Page 35 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Gray

The van smelled like old french fries, sweaty teenagers, and half-used Axe body spray, but I swear I could’ve ridden another hundred miles if it meant keeping that buzz from the weekend a little longer.

Music camp for teens wasn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing getaway, but somewhere between the late-night worship sets and those cracked-open conversations with kids who reminded me way too much of myself—I remembered why I said yes in the first place.

Because Jesus shows up when you least expect it.

And because every time I lead worship in a room full of kids with chipped armor and stubborn hearts, I remember the night He showed up for me.

Still, four days without Ivy felt like four weeks. I don’t know when she became my soft place to land, but I’m not fighting it.

I’d texted her the second I got into town, and when she said “Come over,” I didn’t even go home first.

Her apartment complex comes into view, and my foot taps the brake like I’m trying to slow time, like I need a second to breathe before I see her.

But I don’t slow down.

Not really.

I park. Climb out. Heart thudding louder with each step toward her door.

She opens it before I can even knock, like she’s been standing there waiting, and maybe she has. She’s wearing my oversized sweatshirt, the one I let her borrow after our first kiss in the rain and she has yet to give it back. Her smile spans from ear to ear and the sight of her wrecks me.

“You’re back,” she says, voice warm and sweet and way too much for a guy who hasn’t kissed her in four days.

I can’t help it—I pull her into my arms without a word.

She melts into me, like she always does. Arms winding around my back like they never want to let go. And I don’t want them to. Not for a second.

“Missed you,” I murmur, my face buried in her hair. The scent of vanilla and floral fills my lungs, and I feel myself exhale for the first time all day.

“Me too,” she whispers against my shoulder.

I lean back, just enough to see her face—those bright eyes, that faint pink rising in her cheeks, the curve of her mouth like she’s trying not to smile too wide.

And then…I don’t wait.

I kiss her.

Not soft and slow, not this time. It’s deep, drawn-out, four days of missing her pressed into a single breath. Her fingers twist into my shirt, and I feel the ache rise in my chest—the ache of wanting her close and not knowing how to be near without unraveling a little.

She kisses me back like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Like the past four days built up a hunger that only now is being met.

But even as the intensity climbs, there’s still that thread of care—of reverence. I cradle her face in my hands, thumbs brushing her jaw as I pull back just an inch, trying to catch my breath.

She’s breathless too, blinking up at me like I just knocked the wind out of her in the best way.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Hi.”

I laugh, resting my forehead against hers. “Hey you.”

A beat of silence. And then she tugs my hand, cheeks flushed. “Come in. I made cookies.”

I raise a brow, still recovering. “You baked? For me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” she teases, already pulling me inside.

“Oh, I will,” I say, following her inside. “This is how it starts, you know. Next thing you know, we’re married and you’re packing my lunch.”

She snorts. “You wish.”

Yeah, I do.

Her apartment is warm, cozy in that lived-in way. Soft lighting. A blanket tossed across the couch. Two mugs on the coffee table and a plate of cookies that actually look edible.

We settle in, side by side. Closer than we need to be, but still not close enough.

I grab a cookie, break off a piece, and pop it into my mouth. “Okay, these are dangerously good. I was not expecting that.”

She glares at me. “Rude.”

I shrug, smiling around the bite. “Just being honest.”

The conversation flows easy—catching up, talking about the camp, laughing over something Harper said in the group chat. But my mind is already starting to drift. Not away from her—just deeper. Past the surface.

Because underneath the jokes and cookies and comfort of this couch…I know there’s something I need to tell her.

Something I haven’t said out loud in a long time.

Something that changed everything.

And maybe it’s time she knew.

Ivy’s laughter fades as she curls her legs under her, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other tugging the sleeve of my hoodie down past her knuckles.

She looks up at me like she sees something deeper.

And maybe she does.

“You’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind?” She asks.

I stare at the coffee table for a second, the edge of my boot tapping a silent rhythm against the rug. “You really wanna know?”

Her head tilts just slightly. “Gray. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

I nod, my fingers dragging across my thigh. “I wasn’t always…this. The guy you know. The one who plays guitar and talks about grace like I didn’t used to drown in everything opposite of it.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, steady and open.

