Nate’s smile came slow—like it had to pass through a few checkpoints before it was allowed to surface.

Not because he was unsure.
Because it felt earned.

He let out a quiet laugh at the math of it, shaking his head just a little. “I’m sensing a pattern,” he said. “Which is alarming, because I’ve never been good at long-term trends.” His eyes stayed on hers when he added, softer, “But if Bedford natives are my weakness, I’ll take my chances.”

Her fingers at the hem of his shirt grounded him more than he expected. He didn’t move away from it. Didn’t tuck it out of reach. Just let his hand settle at her hip again—easy, familiar now—like this was a place it had learned by heart.

“Eames being my final boss feels right,” he went on, mock-resigned. “Every hero’s journey needs one impossible standard-bearer with claws.” A beat. “I respect it. Fear it. Will absolutely lose.”

When she shifted—just enough to suggest space, not actually take it—his attention followed her without him meaning it to. The board. The cards. The way she proposed new rules like she always did everything else: thoughtful, deliberate, a little daring.

Instinct.

He exhaled, amused. “Oh, that’s dangerous,” he said. “You realize you’ve just removed the one thing I rely on to pretend I know what I’m doing.” Then, grinning, “Which means I’m in.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, eyes flicking over the board like it might whisper secrets if he stared long enough. He didn’t reach for the cards yet. Didn’t rush it.

Instead, he glanced back at her.

“You’re unfairly good at this,” he said, fond. “Not the game—the choosing. The way you decide what matters and then actually follow through.” His voice dipped, quieter but certain. “That part’s impressive.”

He finally picked up the cards, held them loosely, and shook his head once more, smiling like he already knew the outcome wouldn’t be the point.

“And for the record,” Nate added, meeting her gaze again, something warm and steady there, “I don’t mind the idea of a next game. Or a next visit. Or… however many after that you’ll have me.”

A pause. Just enough to let it land.

“Alright,” he said, lifting the cards. “One guess. Instinct only.” His smile turned crooked. “And if I lose, I promise to accept my fate with dignity. And possibly baked goods.”

He didn’t look away from her when he finished.

Not from the challenge.

Not from the choice.

Because whatever the outcome of the game—

He was already winning, just by being there.

Ivy couldn’t help it—
She smiled.

Not the polite, practiced kind she wore at the museum. Not even the dry, tucked-in grin she gave the postmaster when he commented on her “unmarried” status for the third December in a row.

No, this one was real. Soft-edged. Slightly tilted with disbelief that this was her life right now—candlelight, laughter, a boy from another world looking at her like he didn’t need the map anymore.

Her heart did something ill-advised in her chest. Something warm and traitorous and very, very present.

Because Nate Banks wasn’t just staying—he was staying like he meant it.

And Ivy, for all her quiet restraint and thoughtful order, let herself be fully enamored with that fact. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it bloom.

Then—because if she didn’t give her hands something to do, she might kiss him again—
She built suspense.

“Oh, we’re taking this seriously now?” she asked lightly, lips curving in challenge. “Okay then. No pressure.”

She leaned forward with flair, stretching out her arm to finally gather the small stack of cards that had been sitting untouched by her side of the board since the game began. She could’ve looked earlier—should have, technically—but she’d been distracted. By him. By the moment. By how easy it had all been to fall into.

But now? Now she was ready to play.

She fanned the cards slowly, eyes skimming over each one with growing focus. One by one, pieces clicked into place. Possibilities eliminated. Her brow furrowed, but not with stress—just the pure, satisfying click of a puzzle sliding into position.

Then her gaze drifted to the board itself, eyes scanning the rooms, the little weapon tokens, the faces of the suspects. Thoughtful. Intent. She tapped her fingers lightly near the conservatory.

Next came Nate.

She studied him a little longer than was probably fair—tilted her head as if his face might offer her some hint. And when he raised an eyebrow, amused, she smothered a smile and turned—

—to Eames, who had repositioned himself on the windowsill like a gargoyle guarding an ancient truth.

Ivy raised her eyebrows. “You look smug,” she told him quietly. “Which means I’m probably wrong.”

Eames didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Just stared at Nate like he was still debating whether or not to let him live through the night.

Ivy nodded solemnly. “Duly noted.”

She turned back to Nate, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“Well. Here goes everything.”

