Tucked behind a minimalist black facade on a quiet stretch of the Arts District, FELIX & IVY doesn’t advertise. There’s no sign out front—just a single brass door handle and a violet light above the entrance.

Inside, the space is warm and low-lit. Vintage amber sconces line the exposed brick walls. Tables are spaced generously apart, each one lit by a small candle and a single gold-tipped Edison bulb. Deep green velvet booths line the back wall, opposite a sleek marble bar where bartenders pour quiet, serious drinks.

The kitchen is semi-open, the kind where you can just make out the fire but not the noise. The music is old records—Billie Holiday, Mazzy Star, a little Radiohead if you stay late enough. The servers wear dark denim aprons and don’t ask for your name—they already know it.

The food is seasonal, wood-fired, and meant to be shared. But people come for the quiet. For the sense that in here, the world can’t quite find you.

The moment the car slows, the lights start flashing.

Not soft. Not patient.

The kind that feels like walking into a trap with your name already on the wire.

Salem doesn’t move right away. Just watches through the window as figures crowd in—too many cameras, too many voices, too many people who don’t care how close they get as long as they get the shot.

Ash steps out first.

The volume spikes.

“ASH, IS THIS A CONFIRMATION?”
“SALEM! SALEM, OVER HERE!”
“ARE YOU BACK TOGETHER?”
“ASH—DOES THIS MEAN THE ALBUM’S ABOUT HER?”
“SMILE FOR US, SALEM—ONE PHOTO—JUST ONE—”
“SALEM, DID YOU REALLY WALK OUT OF THE SHOW LAST WEEK?”

She doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

But she exhales once, slow and shallow, fingers curling in her lap before she reaches for the door handle.

The second she opens it, the flashbulbs go off again—brighter this time. Closer.

It takes less than a second for Ash’s hand to find hers.

It’s not rehearsed. It’s not performative. It’s just what he does.

She steps into him without thinking, her heels clicking against the pavement, body drawn close like muscle memory. And when the shouts rise—closer now, more desperate—she doesn’t lift her head.

She tucks her face into the crook of his arm. Into the warm fabric of his jacket sleeve, right near the seam.

Not because she’s scared.

Because she’s tired of being looked at and never really seen.

And because he is the one place the world can’t touch her.

“SALEM! CAN WE GET A SMILE?”
“LOOK THIS WAY!”
“ASH, ARE YOU MOVING IN TOGETHER?”
“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”
“JUST GIVE US A LOOK, SALEM—C’MON—”

Her hand tightens on his forearm.

Ash doesn’t speak. Doesn’t react.

He just shifts his body forward, guiding her through the noise with the kind of quiet certainty that no one teaches you—you either have it, or you don’t.

Their security team presses ahead, forming a corridor of muscle between them and the press. But it’s Ash who makes it feel safe. Not just guarded—safe.

He walks calmly, shielding her with the line of his shoulders, letting the chaos hit him first.

They reach the restaurant doors in less than a minute, but the noise stretches longer, heavier, like it wants to follow them in.

And then—relief.

The hostess opens the door.

Cool air. Dim lights. Muffled voices. The sharpness fades.

Only then does Salem lift her face from his sleeve. Her lipstick left a mark—soft and smudged. She doesn’t try to fix it. Neither does he.

He looks at her.

She looks back.

Her pulse is still a little high. Her jaw still set.

But she’s breathing.

And she’s with him.

The shouting fades behind tinted glass as they walk deeper into the restaurant, his hand still resting lightly at her back.

And just like that—

The night starts.

The second the cameras found them, it was like being swallowed by static.

Too loud. Too bright. Too many people with too many opinions and no goddamn soul behind their lenses.

Ash doesn’t flinch. He never does.

But inside—there’s a snarl of instinct, coiled and ready. Not to perform. Not to pose.

To protect.

He steps out first—not for the cameras, but for her. Always for her.
The noise hits like a wall, but he barely hears it. He’s too focused on the second door opening. On the fraction of a second when her hand finds his like it’s always belonged there.

And it has.
God, it has.

He doesn’t need to look to know what the headlines will say.
He just keeps her close, anchoring her with his presence, his stillness, his body between hers and the worst of it.

When she tucks her face into his arm, it breaks him a little. Not because she’s fragile—but because she’s fucking exhausted.
Because he knows what it costs to let the world stare and still keep your soul intact.

