Winn stood there for a moment longer, staring at the doorway long after it closed. He knew—deep in the marrow of his bones—that he was doing the right thing. He had to keep her safe. He'd already lost a daughter. He refused to lose Ivy.
If distance would protect her, then he'd carve that distance himself, even if it split him open.
He finally turned and trudged up the stairs. In his room, he peeled off his T-shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the chair.
He picked up his phone from the bedside table when the soft click of the bedroom door opening made him freeze.
He turned.
Ivy stood there—right there—framed by the doorway, tears still streaming down her face.
She set down her bag slowly. Then she walked toward him with purposeful, determined strides.
"Ivy…" Winn whispered. But the words dried up in his throat, disintegrated by shock and want and the impossible reality standing in front of him.
Because she reached up, rose onto her toes, and kissed him.
