar?”
I shrug, pretending to be casual, but inside, I want to tell her everything. The doubts, the hopes, the parts of me I barely admit to myself. “I guess, just life. The usual stuff. Sometimes music just makes sense when nothing else does.”
She nods, like she understands more than she lets on. “I get that.”
There’s a pause, then she asks, “What’s something no one knows about you?”
I smirk. “Well, I have this ridiculous guilty pleasure for cheesy romantic movies. Don’t tell anyone, but I could probably quote half of them.”
She laughs, clearly surprised. “You? Watching sappy movies?”
“Hey, don’t judge. We all have our secrets.” I lean in. “What’s something no one knows about you Miss Ivy?”
She bites her lip, glancing down at the table like she’s debating whether to say it. “Okay…I still sleep with the same stuffed animal I’ve had since I was a kid. His name’s Moose, and yes—he’s a moose.”
I chuckle, imagining it. “A moose, huh? That’s adorable.”
She blushes, but she’s smiling now. “Don’t make fun. He’s been through everything with me.”
“I’m not making fun. I think it’s cute. Everyone needs something that reminds them they’re safe.”
Her eyes lift to mine, soft, vulnerable, and I feel it again—that pull to know every piece of her.
I eat the rest of my burrito, watching her as she talks about her favorite books and what she’s binge-watching lately. It’s easy, way easier than I expected. Like the walls I usually keep up start to come down without me even trying.
Then I catch myself, this feeling of wanting more time with her. Wanting to keep this going.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual but failing a little, “you think you’ll be back next Sunday?”
