Nate let the thunder roll without commenting on it. Let the rain announce itself like it had every right to be there. He liked that she didn’t flinch—that she treated weather the way she treated most things: as something to be acknowledged, not feared.

He shifted slightly on the couch, not away from her, not closer either—just enough to settle more fully into the moment she’d made room for. The cushions dipped. The blanket brushed his knee. The cat flicked an ear in what he chose to interpret as reluctant approval.

“I deserved that first impression,” he said with a small, rueful smile when she mentioned the clock shop. “Polished. Impatient. Wound too tight.” He exhaled through his nose. “I was basically a walking stress fracture.”

He glanced at her then, really looked at her—at the way she sat like she trusted the space to hold her, like she didn’t need to brace for what came next.

“I thought I’d leave too,” he admitted. “I told myself I was just… passing through. Catching my breath before going back to the noise.” His shoulders lifted in a quiet shrug. “Turns out I didn’t miss the noise. I just hadn’t known what silence could sound like when it wasn’t empty.”

When she teased him about snow shovels, his smile widened—genuine, easy.

“I can handle shoveling,” he said. “It feels… honest. Clear beginning, clear end. You know when you’re done.” A beat, then, warmer: “And I don’t mind being seen doing it.”

He leaned back, letting his arm rest along the back of the couch—not around her, not claiming, just there. Available.

“As for the couch,” he added, glancing at it like it had personally betrayed him, “I suspected it was a trap. Low lighting, implied safety, a cat that judges your soul.” His voice softened. “I haven’t forgotten the city yet. But I don’t miss it the way I thought I would.”

He turned toward her again, expression open, unguarded in that quiet way that felt new even to him.

“I still want my own place,” he said gently. “Something that lets me learn how to stay on my own two feet here. But I want to stay here. In this town. In this rhythm.” A pause. “And I want whatever this is to grow without being rushed or owed.”

The rain drummed harder, as if agreeing.

“But,” he added, lighter now, eyes warm, “if I end up forgetting city noise entirely, I’ll absolutely blame the couch.”

A beat.

“And you,” he said, not teasing, not heavy. Just honest.

Then he settled in beside her, close enough to share warmth, far enough to leave choice intact—exactly where he wanted to be.

Ivy leaned back against the cushion, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp, the kind of look that said she heard him—really heard him—even when he softened the truth to make it easier to say out loud.

“I think getting your own place is a good idea,” she said, quiet but certain. Not dismissive. Not distant. Just true. “For both of us.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the couch cushion, a small, thoughtful rhythm.

“Besides,” she added, her mouth tilting into something wry, “just because Eames placed a single paw on your leg two hours ago—when you were passed out and too unconscious to be annoying—doesn’t mean he wants you here.”

She glanced sideways at him, the full corner of her mouth lifting now, unmistakably amused.

“It just means he doesn’t hate you anymore. Which is progress.”

There was no malice in it—only warmth disguised as sarcasm. The kind of teasing that made room, not distance. She didn’t need to spell out that she liked having him here. That she was glad he hadn’t left after the first cup of tea, or the first joke, or the first honest thing he’d said out loud without knowing how she’d respond.

But she also didn’t need to cling to the moment to prove it meant something.

“Separate space means more room to grow into whatever this is,” she added after a beat. “Without skipping steps or pretending we’re further along just because it’s convenient.”

Her tone stayed matter-of-fact, but the glance she gave him then was softer. Unspoken things tucked neatly behind it, folded between the words like old letters in a drawer.

They sat in a silence that didn’t press for anything, didn’t demand. The storm had settled into a steady rhythm now—loud but distant in its own way. Outside noise. Nothing urgent.

Eventually, she let her gaze drift to the small cabinet by the wall, half-tucked between the bookcase and the stairs. She gave a small, considering hum.

“Okay,” she said slowly, looking back at him with a glint of mischief, “since you’re not moving out tonight, and we’ve already solved the meaning of life or whatever…”

She rose, bare feet soundless on the wood floor, and moved toward the cabinet. Her voice floated back to him, warm with amusement.

“There’s a stack of old board games in here I’ve been meaning to reorganize for about three years,” she called over her shoulder. “Or we could light more candles, pretend the storm knocked out the power, and test your Bedford Falls survival instincts.”

She shot him a look as she opened the cabinet door.

“Careful, though. The loser might owe the winner a back rub or some other extremely high-stakes consequence.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she pulled out a worn-looking game box and turned, holding it up.