She placed her cards gently back down, sat straighter, and delivered her final guess:

“Professor Plum. In the conservatory. With the wrench.”

A pause.

Then a half-smile curved her lips like she was just a little too proud of her deduction.

“Look, if anyone’s repressing enough rage to swing a wrench, it’s him.”

She nudged her knee gently against his.

“Your turn, city boy.”

The challenge was still there in her voice.
But the warmth in her eyes told him—
This moment was hers, and his, and real.

Nate watched her the way you watched something rare happen without warning.

Not like a performance.
Not like a game move.

Like a moment you didn’t want to interrupt because you were afraid it might realize it was being seen and disappear.

That smile—that one—hit him square in the chest. Not because it was pretty (it was), but because it wasn’t armored. It wasn’t filtered through politeness or restraint or irony. It was the kind of smile that only showed up when someone felt safe enough to stop managing the room.

And the realization landed quietly but heavy all the same:

She wasn’t just letting him stay.
She was letting him matter.

He leaned back slightly as she built the suspense, arms crossing loosely, posture relaxed in a way that would’ve been unrecognizable to anyone who knew him in New York. There was no edge in him now. No bracing. Just attention. Just enjoyment.

“Terrifying,” he murmured when she leaned forward, eyes tracking her hands as she finally picked up the cards. “This is how I know I’ve underestimated you. You lull your opponent into a false sense of emotional security and then—boom—pure strategy.”

He watched her think.

Really watched.

The way her brow knit—not in frustration, but curiosity. The way her fingers tapped softly, precise and patient. The way her gaze moved between the board, the cards, the room like she was listening to something just beneath the surface.

It struck him, then, how right she looked doing this. Not winning. Not plotting. Just being fully present. Like puzzles weren’t something to conquer but something to sit with until they revealed themselves.

When her attention flicked to him, his mouth curved without him meaning it to. A slow, honest smile. He didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t need to.

And when she looked at Eames?

He snorted quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t like that he gets consulted,” he said under his breath. “Feels rigged. Feels unethical.”

Then she said it.

Professor Plum.
Conservatory.
Wrench.

Nate blinked once.

Then laughed.

Not loud—just a warm, surprised sound that slipped out of him like he hadn’t checked with his self-control first.

“Oh, that is cold,” he said, impressed. “Psychological profiling and weapon logic? You didn’t come to play, Whitmore.”

Her knee nudged his, and he didn’t hesitate—his leg shifted instinctively closer, closing the space she’d opened like it was second nature now. Comfortable. Unremarkable. Right.

He reached forward, finally, and picked up his own cards. Didn’t rush. Let his thumb skim the edges once, grounding himself.

“Okay,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to meet hers before returning to the board. “Instinct only.”

He studied the rooms. The pieces. The little plastic weapons like they were absurdly serious artifacts.

Then—almost absently—his gaze slid back to her.

And something settled.

“Mrs. White,” he said slowly. “In the study. With the rope.”

He glanced at her again, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Anyone who looks that composed has definitely hidden something. And the study feels… personal.”

He set the cards down and leaned back, hands open on his thighs.

Then, softer—honest, unguarded:

“But honestly? Even if I’m wrong… this still feels like a win.”

His eyes stayed on hers, steady and warm, no performance left in him now.

Whatever the cards said next—

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Ivy felt the moment settle before she touched the envelope.

Not nerves—anticipation. The good kind. The kind that made her spine straighten just a little, like she was stepping onto a small stage she’d built herself. She glanced at Nate once more before looking down, catching the way he watched her with that open, unguarded focus that still felt slightly unreal to her. Like he wasn’t waiting for the outcome so much as enjoying the process of watching her arrive at it.

“Well,” she said quietly, ceremonially, fingers sliding beneath the flap. “No taking it back now.”

She drew the first card.

Colonel Mustard.

Her brows lifted, lips parting in something between surprise and amusement. She set it face-up on the coffee table with care—aligned, precise. A small, dramatic pause followed, the kind she absolutely knew how to wield.

She looked at Nate. He looked back at her, expression unreadable but intent, as if he were letting her have the spotlight without contesting it.

“Interesting,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

The second card came out slowly.

The Knife.

Ivy let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh. She placed it beside Mustard, neat as a museum display. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction—not because she’d figured it out yet, but because something about the reveal felt right. Earned. Like the game had been generous just by letting them sit here together long enough to get to this point.