I clear my throat. “I never knew my dad. Not even a photo. My mom…she was around, but not really. Alcohol always came first. Some nights I made my own dinner, put myself to bed, figured out how to be invisible. Most nights, she didn’t even notice.”

Ivy’s hand shifts like she wants to reach for me, but she waits. Lets me talk.

“I got good at disappearing. Good at pretending I didn’t care. Fell in with the wrong crowd—guys who wore the same numb look I had. We didn’t talk about much. Just music. And eventually…the band.”

A soft breath escapes me. “We thought we were gonna make it. Toured through the southeast—nothing big. Dive bars, low-rent venues. Some towns I don’t even remember. The others…I try not to.”

I glance at her, and her eyes haven’t left mine.

“They partied hard,” I continue. “Drugs, alcohol, all of it. For a while, I stayed sober. Told myself I was different. Told myself I was in control. Not wanting to be anything like my mom. But eventually I caved.”

A pause.

“Then we hit Dallas.”

I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping the edge of the cushion until my knuckles ache.

“It was our last stop. Everything had gone wrong—equipment issues, fights in the van, our lead guitarist threatening to quit mid-set. And something just…snapped. I couldn’t fake being okay anymore.

I drank more than I ever had and got high on…

I don’t even remember what, actually. I woke up on the steps of a church downtown with vomit on my shirt and the worst headache of my life. ”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I thought I was hallucinating when a guy sat down next to me. Turns out, his name was Jack.”

Ivy’s brows lift slightly. “Pastor Jack?”

I nod. “Yeah. He didn’t ask what I’d done. Didn’t ask if I deserved help. Just looked at me and said, ‘You look like someone who’s trying to outrun something big. Want to come inside?’”

I breathe in slowly. “He meant the church. I didn’t go that first time. But he gave me his number. Told me he’d be there next Sunday. And the one after that. ”

A beat passes.

“I went. Three weeks later. Still hungover. Still angry. But I went. And for the first time, I didn’t feel invisible. I didn’t feel like I had to prove anything. The worship…the message…it cracked something open in me.”

I feel Ivy’s hand slide over mine now.

“I didn’t give my life to Jesus that day. Took a few more Sundays. A few more breakdowns. But when I finally said yes…it wasn’t because I had my life together. It was because I didn’t. And He still wanted me anyway.”

I close my eyes. “That wrecked me.”

Ivy squeezes my hand, and I look at her again.

She’s crying. Silent tears. No dramatics. Just emotion—real and raw.

“You’re not him anymore,” she whispers.

“No,” I say quietly. “But he still lives in my head sometimes. And I’m scared if I’m not careful, he could come back.”

Her thumb brushes mine, slow and grounding.

“He won’t,” she whispers. “Because you’re not fighting alone anymore.

Not against your past. Not against the lies in your head.

You have Him now. And you have me.” She swallows, her tears catching in her throat.

“I know what it’s like to hear that voice that says you’ll never be enough.

But I’ve seen what grace can do. And Gray, that grace is all over you. ”

And I want to believe that.

I really do.

We’re still sitting close. Too close.

Her fingers are laced with mine, her other hand resting lightly against my leg. And maybe it’s the quiet. Or the safety. Or the way she looked at me when I told her everything. But suddenly the distance between us feels like it’s shrinking without either of us moving.

I glance at her lips.

Then away.

Then back again.

And I can feel it—that pull.

The one that starts in my chest and burns its way down.

She leans her head against my shoulder, and I exhale slowly, trying to steady my pulse. But the scent of her, the softness of her body tucked against mine—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

I swallow hard. “I missed you too.”

She turns just enough to look up at me, her hand still in mine. The space between us collapses inch by inch. One of my hands slides around her waist without thinking, pulling her just a little closer. Her hand rests against my chest now, over my heart. I know she feels it—how fast it’s pounding.

She tilts her face up.

I should move.

I don’t.

My nose brushes hers, and her breath catches.

“Ivy…” Her name is a warning. A prayer. A plea.

But I don’t pull back.

Neither does she.

When I kiss her, it’s soft at first. Careful. Like we’re both waiting for the other to stop.

But we don’t.