“Do you know how to play Clue, Mr. Banks?”

The challenge in her eyes wasn’t sharp, but it was deliberate. A quiet shift from safety to closeness, from seeing if he’d stay to seeing what might happen when he did.

Nate watched her stand, the way she moved like she’d already decided the world would make room for her—and usually did. He listened without interrupting, because everything she said landed clean. True in the way that didn’t need defending.

When she said getting his own place was a good idea, he nodded once, slow.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think you’re right.” A pause, then a faint, crooked smile. “Also, I don’t think my ego could survive being officially rejected by a cat in writing.”

At the mention of Eames, his eyes flicked briefly toward the armchair, then back to her, amused and resigned.

“One paw,” he repeated. “Under duress. While I was unconscious.” He shook his head lightly. “I’ll put it on my résumé. Partial feline tolerance achieved.”

But when she talked about space—about not skipping steps—his expression softened. Not wounded. Relieved.

“I like that,” he said quietly. “Growing into it. Not racing ahead just because we could.” He met her gaze. “I don’t want shortcuts. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.”

He leaned back as she crossed the room, letting the silence stretch the way it seemed to like doing here. The storm outside had settled into something steady, almost companionable, and when she mentioned survival instincts, his mouth curved into something openly playful now.

“Bedford Falls survival instincts?” he echoed. “I’m from New York. I can hail a cab in a blizzard and survive on deli coffee for days. I think I’ll manage.”

Then she turned with the game box.

Clue.

He straightened slightly, eyebrows lifting as if she’d just challenged him to something far more serious than a board game.

“Do I know how to play Clue,” he repeated, standing now and stepping closer—not crowding, just present. “I’m offended you even had to ask.”

He took the box from her, fingers brushing hers briefly, deliberately not pulling away too fast.

“I will warn you,” he added, tone mock-serious, “I am extremely competitive in low-stakes environments. Especially ones involving tiny weapons and fictional murderers.”

A beat.

“And if I lose,” he went on, eyes warm, voice lighter, “I’ll accept the consequences with dignity. Reluctantly. Possibly while complaining.”

He glanced around the candlelit loft, the storm humming approval outside.

“But if I win?” His smile turned subtle, teasing. “I expect full credit. From you and the cat.”

He set the box down on the table and looked back at her, something easy and real in his expression.

“So,” he said, holding her gaze, “was it Colonel Mustard in the library… or are you just trying to distract me?”

Whatever this was—game, storm, slow-growing thing between them—Nate wasn’t looking for the exit anymore.

He was ready to play.

Ivy sank back into the couch, the cushion dipping beneath her as she curled one leg under the other and leveled him with a look that was far more dangerous than her soft cardigan and tea mug would suggest.

“Just so we’re clear,” she said mildly, “you’re not walking into a friendly little rainy night game of Clue.”

She leaned forward to nudge her tea mug toward the far corner of the coffee table—careful, practiced, without taking her eyes off him. Then came one of the smaller candles, pushed to the edge with a casual flick of her fingers, followed by a second.

“I haven’t lost a board game since 2018,” she went on, her tone deceptively polite, “and that was only because my cousin’s toddler overturned the board mid-play, and no one had the heart to make her forfeit.”

She glanced up, her eyes catching the candlelight in a way that felt suspiciously like warning.

“I play fair,” she added, “but I don’t play soft.”

The corners of her mouth lifted—not in a smirk, but in something that felt like it could tip into one if he gave her a reason.

“And if you do manage to win…” She tilted her head as if considering. “I’ll give you full credit. I’m not above losing gracefully.”

A pause.

“But Eames?” Her gaze flicked toward the darkened corner where two faint green eyes blinked slowly from beneath the armchair. “He’s not so generous. He might just crawl onto your chest in the middle of the night and knead your spleen in retaliation.”

She said it lightly, but the image it conjured made her laugh—a soft, real thing that settled between them like the storm had stepped back just enough to let it echo.

Without ceremony, she reached for the game box, pulling off the lid and starting to sort the pieces. Her fingers moved with quiet focus—cards into stacks, weapons lined up like tiny suspects waiting to be interrogated.

But she felt him beside her now. Not just next to her, but attuned. Comfortable. Still warm from whatever look he’d given her across the room. The air between them felt charged in a new way—not rushed, not heavy. Just alive. Like the shift had happened and neither of them was pretending otherwise.

She slid the notepad and pencil across the table toward him, a raised brow accompanying it.

