Page 24 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Ivy

The sun slices through my curtains like it’s got something to prove, landing right in my eyes.

I groan, squinting as I sit up in bed, disoriented.

My laptop is still perched on the edge of the mattress, surrounded by open notebooks filled with sketches, messy doodles, and bursts of half-legible inspiration.

And then I remember last night.

The phone call.

The way Gray made me laugh, made my heart feel like it finally had somewhere to land. The way he listened—really listened. And that slip of the word boyfriend? The way he didn’t flinch, didn’t run, but embraced it with warmth and gentle confidence? It unraveled something tight in my chest.

That’s what sparked it.

That’s what gave me the vision for the graphics.

This idea that maybe that’s how God loves too—not demanding perfection first, not asking you to clean up your mess before you're welcome. Just…meeting you where you are. Like Gray did with me. No pressure. Just presence .

And once that clicked, it was like creativity exploded out of me.

I worked until nearly one a.m., designing visuals that felt honest and full of grace. I wanted people to look at the graphics and feel the same thing I felt on the phone with him, seen, safe and invited.

I glance at the clock.

10:15 a.m.

Whoa. I haven’t slept in this late on a weekday since...well, ever. I jolt upright, panic flaring until I remember—I work for myself. No meetings. No deadlines. Just the lingering scent of inspiration and the ache of staying up past midnight chasing it.

I grab my phone on the way to the kitchen, still yawning, still very much in the sweatshirt and joggers I wore yesterday. My hair’s in a crooked bun that’s probably defying gravity.

That’s when I see the texts.

Gray

Good morning, girlfriend

Gray

Assuming you’re still asleep. I’ve got something for you. Let me know when you’re up and I’ll bring it over.

Gray

Still sleeping?

Gray

Trying not to overthink our convo from last night. Hope I didn’t scare you off.

Gray

Ivy…

Gray

Okay. I’m on my way over.

Wait. What?

A knock sounds at the door.

My silly smile at his rambling texts vanishes in an instant. I glance down at myself, total chaos gremlin mode. I shuffle to the door anyway, nerves sparking all over, and pull it open.

There he is.

Gray, in all his gloriously handsome, slightly-out-of-breath glory, holding something behind his back. His brows knit together the second he sees me.

“Hey, Ivy, I?—”

I don’t let him finish. I step forward and wrap my arms around him.

His body stills for a second, then melts into mine like he’s been waiting for this exact hug all morning. I bury my face in his chest, not even caring that I probably smell like sleep and bad breath.

When I pull back, I can’t help the awkward laugh that bubbles up.

“Okay, I need to warn you. This is yesterday’s sweatshirt, I haven’t brushed my teeth, and I look like I’ve been hit by a tornado.”

Gray opens his mouth, then closes it again. His gaze softens as he takes a step back, eyes trailing over me.

Then he says, “is it weird that I think you’re even more beautiful like this?”

My breath catches. “Like this?”

He nods, his voice a little rough around the edges. “Yeah. I like seeing you unfiltered. It suits you.”

I laugh, both flattered and flustered. “That’s definitely the nicest way anyone’s ever described bedhead and bad breath.”

He grins. “I mean it.”

I blink. “Gray…”

He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders tense. His voice rushes out in pieces.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve waited. This was probably too much. I just—I woke up and couldn’t stop thinking about last night. Then I overthought everything, and by the time I drove over here I was convincing myself this was stupid, that you’d think I was…”

“Gray.” I step closer, gentle but firm. “Breathe.”

His chest rises like he’s holding it all in, so I reach for his wrist and press my thumb lightly against the inside, the way you’d ground someone. “In,” I whisper. “With me.”

He inhales shakily. His eyes finally meet mine.

“And out.”

We do it again. Once. Twice. Until some of the storm in him quiets.

“That’s better,” I say softly, not letting go. “Now show me what you’ve been hiding.”

His jaw flexes, but the panic loosens enough for a small smile. Slowly, he brings his hand forward. The bouquet is messy, beautiful—pink blooms wrapped in brown paper. My heart stumbles.

And then I see the note taped across the front, his handwriting uneven like he scribbled it before he could lose his nerve.

Ivy, I dare you to be my girlfriend.

My eyes fly to his, and for a second, all I can think is how this all started with a dare. A silly moment, a held hand, a stranger. And now here he is, daring me again—but this time, to be his.

“I know,” he says quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

“We technically made it official over the phone last night, but I was planning on asking you this way in a few days. I had it all in my head—flowers, the right moment, maybe even a cheesy line or two. But then I woke up and couldn’t wait.

So…here I am. Making it in-person official. That is, if you still want to say yes.”

I don’t even try to hold back the smile that takes over my face. “I will accept your dare.”

His shoulders drop like he’s been carrying weight all morning, relief softening every line of him. A grin tugs slow and steady at his mouth.

When he opens his mouth like he’s about to tumble into another ramble, I press my hand to his chest, right over the wild rhythm beneath.

“Easy, heartbeat,” I whisper. “You’re spiraling again, and it’s adorable, but unnecessary.”

His breath evens, one beat, then another, until I can feel the change under my palm—the frantic race slowing into something calmer, steadier. His eyes meet mine, and this time there’s no panic, just warmth flickering there.

“That’s better,” I say softly, giving him the faintest smile.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice quieter now. “That’s better.”

I step back just enough to gesture toward the kitchen. “So…do you want some coffee?”

“Only if I get to sit across from you and memorize every detail of how you look in that sweatshirt,” he says, calmer now but no less intense. His grin curves, and he leans just a little closer. “Because honestly, it might’ve ruined me for anything else.”

