IVY’S POV
The kitchen at 3 AM smells like chamomile and woodsmoke, which means my mom made tea before bed and Dominic has been sitting in here long enough for his cologne to settle into the air like a territorial marker that doesn’t need wolf biology to function.
He’s at the table with a book open in front of him and his reading glasses low on his nose and a cup of tea that has gone cold based on the absence of steam, and the domesticity of the image – Dominic Voss reading at the kitchen table in a white t-shirt with bare feet and my mother’s chamomile in a mug she painted at one of those pottery studios on our last birthday together – is so dissonant with the man who made me c*m on her couch two nights ago that my brain stutters trying to hold both versions in the same frame.
He doesn’