“Better start taking notes, city boy,” she said. “Because if you think you can win this with charm and half-remembered strategy from college game nights, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Their knees brushed when she sat back again, and this time, neither of them shifted away.

Let it grow slow, she’d said. But slow didn’t have to mean distant.

Not when sitting next to him felt like this.

Nate let out a low, thoughtful hum as she spoke, nodding along with exaggerated seriousness—right up until she finished.

Then he very deliberately set the Clue box down.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like it might explode.

He raised both hands in surrender, palms out, eyes wide in mock alarm.
“Okay. Wow. Alright. I see what I’ve walked into.”

He glanced between her and the neatly arranged weapons on the table, then back to her face, lowering his voice like the candles might be listening.

“You said rainy night board game,” he whispered. “You did not say undefeated regional champion with a feline enforcer. That feels like something that should’ve been disclosed up front.”

He inched closer on the couch—not away, which made the performance even worse—and gently took her hands in his, threading his fingers through hers like he needed the reassurance.

“Listen,” he said solemnly, squeezing once, “if I don’t make it out of this alive, I need you to tell people I fought bravely. That I was outmatched. That I never stood a chance against a woman who plays fair but not soft.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, warm and familiar, completely undermining the drama of his tone.

He shot a wary glance toward Eames’ glowing eyes.
“And please put on my headstone: Killed in his sleep by a cat with excellent memory and no mercy.”

Then he looked back at her, grin breaking through, crooked and unrepentant.

“But just so you know,” he added, lowering his hands but not letting go, “I am taking notes. Mostly on how threatening you look while wearing a cardigan and organizing tiny plastic weapons.”

He leaned in slightly, their knees still touching, voice dropping to something playful and conspiratorial.

“And if I lose? I’ll accept it with dignity. Grace. Possibly a dramatic sigh.”

A beat.

“But if I win…” His brows lifted. “I expect visible shock. Respect. And maybe protection from the cat.”

He gave her hands one last gentle squeeze before releasing them, finally reaching for the notepad.

“Alright, Whitmore,” he said, mock-resigned, mock-terrified, very much amused. “Show me how this ends.”

And for someone pretending to be scared?

Nate looked exactly where he wanted to be.

Ivy didn’t break eye contact as she reached for the player tokens, sliding the box lid aside with deliberate care, like she too was preparing for battle—but in her case, it was the kind where you smiled sweetly while setting the scene for complete and utter defeat.

“You’re the one who said you were competitive,” she reminded him, her voice feather-light, a touch too innocent.

She plucked her favorite token from the small pile—Mrs. Peacock, of course—and set it beside the board with all the ceremony of a queen selecting her crown. Then, with a perfectly neutral expression and all five remaining tokens pinched between her fingers, she turned to him and held out her hand.

“Choose your fighter,” she said simply, her brow lifting as if to say choose wisely.

He looked at her hand like it held fate itself, and she bit back a smile.

Once his piece joined hers at the start square, she wordlessly passed him the dice with the kind of regal authority that should’ve come with a warning.

“Go on,” she said, lips curving as he took them. “You may begin the inevitable.”

She leaned back just a little, one elbow resting on the arm of the couch, her other hand tucked beneath her chin in mock-serious observation. The candlelight danced across the edges of the board, their shadows long and soft on the rug. Eames hadn’t moved, but she could feel the judgment from the armchair like a physical presence.

“You should know,” she added lightly, watching him roll, “I’ve never been particularly generous with compliments. If you win, I might offer something close to praise. Possibly admiration. But only if your victory is decisive and morally sound.”

She paused. Then added, deadpan:

“Eames, on the other hand, will probably plot your demise in silence—and I won’t be able to stop him. He answers to no one.”

A beat of silence passed, warm and charged.

Then her eyes flicked back to the board—more specifically, to him.

“But just between us…” She leaned in slightly, the edge of her knee pressing into his again, her voice dipping lower. “I do kind of like watching you try.”

Not a full confession.

But enough to make the air between them spark a little differently.

Outside, the rain kept falling steady—but in here, the game was on. And if he thought Clue was going to be the only mystery he had to solve tonight?

Well.

He really didn’t know what he’d walked into.

Nate stared at the tokens in her hand like a man being asked to choose his own fate.

He squinted at them, then back up at her face—at the calm, dangerous confidence, the Mrs. Peacock energy radiating from her like she’d already planned his downfall three moves ahead.

