His soft chuckle comes through the line, warm and slow. “Hey you.”
Oh, his voice. How it instantly wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. I swear, I could sit here all night just listening to him talk. He could read me the back of a cereal box and I’d probably swoon.
“Sorry I missed your call,” he says, his tone low and a little sheepish. “Just got back from a run and hopped in the shower.”
Gray. In the shower.
Images I have no business imagining flash through my mind: water gliding over tanned skin, dark tattoos slick and gleaming beneath the spray.
I sit up straighter, as if good posture will somehow purify my thoughts.
We’ve known each other for, what, four weeks? That doesn’t exactly give me a license to picture him in the shower.
Or to wonder if those tattoos on his arms continue across his chest, his back...
Oh no. Nope. Brain, stop.
This is not helpful behavior.
“You there?” he asks, teasing creeping into his voice.
Ugh. Get it together, Ivy.
“Yep! Yep, I’m here. Sorry, I was buried in work.”
“Oh man, I’m interrupting,” he says. “Should I let you get back to bossing fonts around?”
I laugh into my pillow, he already knows me so well. “Please don’t. I’ve been staring at the same project for an hour and it’s starting to feel personal.”
“Stuck?”
“Majorly. I’ve redone this thing three times and it still looks…blah. I want it to be simple but still make people stop scrolling and care.”
He hums, like he’s really considering it. “Okay, give me the rundown. What are you trying to say with it?”
I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “That this brand isn’t just another cookie-cutter startup. They want to feel approachable, welcoming, creative but trustworthy. Like…you’d hire them and also want to grab coffee with them.”
“That’s oddly specific,” he teases, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Welcome to branding,” I mutter.
“Well,” he says slowly, “sounds like you already know the heart of it. You just need to design from that. Forget the trends. Just…show people what you just told me.”
I pause, letting his words sink in. Not just because they’re good advice, but because it’s him. Gentle. Steady. Like he’s not just pointing me in the right direction but sitting here with me in it.
“You make it sound easy,” I whisper.
“I think it’s just easy for me to believe in you,” he replies, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to becoming my official design assistant.”
He chuckles. “Do I get paid in coffee or kisses?”
My breath catches. I should laugh it off. I should tease him back. But instead I whisper, softer than I mean to, “Kisses. Definitely kisses.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence, then his voice drops low, rougher now. “Good. Because that’s the only currency I’m interested in from you.”
And there it is. Full swoon. Someone call NASA because I am no longer tethered to the earth.