And because he remembers what it was like the first time she didn’t look away.

He tightens his hold.

Just enough to say I’ve got you.

Just enough to mean I always will.

The walk to the door feels longer than it is.
Every shout is a match; every flashbulb, a blade. But Ash doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let them see what he feels.

By the time they step inside—into that soft dark, the sanctuary of low-lit warmth—he breathes for the first time in minutes.

He feels her exhale against him.

Sees the smear of lipstick on his sleeve.

And fuck if it isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever worn.

She looks up at him. Still braced, but here.

Real.

He tips his head, just barely. A silent you okay?

She nods. Barely. But it’s enough.

The hostess leads them past the velvet booths and candlelit tables, her tone hushed, respectful. No names needed. They’re expected.

Ash doesn’t speak until they’re seated—deep green velvet wrapping around them like a cocoon, two glasses of water set down without a word.

Only then does he turn to her.

“You sure you wanna stay?” he asks, voice low, the kind of quiet that only belongs to people who know what noise can do.

Salem meets his eyes, lashes still catching the dim light. And when she speaks, it’s not performative. Not brave. Just true.

“Only if you’re here.”

Ash nods once.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he reaches across the table and takes her hand again. Not for the cameras. Not for the story.

Just for her.

“Alright, Sally,” he murmurs, mouth curling slightly. “Let’s give them something worth screaming about.”

And outside, the flashes still fire.

But in here?

She’s not a headline.
He’s not a myth.

They’re just two people in the dark—

Finally breathing.
Finally seen.
Finally home.

Salem hadn’t meant to bury her face in his arm.

It wasn’t a plan—it was instinct. Muscle memory, almost. The second the cameras flared and the shouting started, her body just… moved. Toward him. Into him.

Because that’s where it felt safest.

And maybe that was the real story no one would write. Not the flash, not the dress, not the slant of her mouth or the length of her legs or whatever they’d say tomorrow online.

No.

The truth was simpler.

When the noise hit, she went to him.

And he was already there.

She held onto his sleeve like it might keep her upright, like if she clutched hard enough she wouldn’t have to brace for the next question screamed in her face—Are you together? Is it official? Are you using him or is it the other way around?

She didn’t hear the words, not really.

Just the tone.

Just the way the world tried to make you either a fantasy or a fraud.

But Ash didn’t let go.

Not once.

He didn’t flinch when they aimed at her. Didn’t pause when she pulled closer. Just held his ground like he always did—quiet, unmoving, solid.

By the time they slipped through the door, the silence hit like oxygen.

Salem let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her whole body sagging just enough to show how tight the coil had been wound.

The air inside Felix & Ivy was warm and dim, the kind of glow that made everything feel a little more human. Her heels clicked softly across the tile, her hand still in his, her pulse still not entirely her own.

When the hostess led them to their table, she sat without comment. Let the velvet hug her in. Let her shoulders drop. Let herself look at him—really look—and see that he was still watching her like she was the only thing that mattered.

And when he asked if she wanted to stay?

God.

The question shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did. Because he meant it. Because he would’ve left if she’d said the word.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t want to.

Not if it meant letting go of this moment. This quiet. This tether that didn’t feel like a chain.

So she answered him honestly. No defense. No edge. Just truth.

And when he reached for her hand again—without cameras, without fanfare—she let him take it.

She held it right back.

Her fingers fit so easily between his it scared her a little. Like maybe fate wasn’t thunder and lightning. Maybe it was this.

Something soft.

Something sure.

He called her Sally, like always. Like the name belonged to no one but him.

And she almost smiled.

Not for the crowd. Not for the myth.

For him.

Just him.

Salem didn’t let go of his hand.

Not when the water came. Not when the server dropped a wine list and disappeared without asking for names. Not even when the low hum of conversation drifted from the next table and reminded her the world hadn’t stopped just because she needed it to.

She just held on.

Because this—his hand, his stillness, the booth wrapping around them like a cocoon—was the only thing anchoring her.

Her eyes traced the lipstick she’d left on his sleeve. Smudged deep red, slightly cracked, right over the seam of his wrist.

She didn’t apologize for it.

Instead, she turned to him, just enough that their knees bumped again beneath the table, just enough that she could see his face—quiet, watchful, still so him.

Her voice came soft. Not because she was trying to be delicate. But because honesty didn’t need to be loud.

