Page 36 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Gray

It’s been seven days since Ivy and I looked each other in the eye and agreed—we couldn’t be alone in her apartment anymore. Or mine. Not if we wanted to keep our promises to God.

I told her it was the right choice. And I meant it. Still do.

But tonight, sitting here in my quiet living room with the TV off and the silence pressing in, I can’t help wishing she were curled up beside me. No expectations. No lines crossed. Just her head on my shoulder, her laugh breaking up the dark.

I grip the edge of the couch cushion and shake my head. Who am I kidding? That’s exactly how it starts. A little closeness. A little comfort. And before I know it, I’m pushing the line I swore I’d never cross.

So instead of calling her, I pray.

Lord, give me strength when everything in me wants to take the easy way. Teach me that honoring You means trusting You…even with this ache.

I lean back, staring at the ceiling. My chest feels tight, like I’m holding my breath even though I’m not. This is harder than I thought it would be. Not because I don’t want purity. But because I’ve never wanted someone the way I want her.

I rub a hand over my face, dragging it down like I could scrape the ache away. The silence presses in harder, mocking me. My apartment’s too clean, too quiet, like it’s waiting for me to finally admit I hate being here alone.

I can practically see Ivy stretched out on the couch across from me, her feet tucked beneath her, hair falling across her shoulder as she smiles at something on TV.

She’d probably roll her eyes at whatever documentary I picked, then end up loving it halfway through.

I can almost hear her laugh—soft and surprised.

The thought guts me. Because I don’t just want to kiss her. I don’t just want her curled into me. I want her here. Shoes by the door. Coffee mug on the counter. Her presence filling the cracks in this place that always feels like it’s missing something.

I push off the couch, pacing. One step, two. My pulse thuds louder than my footsteps. Don’t think about it. Don’t dwell on it. But the more I tell myself that, the louder the ache becomes.

I stop at the window, looking out at the streetlights painting the parking lot in dull yellow.

Cars come and go, couples disappearing inside their apartments, lights flicking on in warm squares across the building.

And here I am, stuck in the dark, wishing I could have what they have without the guilt clawing at me.

My chest tightens again. I drop onto the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. God, I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this .

The silence doesn’t answer back.

My gaze snags on the guitar leaning in the corner, like it’s waiting for me. I cross the room and pull it into my lap, fingers curling over the neck like they remember what to do even when my head doesn’t. The first strum vibrates through me, grounding me.

I start with something aimless—just chords, nothing that means anything. But before I know it, the melody that spills out is the one that’s been haunting me for weeks. The one I can’t seem to finish.

Her melody.

I close my eyes, letting the notes rise and fall. Soft at first, then steadier, clearer. It feels like prayer and temptation tangled into one. Words hover on my tongue, half-formed lines I’ve scribbled in notebooks and napkins. I sing them under my breath, quiet, almost afraid to let them out.

Every step, every prayer, every night I wondered

If I was enough, if I’d lose my way

But You were the grace I didn’t know I’d needed

You stayed, you stayed

My voice cracks, and I let the words die. The ache in my chest sharpens, too much, too close. Because it’s Ivy. Every line. Every note. She’s in all of it, even the spaces between the chords. And I don’t know if I can write this song without crossing lines I promised I wouldn’t.

I drop my head back against the couch, guitar still in my lap, strings buzzing faintly beneath my fingertips. “Get it together, man,” I mutter. But even the sound of my own voice feels hollow.

The truth is, I don’t want to get it together. Not tonight. Tonight I want to give in, just once. To call her. To tell her to come over. To forget about rules and boundaries and do what my heart and body are begging for.

I swallow, shaking my head. No. That’s not who I am anymore. That’s not who I want to be.

But the old version of me, he’s right there in the shadows of my mind, smirking like he’s been waiting for this moment. He whispers that I’ll never be strong enough. That sooner or later, I’ll cave and ruin this relationship.

I grip the guitar tighter, knuckles white, and let the strings hum under the pressure.

“Not tonight,” I whisper. “I won’t let you win tonight.”

The words don’t make the ache disappear, but they hold me steady for a breath. Just one.

I set the guitar back in the corner and push off the couch, pacing again, slower this time. I can feel the war inside me, tugging both ways—between desire and discipline, love and lust, the old man and the new one.