Gray stands by the door a few hours later, keys in one hand, his other resting on the doorknob like he’s unsure whether to turn it. His body tilts toward me, like he’s half-ready to go, half-hoping I’ll stop him.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Neither of us says anything for a moment. The silence stretches, but not in a bad way. Like we’re both listening to something invisible.

Finally, he glances at me. “Okay,” he says, softly. “I should go.”

I nod, but I don’t move. “Yeah. Of course.”

But I don’t want him to. I want him to stay. To sit back down, to hold my hand across the table again, to say that it’s too early to leave something this good.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly unsure of himself. “Unless…you need help with anything else? Graphics? Planning your groceries for the week? A coffee refill?”

I laugh under my breath. “I think I’ve got it covered.”

He nods again, slower this time. “Right. Okay.”

He turns the knob, cracks the door just a few inches but doesn’t step through. His shoulders rise with a breath he doesn’t fully release, then he glances over at me with a lopsided smile.

“I’m really glad I came,” he says.

My voice comes out softer than I intended. “Me too.”

He takes a small step forward, then stops again. His hand brushes mine, just barely. “You make it really hard to leave, Ivy.”

My heart thuds once, hard and fast.

He leans in like he’s about to kiss me. Just a little. Just enough for me to feel the possibility crackling between us.

Then he pauses, grin tilting crooked. “You know…I think I’m going to cash in on those kisses you owe me.”

Before I can breathe, his hand slides gently to the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and his lips find mine. Once. Twice. Slow, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath unsteady. “Dangerous,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “You make it way too hard to walk away.”

My heart trips over itself. “Then don’t.”

He laughs under his breath, pulling back reluctantly. “I really do have to go before I’m late to rehearsal.”

I pout, half teasing, half very real. “Fine. Go be responsible.”

He glances back at me, that grin still tugging his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you next time. Double the payment. Maybe triple.”

I swallow, somehow managing to smile. “Have a good day, Gray.”

He exhales through a grin, backing out the door. “’You too, girlfriend.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I lock the door and lean my back against it, staring at the spot where he stood just moments ago. My apartment is still filled with the warmth he left behind—the smell of his cologne lingering in the air, the half-full mug on the table, the silence that somehow hums with his absence .

I let out a slow breath, my hand drifting to my lips like I need to remind myself not to grin too hard.

He brought flowers. Wrapped in brown paper, a messy little note scrawled in his handwriting. I will cherish this moment forever.

I’d never seen a bouquet of pink flowers look so beautiful. So personal. I put them in a vase while I waited for our coffee to brew, and slipped his note on my desk, they look stunning on my kitchen counter.

I tuck my legs underneath me and open my laptop, scooting it closer until the soft glow of the screen lights up my face. My next project deadline is looming, and I want to give the final files one more look before I send them off.

The logo sits bold at the top of the page: a fresh, modern design for a local coffee shop. I hover the cursor over the image I chose—a soft palette of sage green and cream, paired with a hand-drawn illustration of a steaming mug. It isn’t flashy. But it feels warm and inviting.

I click through the rest of the mockups: menus, social media templates, even a quirky little loyalty card with tiny coffee beans to stamp. It’s clean. Polished. Professional.

And for the first time all day, I exhale. This isn’t just pixels on a screen—it’s someone’s dream, and I get to help bring it to life.

I select the files, attach them to an email, and hit send.

A quiet thrill runs through me. I did it.

The sound of the whoosh as the email leaves my outbox feels final. I sink back into the couch and sip the now-cold coffee beside me. It's gross, but I don’t care.

Because the project is done. I put the flowers in a vase. And there’s a boy who makes me feel like maybe I’m not so hard to love after all.

I lean back into the couch and let my gaze wander to the flowers again. They’re a little uneven, a little wild, like they were picked with more heart than coordination. Which makes them perfect.

Just like this morning.

It started with coffee, of course. I was still half-asleep and somehow poured creamer into both mugs before I remembered—Gray takes his black. I started apologizing, but he just took a sip, smiled, and said, “Tastes like dessert. I’m not mad.”

Then he poured us both a second cup.

And when my stomach rumbled loud enough to echo off the walls, I’d winced, embarrassed. “I, um, don’t really have anything to eat. Only cereal.”

He grinned like it was the best news he’d heard all day.

Ten minutes later, we were side by side on my couch, knees brushing, two mismatched bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in our hands. Mine was in a soup bowl. His was in a Christmas mug with a chipped handle. We didn’t care.

It was easy. Effortless.

We talked between bites about everything and nothing. I asked him if he was from Dallas and he shrugged, like the answer still surprised him.

“Colorado, originally,” he said, tilting his spoon through the milk. “I ended up here after a tour with a band I used to be in.”

“A band?”

“Metal,” he added with a grin, like he already knew how ridiculous it might sound to me. “I was the lead vocalist. Screamed a lot, wore way too much black. It was a whole vibe.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked. “Please tell me there are pictures.”

He groaned but couldn’t hide his smile. “Unfortunately, yes. And believe it or not, Micah can play guitar. Him and my buddy Chris will drag me out sometimes to play at random bars. We mix in Christian stuff here and there—it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s fun.

Keeps the glory days alive without the bad eyeliner. ”

He told me Dallas was supposed to be a stop, not a destination. But something about the city and the warmth, the people, the second chances—made him stay. “It just…felt like home.”

Then, softer, he mentioned his mom. Said he only sees her once a year, by choice. And when I opened my mouth to ask more, he just shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, like he knew I was curious but didn’t want to make it heavy. “I’ve got good boundaries now. God’s been kind in that.”

He didn’t mention his dad. Not once. But I noticed.

And I didn’t push.

He stayed on my couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. He laughed at my dumb jokes, held my gaze like he saw everything I was still afraid to show.

It was nothing big.

But it felt like everything.