“Well,” he said slowly, gravely, “this feels like a trap.”

He reached out, hesitated, then very deliberately plucked Colonel Mustard from her palm.

“Not because he’s strategic,” Nate clarified, rolling the piece between his fingers, “but because he looks like a man who has made poor choices before and survived on audacity alone. I respect that.”

He set the token down beside hers, then accepted the dice like they were sacred artifacts. He rolled them once in his hand, exhaled, and glanced up at her.

“If I disappear under mysterious circumstances tonight,” he said solemnly, “I want it on record that I was lured into this by a woman who said the phrase ‘choose your fighter’ with a straight face.”

The dice clattered across the board.

He leaned forward, tracking the move with exaggerated focus, lips moving as he counted.
“Okay. Alright. We’re starting strong. Mustard’s already walking with purpose. I love this for him.”

He glanced sideways at her as she leaned in, knee brushing his, and he felt the shift immediately—that low spark, that hum under the humor.

Her last line landed.

Harder than she probably meant it to.

Nate’s mouth curved into a slow grin, softer at the edges.

“Oh, I’m aware,” he said lightly, but his eyes held hers. “You don’t watch someone try like that unless you’re already invested in the outcome.”

He flicked a glance toward Eames’ glowing eyes.
“And for the record, sir—I mean no disrespect. I am playing with honor. Mostly.”

Then back to Ivy, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“But let’s be clear,” he added, tapping the notepad with the pencil. “If I lose, it’ll be because you psychologically destabilized me with flirtation and feline intimidation. Which I assume is your signature strategy.”

He leaned back into the couch, shoulder brushing hers, utterly at ease now.

“And if I win?” A pause. “I will accept your almost-compliment with humility. And maybe request witness protection from Eames.”

He gave her a sideways look, warm and amused and very much enjoying himself.

“Your turn, Mrs. Peacock. Try not to look too pleased while you ruin me.”

The rain drummed on.

The candles flickered.

And Nate Banks—competitive, disarmed, and grinning—had never been happier to be outmatched.

Ivy didn’t answer him at first.

Not with words, anyway.

She just let her eyes narrow—slow, deliberate—and lifted one shoulder with all the regal, unapologetic composure of the character she’d been handed. Mrs. Peacock had entered the drawing room, yes, but make no mistake: she’d already memorized every floorboard and had suspicions about the brandy decanter.

She reached for the dice with a casual sort of elegance, her fingers brushing against his in the process—lightly, as though in passing, though it lingered just a beat longer than necessary.

“I’m not planning your downfall,” she said dryly, voice low and unmistakably amused. “That would imply I don’t want an opponent worth beating.”

She rolled the dice—quick, efficient—and moved her piece in the direction of the billiards room, the motion smooth and precise like she’d done this a hundred times. Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes flicked up to meet his again, sharp with something playful and knowing.

The plan had been simple: distract him.

He’d been spiraling just slightly earlier—half-teasing, half-weighing the things he hadn’t done yet, the things he didn’t have. No apartment, no job, no roadmap to make this new version of himself feel permanent. He hadn’t said it all out loud, but she’d seen the self-critique brewing behind the easier moments.

So she’d offered him something else.

A game. A spark. A challenge.

And now here he was—grinning, unguarded, making dramatic proclamations about feline vendettas and flirtation-based psychological warfare.

It worked.

And better yet… it felt like them. Whatever them was becoming.

“You’re funny when you’re flustered,” she said lightly, keeping her attention on the board. “It’s endearing. Very dignified. Like watching someone slip on black ice in a tailored coat and pretend they meant to do it.”

She gave him the barest hint of a smirk.

“I do admire your commitment to honor, though. And for the record, I’m not technically trying to destabilize you. That’s more of a happy accident.”

The candles cast gold across the board, and the shadows danced at the edges of the room, softening everything they weren’t shining directly on. The rain had steadied into something rhythmic now, a quiet percussion behind the moment.

Ivy leaned back a little, not pulling away, just settling into the corner of the couch like she could stretch the night out if she tried hard enough.

“I like this side of you,” she said after a moment, more gently now. “The part that doesn’t brace. That doesn’t apologize for enjoying something.”

She turned her head slightly to look at him. Her voice wasn’t teasing anymore—but it wasn’t heavy either.

“You don’t have to perform here, Nate. Not for me. Not for Eames. Not even for Colonel Mustard.”

A beat passed.

Then, without giving him time to answer, she nudged the dice back toward his side of the board with the edge of her palm.

