"He's only being this nice because he wants to get in your pants."
She turns to me slowly, one eyebrow arched. "Like you don't?"
The words hit their mark. Because yeah, guilty. But it's more than that. It's always been more than that, even if I've spent years pretending otherwise.
She turns back to Chris, a small smile playing at her lips. I keep my eyes on her instead, memorizing the way snowflakes catch in her lashes, how her throat moves when she swallows.
"All I'm saying is," my voice drops lower, "he looked at you like you're a Christmas cookie he wants to devour."
Ivy looks back at me, and something in her expression makes my blood run hot. "What if I want to be devoured?"
Fuck. Me.
"You're all set!" Chris's cheerful voice shatters the moment. He hefts the tree like it's made of cotton candy.
I should be grateful someone else is dealing with the manual labor. Instead, all I can hear is Ivy's words echoing in my head.What if I want to be devoured.The part of me I've been trying to silence for months screamsthen let me be the one to do it.
But I can't say that. Can't risk breaking whatever fragile thing still exists between us. So instead, I watch Chris carry the tree away, while Ivy follows, with that slight sway in her step that always makes my hands itch to grab her hips.
And watching her now, a sharp ache cracks through my chest. Because I've spent ten years pretending my feelings for Ivy were manageable; something I could pack away in a boxlabeled later. But the truth is, she's always been it for me. I know with absolute certainty.
Ivy Hart isn't just the girl I love.
She's the only one I ever want to love.
"Coming?" she calls over her shoulder.
My feet move before I can think. Because that's what I do. I follow her. I always have. And deep down, I know I always will.
I'm staring at myphone, trying not to look like I'm counting the seconds since Ivy's last message. The text glares back at me:
Ivy:Sorry, can't tonight. Got hot yoga with Amelia at Brookside College Sports Centre.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. Delete. Type. Delete again. Fuck it.
Me:What about after?
The three dots appear and my body goes tight with anticipation. Then they vanish. Left on read.
Again.
Perfect.
"Your character's about to eat shit." James's voice cuts through my spiral, but I'm too busy imagining Ivy in yoga pants to care.
"Unless the zombies are hiding in your DMs, you might want to focus," Brodie adds from my secondhand couch, his feet propped on my coffee table like he's trying to leave his mark on my sad attempt at furniture.
I toss my phone aside and grab the controller, but it's too late. My character explodes in a shower of gore that would be impressive if it wasn't the fifth time tonight. "Thanks for the heads up."
"We tried." James reaches for another slice of pizza. "Not our fault you're too busy frowning at your phone."
The familiar scent of garlic and marinara drifts up from Martin's finest work, reminding me that living above Cheesy Delights comes with exactly two perks: a permanent discount, and an apartment that always smells like an Italian grandmother's kitchen. Though right now, not even a fresh slice can compete with the image of Ivy that's been stuck in my head since the tree farm.
My phone lights up, and I reach for it so fast I knock over my soda. James snorts as I scramble to save my controller from the puddle. It's just Mom asking if I've bought real plates yet. I haven't. Because being a functional adult is still a work in progress.
"That's it." Brodie pauses the game, his dark eyes zeroing in on me. "What's the play here? You gonna keep having a silent breakdown over your phone, or you want to talk about it?"
I groan, sinking deeper into my chair. "Every time I see Ivy, she finds some reason to be somewhere else." My hand rakes through my hair before I even think about it, frustration bubbling over. "I get it, okay? I've got years of bullshit to make up for. But how am I supposed to fix anything when she won't even let me?"
