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“I’m not going anywhere.”

I give her a look that makes her falter. “You’re coming with me.”

Her mouth opens again in protest, but I cut her off.

“I’m not asking you. You’re not safe here. And whether you like it or not, I’m not leaving you alone.”

She stares at me for a long moment. I don’t move. I don’t blink. Eventually, something in her crumbles just enough for me to see the answer she doesn’t want to say aloud.

I turn for the hallway.

“Ten minutes,” I tell her, already moving to check the locks on the back window. “Bring whatever you need. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

She doesn’t follow right away, but I hear her footsteps a few seconds later.

By the time I reach the curb, the city’s already cooling around me. Dusk settles in, slow and wide, the kind that drapes the streets in shadow, painting everything in washed-out blue and quiet gold. I unlock the car and lean against the driver’s side door, the metal still warm from the sun. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. Her footsteps are soft but certain, the familiar rhythm of her boots against the concrete stairwell giving her away.

I don’t speak as she approaches and make myself content by just opening the passenger door and waiting.

Ivy doesn’t say anything, either. She slides into the seat, smooth and silent, the edge of her coat brushing against my arm as she pulls it closed. Her scent follows her in, vanilla and the faintest trace of tea tree oil from the soap she uses. She’s not trying to fill the silence, and for once, neither am I.

The engine rumbles to life beneath my hands. We pull away from the curb and leave the city behind.

The drive stretches out before us like a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. Miles of open road, the horizon bleeding into the hills, the last light sinking beneath a line of trees that thickenwith every passing turn. Ivy’s posture eases inch by inch, her shoulder settling back against the seat, her eyes following the movement of the trees instead of darting to the phone in her lap. We don’t speak for the first twenty minutes. There’s no music. No hum of conversation. Just the low sound of tires gliding over asphalt and the wind brushing over the hood as the city disappears in the rearview mirror.

Eventually, she glances over at me. Her voice is quiet but clearer than I’ve heard it in days.

“You still come out here sometimes?”

“Not for a while,” I answer, eyes still fixed ahead. “My family stopped using the place a few years back. Too far. Too isolated. Not enough Wi-Fi for my mother.”

That earns a small curve of her lips, the first real sign of life I’ve seen in her since yesterday.

“Why keep it?”

“It’s mine now,” I say simply. “I like knowing it’s there.”

We drive the rest of the way with that thought between us. The road narrows. The sky darkens. Pines arch over the road, tall and ancient, their needles catching what little light remains. When we finally pull up to the cabin, the headlights sweep across the porch, casting the old wooden slats in a soft golden glow. The structure is solid and dark against the trees, half-swallowed by ivy and moss, the windows small and warm behind aged shutters.

I kill the engine and step out. The air is cooler here, clean and damp, full of woodsmoke and pine and something faintly earthy. I circle to the passenger side and open the door before she canreach for it. Ivy steps out, slow and cautious, her gaze moving across the clearing like she’s waiting for something to jump out and tell her this was a mistake.

She doesn't find it.

The front door creaks open under my hand. Inside, the cabin smells like cedar and old books, with a lingering trace of dried lavender from the sachets my mother used to hang in the closets. There’s no modern lighting—just brass sconces and a row of mismatched candles I light one by one. The flickering glow fills the space with warmth, chasing back whatever chill had followed us in.

She trails me into the kitchen without asking.

We move around each other without instruction, without needing to assign roles. She finds the plates while I dig through the fridge and pantry, pulling ingredients into a rhythm I haven’t allowed myself in months. There’s something therapeutic about it, the soft clink of ceramic and wood, the knife slicing clean through red bell peppers, the low sizzle of olive oil hitting the cast iron skillet. Ivy leans against the counter beside me, peeling garlic with her fingers, her brows furrowed in quiet concentration.

She sings softly, a tune I don’t recognize, but it fills the cabin in a way music never could. I don’t tell her to stop. I don’t even want to move.

Dinner is pasta tossed in crushed tomatoes, red peppers, roasted garlic, caramelized shallots, and thin shavings of parmesan I find buried in the back of the fridge. I pour her a glass of something red and dry from the small wine rack beneath the stairs. She drinks it without question. We eat by candlelight,seated across the worn oak table, our knees almost touching beneath the old wool blanket I draped over the chairs earlier to keep the draft from slipping through.

The food disappears slowly, each bite punctuated by the occasional murmur of appreciation or soft scrape of cutlery. Eventually, conversation stirs again. It starts with the cabin. Then memories.

She tells me about the time she and Drew snuck into the kitchen here when they were kids and tried to bake a cake. It had collapsed in the oven, but her mother had declared it the best thing she’d ever eaten. I counter with a story about falling through the dock as a teenager, soaked to the bone and too proud to admit I couldn’t swim back to shore until her brother jumped in after me. She laughs then, openly, eyes crinkling at the corners, and something inside me loosens without permission.

Her fork slows over the last bite, and she sets it down carefully before looking at me again. Her fingers trace the stem of her glass.