The Shape of Silence

Chapter Eight: Ivy

It was another hell of a shift. The kind that made Ivy seriously consider quitting on the spot and setting fire to her apron as a symbolic gesture of freedom.

The lunch rush came in waves, the air inside the diner thick with grease, chatter, and the smell of overcooked eggs. Ivy maneuvered through the maze of tables with a tray of drinks balanced in one hand and two plates cradled in the other, expertly avoiding toddlers underfoot and businessmen too deep in conversation to notice her passing.

She didn’t even see the guy swivel his chair out.

Her tray caught the edge, jolted, and an entire round of drinks splashed down the front of her apron and shirt. The icy sting of soda shocked her skin, soaking through her shirt in sticky rivulets. A chorus of gasps rippled from the nearby tables, a few snickers barely stifled. The fizz of orange soda tickled her nose as it soaked through her shirt, dripping in sticky trails onto her jeans and shoes.

A loud gasp, some half-hearted apologies, and then he had the audacity to say, “Well, you shouldn’t walk so close to people.”

Ivy stared at him for a beat too long. Arden bristled in her mind like a storm brewing.

“Smile, sweetheart,” the man added, and that was when Arden growled low and long.

Instead of snapping—because she’d like to keep her job, as miserable as it was—Ivy turned on her heel and marched straight to the back.

In the cramped breakroom, she yanked her locker open and pulled out the emergency change of clothes she kept stuffed inside: a wrinkled tee and a pair of old dark jeans. Not ideal, but dry. That was enough.

She changed quickly, tossing the sticky clothes in a plastic bag, then slammed the locker shut with a metallic bang that echoed through the breakroom.

As she stepped out of the back, a patch of grease—helpfully ignored by everyone all day—caught the tread of her boot. She slipped, arms flailing, and landed hard on her side.

The crack of her elbow against the tile made her wince, but it was the long streak of grease now decorating the side of her jeans and butt that really cemented the day’s awfulness.

“Hey,” Chuck called from the counter. “I got your check.”

Ivy limped over, trying to rub the worst of the grime off with a napkin. He handed her the envelope with his usual grunt and went back to ignoring her existence.

She didn’t even check the amount until she was outside. It was probably short, but she didn’t care. She just needed air and silence.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Two notifications.

One from Allie: What are you doing for your birthday this weekend? You should come to my place. We’ll do cake and chill. You deserve to be celebrated. 💖

Ivy stared at the message a little longer than she meant to.

Her birthday.

She’d forgotten. Or maybe she’d buried it deep on purpose.

Then the second message popped up.

From Rowan: It was very nice meeting you today. What does your schedule look like for that raincheck?

Ivy’s lips twitched into a smile before she could stop it.

Even Arden let out a soft, amused huff. I liked him. He didn't try too hard. But he still tried. That counts for something.

"Yeah," Ivy murmured. She leaned against the wall of the diner, staring at the messages. Her jeans were stained, her elbow ached, and she smelled like old soda. But suddenly, her day didn’t feel quite so bad.

Not perfect.

But not hopeless, either.

She started typing.

To Allie: I’ll think about it. Haven’t decided yet. Might be working.

To Rowan: I’m off Thursday and Sunday. No dress code, right? ;)

She hit send before she could talk herself out of it, tucked the phone back in her pocket, and headed home.

Rowan’s reply came within minutes.

From Rowan: Sunday it is, no dress code. Mrs. T's sound good?

Ivy tilted her head, considering.

Mrs. T’s.

Of course he picked that place.

It wasn’t upscale, exactly, but it was nestled in the nicer part of town—the kind with flower beds lining the sidewalks, clean brick façades, and a community board that actually got used. The café had outdoor seating, fresh pastries, and coffee that didn’t taste like it had been brewed through a boot. It was charming, comfortable, warm. Inconvenient to get to without a car.

Technically, it wasn’t that far from her apartment. Maybe a thirty-minute walk. But to get there, she’d have to cut across a stretch of the freeway shoulder and cross one of the older bridges that was built when sidewalks were optional and safety was a luxury.

She imagined herself hoofing it down the shoulder in her nicest ratty jeans, half a foot from traffic, getting honked at and possibly flattened like a bug.

Pass.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment.

To Rowan: Sounds great. 8am-ish? I’ll need a ride.

She almost added “unless that’s too much trouble,” but bit it back. Either he was the type of guy who minded giving someone a ride, or he wasn’t. If he said no, she’d figure something out. But if he said yes…

The reply came so fast she barely had time to lock her phone.

From Rowan: I’ll be there.

No hesitation. Just three words, simple and solid.

Ivy exhaled, something strange loosening in her chest. Not quite relief. Not quite excitement either.

But it was nice.

It was something.

Ivy slipped her phone back into her pocket, the soft buzz of the city wrapping around her like a tired sigh. The hum of traffic, distant footsteps, and the rustle of leaves mingled with the fading light of dusk. Sunday morning. Mrs. T’s café. A ride waiting for her.

Arden’s voice flickered in her mind—sharp, teasing, full of mischief and hope. Well, look at that. One of our mates isn’t a total jerk. He actually offered to pick you up. Fancy that.

Ivy rolled her eyes. I don’t need anyone to do things for me. I can get there myself.

Sure, sure. Independence is your brand. But sometimes, just sometimes, it’s okay to let someone lend a hand. Arden’s tone softened. Besides, this one’s willing to go out of his way to make it easy for you. That counts for something.

Ivy bit her lip, staring down at her worn shoes. She hated relying on anyone, hated feeling like a burden. But Rowan... maybe he was different. Not just another wolf in the pack. Maybe he was someone who saw her as more than just a stray trying to keep her head above water.

If you do something with Allison on Saturday, then you’ll be spending your actual birthday with him, Arden continued, voice gentle but insistent. Not that you have to tell him that. But a little celebration—maybe a pastry, some quiet moments—it wouldn’t hurt.

Ivy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A mild celebration. The idea was foreign, like a dream she’d tucked away long ago. But maybe… maybe she deserved that.

“Maybe,” Ivy whispered to herself, the corners of her mouth tugging upward just slightly.

Arden’s voice purred in agreement. There’s hope yet, kid.