“I hate that they get so close,” she said. “Like we’re not people. Like we’re exhibits in a fucking museum—one wrong angle and someone’s already selling the story.”

Her thumb brushed against his again. Her gaze dropped to their hands—interlocked and warm and real.

“But I didn’t panic,” she added, quieter now. “Not like I thought I would.”

She looked up again, met his eyes for real this time. Held them.

“Because you were there.”

She could’ve left it there. Could’ve stayed in the quiet. But the thing sitting in her chest needed air.

“I’ve done this alone before. The press, the rumors, the crowds. I know how to handle it.”

A pause. Not for effect—just to breathe.

“But I don’t want to handle it alone anymore.”

There. Out loud. Laid bare on the candlelit table between them.

She didn’t say I need you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But he’d hear it in that.

He always did.

She leaned back slightly, hands still locked with his, and let the silence return. Not uncomfortable now. Just full.

Full of the truth she hadn’t planned to say.

And the choice she’d already made.

Ash didn’t speak at first.

He never did when it came to her.

Not when the words weren’t necessary. Not when the moment asked for something quieter. Something real.

Her hand was still in his. Warm. Certain. And maybe a little shaky underneath it all, but he didn’t grip tighter. He didn’t try to fix the tremble or speak over it.

He just stayed.

Right there.

Still and steady as the booth’s velvet spine.

Across from him, Salem looked like herself again. Not the version they photographed. Not the shape they pressed her into every time a flash went off or a headline ran. No—this was her.

The woman who buried her face in his sleeve because the noise was too loud and his shoulder was the only place she knew how to breathe.

The woman who didn’t flinch when the crowd came, but who held on anyway—because even the brave deserve shelter.

The woman who was looking at him now like the whole damn room had vanished and he was the only thing left in it.

When she spoke, he listened.

Every word. Every breath.

He didn’t interrupt when she said she hated how close they got. He didn’t offer comfort when she described the museum glass, the performance, the vultures circling with pens. He just let it land. Let it be.

Because he’d seen it.

All of it.

He’d watched her stand alone too many times. Had watched her smile like armor, laugh like bait, wear stories that weren’t hers just because someone decided they sold better.

And now she was telling him she didn’t want to be alone in it anymore.

That she didn’t have to be.

That she didn’t want to be.

Ash swallowed, slow and deliberate. The low light caught in the edge of his jaw as he leaned forward, arms resting on the table—but not to crowd her. Just to be closer.

“I know you can handle it,” he said finally, voice low, scratchy from smoke and silence and all the nights he’d stayed up thinking about this very moment. “You’ve been handling it since the world figured out your name had value.”

His thumb brushed her knuckle.

“But I hate that you ever had to.”

He didn’t look away. Not once. Not even when the hum of the restaurant shifted, a glass clinking nearby, someone laughing softly over a plate of figs.

None of it touched them.

Not here.

Not in this space she’d created just by staying.

“You don’t owe them softness,” Ash added, voice steady. “Not your face. Not your answers. Not your smile.”

His hand moved, slow but sure, drawing their joined fingers toward him until the back of hers touched the table and his other hand covered them both.

“But if there’s softness in you…” His eyes flicked up to hers, darker now. Unflinching. “…I want to be the one who gets it.”

There it was.

Not poetry. Not a line for the cameras.

Just the truth.

The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to be heard.

Ash leaned back again only when she did, letting the moment stretch, letting the candlelight catch in the sheen of her lipstick still smudged across his sleeve.

He didn’t wipe it off.

Didn’t even glance at it.

Because the only thing that mattered was the girl across from him and the weight of the silence they were both still holding.

Not heavy.

Not anymore.

Just honest.

He exhaled once, then broke the stillness with something softer—something private.

“Sally,” he murmured, his mouth tilting at the corner. “You didn’t just survive that. You shut it down.”

A slow, crooked grin ghosted its way across his lips.

“And you looked like you could’ve set the whole street on fire if you wanted to.”

He raised their joined hands, kissed the back of hers.

Not for the show.

For her.

Always for her.

“I’m here,” he said simply. “No matter how loud it gets.”

And he meant it.

He always had.

Salem didn’t look away.

Not when he kissed her hand. Not when he said it like a promise. Not even when her chest tightened the way it always did right before the truth sank in for real.

Because this was the truth, wasn’t it?