She hesitated before the third card.

Not because she was afraid of losing.

But because she liked the moment. The quiet weight of it. The way Nate leaned forward without realizing it, elbows resting on his knees, eyes on her hands like whatever she turned over mattered simply because she was the one doing it.

Ivy lifted the final card.

The Study.

She stared at it for a beat.

Then she smiled—slow, genuine, unbothered.

“Well,” she said, setting it down last, completing the line. “Would you look at that.”

She leaned back against the couch, turning her head toward Nate at last. There was no disappointment on her face. No tightness. Just warmth, and a trace of fond disbelief, like the game had revealed something far more interesting than a winner.

“The study,” she repeated, lightly. “You were closer than I was.”

Her gaze flicked to him—soft, approving. Not conceding out of politeness, but because she meant it.

“I suppose I should be scandalized,” she added, teasing. “Losing a perfectly respectable game in my own home.”

But her eyes gave her away. She didn’t mind. Not even a little.

If anything, there was something about the way he’d reasoned it out—quiet, intuitive, unshowy—that made her like him more. That made the loss feel companionable instead of competitive.

She reached for the cards, gathering them carefully back into a stack, her movements unhurried.

“Alright,” Ivy said, glancing at him again, a soft curve to her mouth. “Winner declared.”

Her knee brushed his once more as she shifted, unselfconscious, easy.

“And I have to say,” she added, gently, “I don’t regret how this ended.”

Not the game.

Not the night.

Not him.

Nate felt the outcome land in his chest before it registered in his head.

Not the win—that part was almost incidental—but the way she handled it. The care. The calm. The absence of any need to perform disappointment or pride. Just presence. Just I’m here with you in this moment and that’s enough.

When the final card turned over and the truth settled between them, he let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The study. The knife. Colonel Mustard. He’d been right—close enough to count—and the satisfaction was there, sure, but it was softer than he’d expected. Muted by something better.

He watched her lean back, watched the way her smile came easily, unguarded. Watched her accept the ending without flinching, without scrambling to reshape it into something else.

God, he liked that about her.

“I should apologize,” he said quietly, though the corner of his mouth lifted as he did. “Winning in the study feels… symbolic. Like I planned it. Which I definitely didn’t. I was running on instinct and whatever goodwill Eames hasn’t revoked yet.”

He shifted closer when she gathered the cards, not crowding, just naturally occupying the space that felt like his now. Her knee brushed his again, and this time he didn’t pretend it was accidental. He let it stay.

“You know,” he added, softer now, voice warm with something that felt dangerously like contentment, “back home, I would’ve cared a lot more about being right. About the outcome. About what it meant.”

He glanced at the cards in her hands, then back to her face.

“But here?” A small shake of his head. “This feels better. Losing. Winning. Doesn’t really matter.”

What mattered was the way she looked at him—open, approving, unafraid of how much the moment held.

He reached out then, not hurried, not dramatic, and covered her hand lightly with his. Just enough contact to say I’m here. Just enough to anchor himself in the quiet truth of it.

“I don’t regret it either,” he said, meeting her gaze fully now. “Any of it.”

The storm hummed outside. The candles burned low. The game lay forgotten.

And Nate Banks—who had spent years measuring success by margins and outcomes—knew, with surprising certainty, that this was the win he’d never known how to chase.

Ivy let her smile bloom slowly, like something fragile warming in soft light.

Not a show, not a shield—just the honest, amused reaction of a woman who had been bested at her own parlor game and didn’t mind one bit. She tipped her chin, lashes fluttering once in something half-approving, half-smitten. There was no sting in the loss. Not when it was him.

She looked down at their hands, his resting over hers like a quiet claim, and gently slipped her fingers out from underneath—not to retreat, but to realign. To lace their hands together properly this time. Intentionally.

Her thumb brushed against the side of his, slow and featherlight.

“You know,” she said, her voice soft but undeniably teasing, “I do believe I owe you a compliment.”

She leaned in a little, her tone light but her eyes tracking his every shift like a private study.

“So,” she continued, all graceful mischief, “congratulations on choosing the study. It was an excellent deduction, clearly supported by years of academic rigor and—” she tilted her head—“a deeply repressed fondness for antique bookcases.”

A pause, just long enough to let the flirt hang.

