Ivory’s eyes go soft, but she doesn’t interrupt.
I continue, “I didn’t handle it well. Started drinking too much, ended up with a felony on my record for putting some guy in the hospital during a bar fight. After that, my parents pretty much cut me off. My siblings, Han and Hardin, tried to stay in touch. I…didn’t let them. Figured they would be better off.”
I force a laugh, but it’s empty. “Guess I’ve been running ever since. I'm twenty-nine and don’t really know what it means to have a family anymore. Not the way you’re supposed to.”
She’s quiet, letting it all sink in. There’s no judgment, only patience. Ivory is the only person I’ve let see straight through to the part of me I wish I could hide.
“My brother, Hardin, he’s the oldest. He’s something else. Always was. The asshole loved to pick fights, and he stayed in trouble. We always had each other’s backs, though. I haven’t talked to him in a long time. He’s got his own bullshit he deals with.”
Ivory’s voice is gentle. “Do you miss them?”
I shrug, staring into my bowl. “Han, yeah. Hardin… sometimes. My mom, not really. We all got our reasons for running, I guess.”
She’s quiet for a moment.
“I envy that. Having a place to come back to. A family, even with all the drama. It sounds… real.”
I look back at her.
She’s wearing my sister’s sweatshirt, curled up in the chair like she belongs here. For a second, I let myself imagine Ivory in this kitchen every morning, laughing with Han, arguing with me over coffee, filling this place with a life bigger than all my regrets.
“Was Hannah the kind of kid who’d drag you out of bed at sunrise to go swimming?” she asks, a shy smile playing on her lips.
“Every damn summer. She would sneak out and dare me to follow. I’d pretend I hated it, but honestly…I didn’t.” I smirk. “Sometimes I think her laughter haunts this place.”
“Maybe that’s why it feels safe here.”
I nod, something loosening in my chest.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
We finish eating, letting the silence feel comfortable. I clear the bowls and rinse them in the tiny sink, while she hums softly, a tune I don’t know. When I turn around, she’s watching me, her eyes soft.
“Thank you, Hudson,” she says quietly. “For trusting me with your story.”
I shrug, a little embarrassed. “It wasn’t much of a story.”
She shakes her head. “No. It was. It means something. You mean something.”
The words hit deep, settling in places I thought were long dead.
We curl up on the couch, and I pull her close. Letting the quiet wrap around us, still heavy with things neither of us said out loud. And for the first time in years, the ache inside me eases. It’s not gone, but it's quieter.
Maybe it is possible to start over.
Maybe a broken-down cabin, with a kitchen full of old memories and canned beans, is enough to start building something new.
I let the thought sink in.
And for the first time, I let myself want it.
12
IVORY
It’s12:47 a.m. We are cuddled up on the couch, my head resting against Hudson’s chest as I focus on his heartbeat thumping against my ear, drowning out the gunshots and screeching tires from the movie he insisted was “a classic.” His calloused fingertips trace slow circles on my shoulder, leaving trails of goose bumps. Outside is nothing but darkness, but inside, his chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his breathing deep. When a car explodes on the TV, his body tenses slightly, his arm tightening around me for a tiny second before relaxing again. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent of pine soap and something uniquely him, and pretend that just for tonight, nothing can touch us here.
Exhaustion starts to creep in, slow and sneaky. My eyelids go heavy, fluttering shut, but I blink rapidly each time, fighting sleep. I don’t want to miss a second of this moment. I don’t want to give up this feeling of safety, of being here with Hudson and believing, even if it’s for one night, that we’re a normal couple. Two people in love, who found themselves out in the middle of nowhere on a romantic adventure, and not some rich girl who ran away with her bodyguard.
