It shouldn’t feel so intimate—just a call, just a Sundaynight after church—but it does. Maybe it’s the way the lamplight beside him softens his features, or how relaxed he looks, like I’m seeing him in a version of himself reserved for when the world isn’t watching.
I tuck my knees closer to my chest, the blanket wrapped around me like armor. My hair is piled in a messy top knot that’s probably falling apart, but from the way his eyes flick toward the screen every so often, I wonder if he notices. And if he does…what does he see?
He asked earlier how Harper liked church—like it mattered to him. Like he was paying attention to not just me, but to the people I love. I told him she’d survived it, which in Harper terms means she probably didn’t hate it. But the way he smiled when I said she signed up to serve…it stirred something warm in my chest. Something I don’t want to name yet.
Now the room is quiet, except for him—his guitar, his humming, his presence filling the silence in a way that makes it feel anything but empty. My laptop screen glows, framing him in a rectangle of light, and I realize with a little jolt of truth: this is the best part of my day.
The steady strum from his guitar slows until it fades into silence, and I watch as he closes a little notebook resting on the arm of his couch. He tries to move casually, but my curiosity sparks instantly.
“What are you writing?” I ask, propping my chin into my palm.
He hesitates, lips quirking. “Just lyrics. Nothing finished. Nothing for public ears yet.”
Lyrics. The word makes something flutter in my chest. He says it so offhand, but I can tell it matters to him. It matters a lot.
I smile before I can stop myself. “What inspires you?”
His eyes lift to the camera, and even though it’s just pixels and light, the weight of his gaze makes my stomach dip. He drums his fingers against the guitar like he’s stalling, then finally says, “Moments, mostly. Things I feel but can’t really explain any other way.”
“Moments?” I tilt my head, urging him on.
He shifts, leaning forward, like the conversation suddenly got heavier. “Like…the other day. When we almost kissed.”
My breath catches. My blanket feels too warm, my skin prickling under his words. Of course I remember. My heart has replayed that moment on an endless loop.
He doesn’t look away, doesn’t soften the edges of what he’s admitting. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he says, voice lower now, like it’s a secret meant only for me. “The way you looked up at me…I knew you felt it too. But I didn’t want to push. Not if it meant scaring you off.”
Something inside me flips. The way he says it makes it hard to breathe. Because he’s right. I did feel it. I do.
I open my mouth, but words stall, tangled somewhere between my throat and my heart. My silence should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It’s charged. Alive. Like he can hear the unspoken yes pulsing through me.
Then he says my name—soft, steady, reverent, “Ivy.”
The sound of it from his lips sends a shiver through me.
“I wanted to kiss you so bad.”
I blink, stunned by how direct he is, my heart thudding like it’s trying to escape my chest. And before I can talk myself out of it, I whisper the truth that’s been lodged in my chest since that night. “I really wanted you to kiss me.”
The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It thrums between us, like the aftertaste of a song you don’t want to end.
Then Gray leans closer to the camera, elbows on his knees. His voice is steady, but I catch the flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Movie night at my place tomorrow?”
The question sends a rush of warmth through me, stronger than I expect. He says it so casually, but there’s nothing casual about how much my heart jumps.
“Yes,” I say before my brain can second-guess. My cheeks heat, but I don’t care. “I’d like that.”
His grin spreads slow and wide, and my pulse skips at how boyish and genuine it looks. “Good. I’ll text you the address.”
“Finally. I get to see this mysterious apartment of yours. And meet the infamous Goliath.” I tease to cover the flutter in my chest.
He chuckles, leaning back on the couch. “Brace yourself. He doesn’t share affection easily. But don’t worry—I warned him you’re special.”
My heart stutters at that, and I duck under my blanket to hide my smile. “I’ll bring popcorn.”
“Perfect,” he says. Then his voice softens, dipping lower, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Fair warning, though…”
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. “About what?”