My hand finds her waist, then slides up her back, pulling her closer until I can feel every breath, every tremble. I shift, guiding her gently back against the couch, my body moving over hers until I’m hovering—barely touching, but everywhere at once .

Her breath catches.

So does mine.

I brace myself with one hand beside her head, the other drifting lower, fingertips slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt—only an inch, maybe two. Her skin is warm, soft, and my thumb grazes the curve of her waist like it’s something sacred. Because it is.

Her hands find my back again, tugging at my shirt, fingers brushing my spine, and for a second…I almost forget.

Almost surrender.

I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then another just beneath her jaw. She arches ever so slightly, and something primal stirs inside me, something I’ve spent years laying at the feet of Jesus.

And I want to.

I really want to.

But I can’t.

Not like this. Not now.

I force myself to still, breathing hard, forehead resting against hers.

“Ivy…” My voice is raw. “I can’t. We can’t.”

I pull back suddenly, my forehead resting against hers, both of us breathing hard.

“I want to. You have no idea how much.”

She nods, her eyes searching mine. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” I cup her cheek gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—” I trail off, shaking my head. “I need to tell you something.”

She pulls back just enough to really look at me, brow creased. “What is it?”

I sit up straighter, raking a hand through my hair. “Before I left for the camp, I met up with Jack. We talked about you. About us. I told him what happened last time…and how proud I was that we stopped.”

She nods slowly, unsure where this is going.

“But he said something I haven’t been able to shake,” I continue. “He said we shouldn’t be alone like this. That next time we might not stop. That…maybe it’s not about self-control. Maybe it’s about wisdom.”

Her face tightens slightly. “So…what are you saying?”

I blow out a breath. “I’m saying I didn’t like it at first. I got mad, actually. Told him I could handle it.”

“And now?”

I look at her, really look at her. “Now I think he might be right.”

The silence stretches.

And then, Ivy exhales, her shoulders relaxing just a little. “I’ve been feeling it too,” she says. “That edge. Like we’re always a few seconds away from crossing a line we can’t uncross.”

I nod, heart heavy but sure. “Then maybe we make a choice. Not because we have to. But because we want to honor what God’s doing here. In us.”

She studies me, then slowly, she reaches for my hand again.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Let’s choose that.”

And something about that simple agreement steadies me.

This isn’t the end of something.

It’s the beginning.

A boundary drawn not from fear, but from trust.

From faith.

From love.

It’s quiet again .

Not awkward quiet. Not the kind that’s full of unspoken tension or words left unsaid.

Just…peaceful.

Ivy leans her head on my shoulder, her hand still in mine, and we sit there like that—still and steady—for a long time.

The earlier heat between us has cooled into something deeper.

Weightier. Like the decision we made just now solidified something that was already being written underneath the surface.

Still, the moment is delicate. Fragile in its holiness. And I know if I stay here too long, the clarity I feel right now might start to blur.

I turn slightly, brushing my lips against her temple. “I should go.”

She doesn’t argue.

She just nods and looks up at me with eyes that are somehow both soft and fierce—like she knows the cost of this kind of love and is still willing to pay it.

I stand, stretching slightly, and she walks me to the door, the weight of our promise following every step.

Her fingers graze mine as I reach for the handle. “Thanks for telling me everything tonight.”

I look at her, heart full. “Thanks for listening.”

She gives me a small smile that says she gets it, all of it. “Text me when you get home?”

“I will.”

And then I pause, one hand on the doorknob, the other reaching for her waist one last time. I press my forehead to hers, not kissing her—just breathing her in, letting this closeness anchor what we just decided.

“I care about you so much,” I whisper.

She nods slowly. “I know.”

“I want this to last, Ivy. ”

“So do I.”

“I love you Ivy.”

“Love you too.”

I take a steadying breath, then let go.

The door clicks shut behind me, sprint down the stairs until the night air hits my face, crisp and quiet. My truck’s parked under the streetlight, and as I climb in, I don’t feel regret.

I feel reverence.

This isn’t a story driven by impulse. It’s one built on choice.

And tonight, we chose something better.

Even if it’s harder.

Even if it aches a little.

Because maybe that’s what love really is—doing what’s right not because you have to…but because they’re worth it.

Because He is.

Because we are.