Just ahead, I spot Harper and Micah—bickering loudly.
“Lean left!” Micah yells.
“I am leaning left!” Harper firesback.
I chuckle. “They’re gonna take each other out.”
“Should we help them?” Ivy asks between laughs.
I glance at her, grinning. “Nah. It’s more fun to watch.”
We’re gaining ground, steps syncing better than I thought possible. I keep one hand firm at her waist, guiding her gently whenever the grass gets uneven. She glances up at me, and for a second, I forget we’re racing anyone at all.
“You’re good at this,” she says, sounding genuinely surprised.
I smirk. “Years of being forced into church picnics. You pick up a few things.”
She laughs, and something about the way she looks at me—light in her eyes, wind in her hair—makes it hard to focus on anything else. The moment stretches longer than it should, her hand on my arm, mine still on her waist.
We round the last bend, Harper and Micah still ahead—barely. He’s practically dragging her now, and she’s laughing so hard she can’t run straight.
“You call this running?” Micah teases.
“Would you stop yanking me around like a Labrador?” Harper snaps, but there’s no heat in it—just laughter.
I point ahead. “Finish line’s right there!”
We hit the finish line just seconds before Harper and Micah go crashing past us, collapsing into the grass like a pile of limbs and laughter.
I stop, breath coming hard, and realize Ivy hasn’t let go. My hand’s still on her waist—gripping my forearm like she doesn’t want to let go either.
“Not bad, Ivy,” I manage, voice a little rough from the run—and from something else entirely.
She looks up at me with that grin that does something dangerous to my chest. “Not bad yourself.”
We’re still tied together. Still close. I can feel the heatradiating off her, the way her chest rises and falls, breath syncing with mine. For a second, I forget there’s anyone else on the field.
I let my gaze linger, just taking her in—the flush in her cheeks, the curve of her smile. She’s beautiful. More than that, she’s herself. Not some polished version of faith people gossip about, but the girl who makes me want to prove every doubt in her head wrong.
And then I notice it—a small smear of grass on her cheek.
I lift my hand slowly, brushing my thumb across her skin. Gentle. Careful. Reverent.
“You’ve got grass on your face,” I murmur, though really I just want an excuse to touch her.
She stills, breath catching. So does mine.
I shouldn’t—not here, not now, not in front of half the church. We’ve kissed plenty, but always in private, away from curious eyes. I know Ivy worries she’s not “enough” of a Christian girl, and part of me wants to protect her from every sideways glance.
But another part—the stronger part—wants to silence every whisper in her mind. Wants her to know she’s exactly who I want.
So I lean in. Her eyes widen, lips parting just slightly. We’re a breath apart, the picnic chatter fading until it feels like just us.
And then…
“Okay, for the record,” Harper groans from behind us, dragging us both back to earth, “that was not my fault.”
I pull back, just barely, my thumb slipping from Ivy’s cheek. But I don’t look away. Can’t. The space between us still feels charged.