Finally, I drop to my knees in the middle of the room. No music. No pretense. Just me and God in the silence.

“Help me,” I pray, voice breaking. “Help me want You more than I want her. Help me love her the way You do.”

The words hang heavy in the air, like they’re too big for the room. My shoulders sag under the weight of them.

I stay there until my knees ache, forehead pressed to the carpet, the quiet filling with something softer—peace, maybe. Not enough to erase the ache. But enough to remind me why I’m still fighting.

I climb back to my feet, heart still restless, body still humming with the absence of her. But there’s a steadiness too, faint but real. Enough to keep me standing when everything in me wants to fall.

I kill the lights and head for bed, whispering the same prayer again as I crawl under the covers .

“Help me love her the way You do”

It’s only been a week, but it feels like a year.

I’ve checked my watch so many times I’ve convinced myself the second hand is broken. My leg bounces against the bench I’m sitting on, nerves wound tight as guitar strings. Every car that pulls into the lot makes my chest lurch, only to fall again when it’s not hers.

I hate how much I’ve missed her. Or maybe I love it. Maybe this is what happens when you finally let someone in—you ache when they’re gone, even if it’s only for a little while.

I shove my hands in my pockets, then yank them out again. Fidget. Stretch. Pace a step, sit back down. I’m ridiculous. I know it. And I don’t even care.

Then, finally, I see her car turn in. My heart kicks so hard I swear it echoes in my ears. Before she’s even in park, I’m already moving. Practically jogging, which is not my style, but I couldn’t hold myself back if I tried.

She opens the door and barely gets one foot out before I’m there. “Hey…” she starts, but I scoop her up like she weighs nothing and spin her once, twice, her laughter spilling into the air.

“Gray!” she squeals between giggles, hands clutching at my shoulders. People are watching, I know they are, but I couldn’t care less. She’s here. She’s in my arms. And I feel alive again.

When I finally set her down, her cheeks are pink, her eyes wide with that sparkle that ruins me every time.

I don’t even give her a chance to catch her breath.

My hands frame her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks, and I press my mouth to hers—firm, sure, like I’ve been waiting all my life for this exact moment.

The kiss isn’t long, but it’s enough to steal the air from both of us. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in.

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper, the words coming out rougher than I meant. My chest tightens, because it’s the truth, simple and raw. “So much.”

Her smile curves soft and sweet, her fingers curling in the collar of my shirt like she’s afraid to let go. “I missed you too.”

She looks like fall—at least, as much as fall exists in Texas.

A lightweight purple sweater hangs loose against her frame, her black leggings tucked into sneakers, and her hair is braided over one shoulder in a way that makes it impossible for me not to stare.

If the air had fully committed to the season, it would’ve been perfect.

But this is Texas: seventy degrees in the shade, eighty if you walk ten steps too far.

Still, with the sun hitting her just right, she could’ve walked straight out of a September postcard.

Ivy’s hand slips into mine as we leave the parking lot and wander down the path toward the park.

The late afternoon light spills golden through the trees, shadows stretching long across the grass.

Families are spread out on blankets, kids running wild, the sound of a basketball hitting pavement somewhere in the distance.

It should feel ordinary. But with Ivy beside me, nothing does.

“Feels good to finally see you,” she says, brushing her shoulder against mine.

I huff a laugh, tightening my grip on her hand. “ Good? I thought I was gonna lose my mind. I checked my phone so many times I’m surprised it didn’t file a restraining order.”

She giggles, the sound bubbling up easy, and my chest loosens in a way it hasn’t all week. I swear I’d walk this path forever if it meant hearing her laugh like that again.

We stroll in comfortable silence for a while. Every so often, I catch myself looking at her instead of the trail, soaking her in—the way the breeze lifts strands of her hair, the way her eyes light up when she glances at me like I’m more than I deserve.

I’m not paying attention, too caught up in Ivy, and my shoulder slams against someone else’s. Hard.

“Sorry, man,” I mutter automatically.

The guy looks to be mid-thirties, ball cap shoved low, sunglasses hooked on his shirt. He freezes, eyes narrowing as they lock onto mine. “Grayson?”