Not the cameras. Not the headlines. Not the curated images that people picked apart like vultures on bone. It was this.

A booth wrapped in velvet. Candlelight flickering between half-full glasses. And Ash, across from her, steady as ever.

Her anchor.

She blinked once. Slowly. Letting the edges of the world settle back into place. Letting her heart catch up to the quiet.

“I don’t want to burn the street down,” she said softly, her voice low and a little rough from holding everything too long. “But I swear to God, I almost did.”

Her fingers curled around his again—not tighter, just more certain. Like choosing. Like staying.

“I hate that it still shakes me,” she added, her gaze dipping briefly to their hands. “You’d think after all this time, I’d be used to it. But it still feels like I’m walking through a firing squad in silk.”

A breath.

She looked up again, and this time, she didn’t flinch from what she saw in him. The steadiness. The want. The kind of calm that didn’t beg to be believed—it just was.

“But you—” Her voice cracked a little, and she let it. “You don’t make me feel like I have to prove I’m not afraid.”

Her smile was small, a little twisted at the corner. Worn, maybe—but real.

“You make me feel like I don’t have to be afraid at all.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration.

It was an offering.

She reached out with her other hand and traced the lipstick stain on his sleeve with the pad of her finger. Just once. A silent acknowledgment. A mark she hadn’t meant to leave—but kind of hoped would stay.

“You wore me out there,” she said, a hint of amusement flickering behind the vulnerability. “Now you’re stuck with it.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter:

“And I’m glad.”

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

The look in her eyes—the way it softened when she met his, the way her shoulders dropped like they’d finally found rest—that was enough.

She leaned back in her seat, hands still in his, and let herself breathe.

Not perform.

Not protect.

Just… be.

With him.

Because for the first time in a long damn time, she didn’t feel like a story someone else was writing.

She felt like herself.

And he was still here.

Ash didn’t interrupt.

He never did, when she got like this.

There was too much weight in her voice to treat it like something fragile. Too much truth in it to do anything but take it head-on and hold it like a vow.

So he did.

He held it.

Held her, in every way that counted—even from across the table, even in silence.

And when she touched the stain on his sleeve, when she said you wore me out there, and looked at him like that—

God.

He swore his ribs shifted just to make more room for her.

A lesser man might’ve cracked a joke. Deflected. Turned it into something easier to swallow.

But Ash had never been a lesser man where she was concerned.

So he kept her hand in his, turned it gently over, and pressed a kiss just beneath her knuckles. Not to make a show of it. Not for some half-formed promise he couldn’t keep.

But because that was the only language he trusted with her now.

Truth. Contact. Bone-deep certainty.

He met her eyes. Steady. Fierce.

Not soft—but safe.

“You never had to prove anything to me,” he said, voice low and rough at the edges. “Not fear. Not fire. Not how many times you’ve had to claw your way through hell just to make it look like a red carpet.”

A pause. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand.

“They don’t see you, Sally. They see a story. A headline. Something to devour.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed calm.

“I see you. The girl who didn’t flinch when the walls came down. The one who stayed. Who still stays.”

He leaned forward a little, just enough to close the rest of the space between them, candlelight catching in his eyes like a burn held steady.

“You can walk through fire in silk if you want to. Or armor. Or bare feet. Doesn’t matter.”

He held her gaze, solid as stone.

“I’ll still walk next to you.”

And he meant it. Every single syllable. The way only a man who’d learned what it meant to lose could.

Ash didn’t chase fame. Didn’t bow to it. He’d been burned enough to know what wasn’t real.

But this?

The way she looked at him like he was more than a safe place—like he was hers?

That was real.

That was all he ever fucking wanted.

He gave her hand one last squeeze before finally—reluctantly—letting go.

Only to slide out of the booth and move to her side, slipping in beside her without asking. Without needing to.

The world would write whatever version of them it wanted to tomorrow.

Let it.

Tonight, she leaned against him in velvet and candlelight. And he wrapped an arm around her shoulders like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Because it was.

“You wore me out there,” he murmured back, a smirk ghosting across his mouth as he brushed his lips against her temple. “Now I’m keeping you.”

And for the first time in days—maybe weeks—he felt the tension bleed out of her.

Just a little.

Just enough.

He let it sit between them like a promise, warm and steady beneath the noise.

Let the rest of the night unfold slow.

Because there was no rush.

Not when she was finally home.