“Though I’ll admit, your strategy of winning via pure luck, charm, and an unsettling alliance with my cat was… surprisingly effective.”

She smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t just accused him of colluding with a feline demigod.

Eames, still perched on the windowsill like a judgmental gargoyle, flicked his tail once—unbothered, unimpressed, undeniably the monarch of this household.

Ivy’s gaze followed the movement before she added with mock resignation, “I still can’t protect you from him, by the way.”

She looked back at Nate, her smile sharpening just enough to make the line sparkle.

“I’d try, but considering you chose the murderer’s token before the game even started…” She raised a brow. “Your fate might be sealed.”

The fire cracked softly in the background. The storm whispered against the windows. But her focus stayed on him—on the way his hand stayed laced with hers, on the way he looked at her like nothing else in the world was as interesting as this moment.

“You’re lucky I like a little danger,” she said, her voice quiet but certain now, the wit giving way to something more sincere. “And even luckier I like you.”

She didn’t need to say it louder than that.

Because in the hush of her home, surrounded by shadows and candlelight and one very judgmental cat—every word landed exactly where it needed to.

Nate felt the words I like you land with a softness that still managed to knock the breath clean out of him.

Not because he hadn’t hoped for them—but because of how easily she said them. No armor. No theatrics. Just truth, offered like it was safe to hold.

He laughed quietly first, because if he didn’t, his chest might give him away entirely.

“Danger?” he murmured, thumb brushing over the back of her hand where their fingers were still laced. “I knew picking Colonel Mustard was going to define my moral character for the rest of my life.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Eames—still looming, still unimpressed—before returning to her, softer now.

“And for the record, I did not choose an alliance with your cat. He assessed me. Found me… tolerable. That’s a hard-earned badge of honor.”

Then he grew quieter.

The joking stayed—but it gentled. Settled.

He lifted his free hand slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. When she didn’t, his fingers brushed along her jaw, barely there at first, like he was learning the shape of her face by memory rather than sight. His thumb traced the line beneath her cheekbone, reverent in a way that surprised even him.

God, she was beautiful.

Not in a way that asked to be admired—but in a way that rewarded paying attention.

“You should know,” he said softly, eyes searching hers, “I don’t usually win things that matter.”

His fingers slid into her hair then—careful, unhurried—curling gently around a few strands resting against her shoulder. It was impossibly soft. Warm. And when he leaned closer, the scent hit him fully—clean and sweet and unmistakably her.

Coconut.

He smiled, helplessly fond.

“You smell like comfort,” he added quietly, like a confession. “Which feels… unfair. Strategically.”

His forehead brushed hers for a moment, just breathing her in, just letting the world narrow to candlelight and warmth and the way her hand fit in his.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was slow. Gentle. Intentional.

Not claiming—choosing.

His lips pressed to hers with a warmth that felt like agreement rather than urgency, like yes, this spoken without words. He kissed her the way you did when you weren’t afraid of the quiet afterward. When you planned to stay for it.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers again, smiling like he’d just found something he hadn’t known he was missing.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, voice light but certain, “I like you too.”

Outside, the storm kept whispering.

Inside, Nate didn’t care who the town talked about.

Because right now—this was the only story he wanted to be in.

Ivy didn’t open her eyes right away.

Her forehead stayed pressed against his, their breaths mingling softly in the hush between them, like even the air had settled to listen. The kiss still lingered on her lips—warm, unhurried, wholly unlike anything she was used to. Not performative. Not fleeting. Just… there. Steady. Real.

His words echoed quietly in her chest: I like you too.

Her fingers, still threaded with his, gave the slightest squeeze in response. Not to ask anything more of him—but to acknowledge it. To hold the weight of it gently between them.

When she finally did open her eyes, it was slow, deliberate. Her lashes lifted just enough to meet his gaze, still so close it barely felt like a shift at all.

His eyes were clearer than they had any right to be in candlelight. And the way he looked at her—open, unguarded, like she was a sentence he was still reading but already knew he loved—made something flutter in her that had nothing to do with nerves.

She could move.

She could lean back, suggest another game. A puzzle. Something safe. Something soft. Something that let them stay here in the warmth without tipping further forward.

But when she looked at him—really looked—and saw the way his thumb had instinctively brushed her knuckles like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, how his other hand still hovered like it didn’t want to leave her hair—

She made her decision.