“Your move, soldier.” Her tone was light again, her smile returning, but her eyes didn’t leave his. “Try to keep up.”

Nate watched her the way you watched someone who knew exactly what they were doing and was enjoying letting you think you still had a chance.

The narrowed eyes.
The shoulder lift.
The confidence.

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head as she brushed his fingers and absolutely, unequivocally pretended it hadn’t been intentional.

“Oh, no,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re right. That wasn’t a touch. That was a strategic graze. Completely different category.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes flicking from the board back to her face as she moved Mrs. Peacock like a woman who’d already written the epilogue.

“I appreciate you wanting a worthy opponent,” he continued, tone warm and amused. “It’s generous of you. Really builds morale before the inevitable psychological dismantling.”

When she called him funny—flustered—his smile widened, easy now, unguarded in a way it rarely had been back in the city. There was no edge to it. No performance. Just him.

“Endearing?” he repeated, hand to his chest. “Wow. That’s huge. I usually max out at ‘tolerable.’ You’re seeing a whole new tier of Nate Banks tonight.”

He picked up the dice, rolled them once between his palms like he was warming up before a serve, then paused—glancing sideways at her.

“And for the record,” he said lightly, “the tailored coat survived. Dignity did not. But you commit to the fall. That’s the key.”

The dice rolled.

He squinted at the board, counting under his breath, then moved Colonel Mustard with exaggerated care.

“There we go,” he announced. “Bold. Reckless. Questionable. Very on brand.”

He leaned back, shoulder settling comfortably against hers now, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just presence.

Her words landed—about liking this side of him. About not having to perform.

That one stuck.

He looked at her then, really looked, the humor softening into something warmer.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This guy didn’t get much daylight in New York.”

A beat. Then the charm crept back in, gentle and real.

“Turns out he’s better at board games, worse at pretending he doesn’t like being here, and significantly more likely to flirt with a woman who threatens him with a cat.”

He nudged the dice back toward her with a crooked grin.

“But don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll keep up. I may be outmatched, but I’m resilient.”

A glance toward Eames’ glowing eyes.

“And I respect the power structure.”

Back to Ivy—eyes bright, smile easy, completely himself.

“Your move, Mrs. Peacock. Try not to look so confident while you do it. It’s unsettling.”

Ivy didn’t even pretend to tone it down.

“Unsettling,” she echoed with faux scandal, plucking the dice from the center of the board. “You wound me, Colonel.”

She rolled without fanfare—just a flick of the wrist, confident, smooth—and watched the numbers land with the satisfaction of someone who already suspected the outcome.

“Well, would you look at that,” she said, sing-song soft as she counted aloud. “One, two, three, four... welcome to the billiards room.”

Mrs. Peacock glided into place like she owned the parquet floor and had recently sharpened the corners of her heels.

“Now,” Ivy went on, with a little hum and a slight lean in his direction, her eyes glinting in the candlelight, “I’d like to make a suggestion.”

She picked up the notepad and pencil, angling it just so—her handwriting neat and looping, almost too careful for someone in the middle of accusing a man of murder.

“Colonel Mustard,” she declared, tilting her head in his direction. “With the candlestick.”

She looked up, smiling sweetly. “Felt appropriate.”

There was something extra in the look she gave him—more than just a callback, more than just the game. A warmth. A playful dare. An acknowledgment of that moment earlier, when he’d crouched beside the table and helped her light the room into something softer.

He’d tried to make himself useful when there wasn’t anything to fix. And she’d noticed.

“Bit poetic, don’t you think?” she added, tapping the notepad once before setting it down. “You light a few candles and suddenly you’re the prime suspect.”

Her knee bumped his again, this time with unmistakable intent.

“But don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’m very thorough. If it wasn’t you, you’ll get a proper acquittal.”

She turned back to the board, placing the miniature candlestick with care.

“And if it was you…” She gave a small shrug, then smiled wider. “I suppose there are worse people to lose to.”

Ivy didn’t say it aloud—but the truth pulsed between them anyway:

She wasn’t trying to win just for the sake of victory. She was playing because it brought out something in him. This version of Nate—the grinning one, the teasing one, the one who sat close and didn’t hold his breath—this was the one she liked. The one who felt good to be around. The one who made her loft feel more lived-in than it ever had with just her and Eames.

And sure, she would wipe the floor with him if given the chance.

But she’d let him roll first next round.

Probably.