I motion toward the bathroom. “Shower’s full of men’s products, but use whatever you need. I’ll grab you a towel.”
I set everything on the counter and start to step out, but her voice stops me.
“What about you?”
I freeze.
Does she mean? No. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
“Ivy,” I say slowly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Her face turns beet red. “Oh my Godsh-shhh! Dang it! No, that’s not what I meant!” She hides her face in her hands. “I just meant you’re soaked too, and maybe you’d want to shower first. Not…not with me. Definitely not with me.”
She’s rambling again, and somehow it makes her even more endearing.
I run a hand through my wet hair, suddenly way too aware of how small this bathroom is.
“Ladies first,” I say, stepping toward the door. “I’ll be out here. Just…holler if you need anything.”
I shut the door before I can say anything dumber.
Out in the kitchen, I unpack the snacks while Goliath stares at me from the back of sofa. Candy, chips, cookies, soda. Everything we’d risked our lives, and dry clothes, for.
The water runs on the other side of the door, a low hum through the quiet apartment.
I shiver. Both from the cold and from the thought of Ivy in my shower.
The old me, before faith really meant something, probably wouldn’t have walked away back there. Especially not after a kiss like that.
But now?
Now I know better.
I take a deep breath and say a silent prayer.
Lord, keep my heart focused on You. Help me honor Ivy. Help me be the kind of man You’re calling me to be.
I busy myself tidying the counter, replaying the kiss in my mind over and over. The way she looked at me. The feel of her hand in mine. Her lips still linger in my thoughts, like the moment was etched onto my skin.
The water shuts off, and a few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open.
I look up—and freeze.
She’s padding barefoot across my living room, swallowed up in my sweats and t-shirt. The hem nearly brushes her knees, the sleeves loose enough to slip past her elbows. Her damp hair is pulled back, strands curling against her flushed cheeks.
And it hits me.
She doesn’t look like a guest. She doesn’t look out of place. She looks like she belongs here. Like this apartment was waiting for her to soften it.
My chest tightens, a strange mix of wonder and want. I’ve lived here for years, but suddenly the space feels different—warmer, fuller, alive. She’s only been here an hour, and yet she’s already turned my place into something that feels like ours.
“Careful,” I murmur, trying for lightness but failing, because my voice dips low, rough with everything I can’tquite hide. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”
“I’m pretty comfy.” She twirls in front of me.
She glances up, eyebrows raised, and I give her a half-smile, shaking my head.
“I’ve never seen anyone make my clothes look so good. Or make my place feel this much like home.”