Quietly. Easily. Like her body had already known.

Ivy shifted forward, lifting herself gently and with intent. Her free hand slid up to his shoulder, bracing lightly as she eased into his lap—not rushed, not hesitant. Just choosing him, the same way he had chosen her.

She kissed him again.

This time slower, deeper. Not for clarity, not for play—but for closeness. Because the space between them suddenly felt unnecessary. Because her whole body wanted to memorize the way he felt beneath her palms, the way his mouth softened into hers like he’d been waiting, too.

Because this wasn’t just a win or a moment or a night.

It was something beginning.

And Ivy Whitmore, for the first time in longer than she could remember, didn’t want to keep her distance.

Not from this. Not from him.

Nate felt it the moment she settled into him.

Not just her weight—but her choice.

His breath hitched softly against her mouth as the kiss deepened, instinct answering instinct. One hand slid from her waist to the center of her back, warm and steady, fingers splayed like he was grounding himself in the fact of her. The other came up to her shoulder, thumb brushing slowly along the line where her neck met her collarbone—careful, reverent, like he was learning the shape of her rather than claiming it.

He kissed her back fully now.

Not hurried. Not consuming.

Just present.

Her mouth fit against his in a way that felt almost unfairly right, like a memory his body had been carrying long before he knew her name. He felt the soft press of her palms, the way her breath changed when he tilted his head just slightly, the quiet sound she made when he lingered instead of pulling away.

Everything in him wanted to stay there.

To keep kissing her like this—slow, deep, intentional—until the rest of the world forgot how to exist.

But the wanting came with something else, too.

Care.

So he pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads still touching, his nose brushing hers. His hands didn’t leave her—one still secure at her back, the other lifting to her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a tenderness that surprised even him.

His voice was low when he spoke, steady but soft.

“Hey,” he murmured, eyes searching hers, not anxious—just attentive. “This is… really good. And I want it.”

A pause. Gentle. Intentional.

“But I want to make sure this is okay. For you.”

His thumb brushed her cheek once more, slow and grounding.

“I don’t want to rush you. I don’t want to cross anything you don’t want crossed.”

A small, almost-smile touched his mouth—not teasing, just honest.

“I’m very good at staying right here if that’s what you want.”

He stayed close, breathing her in, giving her space without stepping away.

Waiting—not because he had to.

But because respecting her mattered more than anything else in that moment.

Ivy had been kissed before.

She’d been pulled close, pinned gently, coaxed into softness like it was something men thought they had to unlock—something hidden beneath clever words and practiced charm. She’d been wanted. She’d been admired.

But this was different.

Nate didn’t hold her like she was something to possess. He didn’t kiss her like he was taking anything. He kissed her like he already knew she was choosing him—like he could feel that choice in every breath she gave him. And when he pulled back, when his hands didn’t stray, when his voice slipped into that steady murmur just to check in—

Something in her chest squeezed.

Because that was what unraveled her.

Not the kiss.
Not the warmth of his hands.
Not even the low, reverent way he said “Hey.”

But the care. The pause. The patience he didn’t just offer—he meant it.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes lifting just enough to meet his gaze. He was so close she could see every detail—the dark sweep of his lashes, the faint flush on his cheekbones, the way his brow pulled just slightly, not in worry, but in full, focused attention.

Ivy didn’t move right away.

She just looked at him.

And for a beat longer than either of them expected, she let herself feel it. The weight of being seen like this. The quiet miracle of being asked. The utterly disarming beauty of a man like him meaning it.

Then—softly, decisively—she leaned in again.

Her lips brushed his once more, not with urgency but with certainty. A kiss that answered everything he hadn’t demanded. A kiss that said this is what I want, too.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

Her hand slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the soft waves at the nape of his neck, holding him there—not to trap him, but to stay close. Her thumb swept gently once against his scalp, grounding herself as much as him.

Her voice came out quiet, a touch amused, but warm all the way through.

“If I didn’t want this,” she murmured, “I wouldn’t be in your lap, Mr. Banks.”

She smiled, that slow, irreverent one he was starting to recognize as her truest tell. But her eyes stayed tender, the way they only got when she forgot to be careful.

Her fingers gave the smallest tug, affectionate.

“And for the record?” she added, gaze dipping briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes.

“You’re very good at staying right here.”

And so was she.