Short of Breath: Chapter Three - The Weight of Air

The morning after her midnight escape, Ivy finds herself back in the only world she thinks she deserves: the shadows of the service entrance. Working a bridal shower for the elite, she is reminded of everything she is—and everything Thatcher Reed is not. But the silence of her phone is heavier than the crates she carries, and the guilt of her flight is starting to outweigh her fear of being seen. “It’s easy to blame the mountain for being too high, but the truth is, I’m just afraid of the view.” In a kitchen filled with "precious" things, Ivy finally decides to look up.

Chapter Three

The Weight of Air
Ivy

The sun is too bright.

It pours through the gaps in my blinds, hitting the hardwood floor of my studio apartment like a spotlight. I’m huddled on my sofa, still wearing the same silk dress from last night, though it’s wrinkled now—a ruined, expensive map of my own cowardice. My heels are kicked off near the door, one of them lying on its side, looking just as exhausted as I feel.

I shouldn't have done that.

I keep saying it to the empty room, but the words don't change the fact that I climbed down a fire escape like a thief in the night. I didn't just leave a date; I staged a disappearing act.

I reach for my phone on the coffee table, my fingers trembling slightly. I unblock his number just for a second—just to see. The notification hits instantly. One message from Thatcher Reed.

Are you okay? Please just tell me you made it home safe.

I pull my hand back like the phone is glowing hot. He wasn't angry. He wasn't demanding. He was worried.

I think back to the dinner, the way he held his wine glass with such careful precision, as if he was terrified of breaking something just by touching it. He had spent the whole night trying to make himself smaller so I wouldn't feel so crowded, and I had rewarded that kindness by treating him like a predator.

I stand up, my muscles aching from the climb, and walk over to my small kitchenette. This place is a fraction of the size of his apartment. My ceiling is so low I can practically touch it if I stand on my tiptoes. In here, I’m the right size. In here, the air is easy to breathe because I’m not sharing it with a man who makes me feel like I'm constantly on the verge of being overwhelmed.me feel like a watercolor painting left out in a storm.

But as I fill the kettle, I realize the silence in my apartment is different today. It’s hollow.

I am a woman who doesn't know her worth. I know that. I’ve been told that by my mother, by my ex-business partner, and by the bank that denied my last loan. I’ve spent my life convinced that I’m a footnote in other people's stories. So when a man like Thatcher—a man who is literally an epic poem—looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters, I don't feel seen. I feel exposed.

I reach for my journal, the one I keep tucked under the stack of bills I’m ignoring. I need to get this persistent, gnawing sense of inadequacy out of my head before it swallows me whole.

I open to a fresh page, my pen hovering over the paper. I think about the way his eyes looked when he opened the door for me. It wasn't the look of a titan; it was the look of someone who had been waiting a long time for a miracle.

I ran because I didn't know how to be the person he saw, I write. He offered me a kingdom, and I chose an alleyway because I’m more comfortable in the dark than I am in the light of someone else's belief in me.

I stare at the words. They’re pathetic but they’re true.

I think about the way he said my name. Most people say it and it sounds like a plant, something small and clingy. When he said it, it sounded like a secret.

I look at the last message I sent him, the one from the restaurant when I told him I was on my way. There’s nothing after it. My screen is a clean, empty slate, which feels even worse. It’s a digital void.

I haven't re-blocked him yet, but the silence is heavy. I keep staring at his last message, that simple request to just let him know I was home safe, and the guilt sits like a stone in my chest.

I’m short of breath again, but this time, it’s not because of the stairs or the height of his apartment. It’s because I’m starting to realize that the only thing more terrifying than Thatcher Reed being a monster is the possibility that he’s exactly who he seems to be.

And I’m the monster who ran.

I lean my forehead against the cool, laminated surface of my kitchen counter. It’s peeling at the edges, a cheap imitation of the marble I stood on last night. This is my reality now. Scrimping, saving, and trying to stay afloat after my own dreams sank. My catering company, Petit Bites, was supposed to be my grand entrance into the world. Instead, it was a slow, expensive exit that left me with nothing but a mountain of debt and a bruised ego.

Thatcher Reed tried to pull me out of the background and treat me like someone who actually mattered.

The kettle whistles, a sharp, piercing sound that makes me jump. I turn it off, but I don't make the tea. I just stand there, staring at the steam as it dissipates into nothing.

I remember the way he looked when he talked about his work. He’s an architect, but not the kind that just draws lines on paper. He builds things that stay. He talked about the weight of stone and the integrity of steel with a passion that made me feel like I was watching someone describe a religion. He told me he liked my cooking because it was temporary art—something meant to be savored in the moment before it’s gone.

I think most things should be temporary, I had told him, my voice barely a whisper over the sound of the restaurant’s jazz band.

Not the things that matter, he had replied.

His eyes had been so steady then. No judgment. No expectation. Just a terrifying amount of presence.

I walk back to the sofa and pick up my journal again. I need to write more. I need to figure out why I’ve let myself feel being small is so bad. I’ve spent twenty-seven years perfecting the art of being invisible so that no one can ever tell me I’m not enough. It’s an exhausting way to live, always shrinking to fit the corners of a room, but it feels safer than the alternative. If you don't try to be anything significant, you can’t fail at it.

I think about my mother. Every time I had a win, a high grade, a successful bake, she would smile that tight, thin smile and remind me that pride goes before a fall, Ivy. She taught me to walk with my head down so I wouldn't trip. She taught me that the world is a dangerous place for girls who think they’re special.

Thatcher didn't just think I was special. He looked at me like I was the sun, and he was a planet finally finding an orbit.

I pick up my phone again. My thumb hovers over the unblock button. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him that I panicked because his apartment has more square footage than my entire childhood home. I want to tell him that when he touched my hand, I felt like I was being struck by lightning and I didn't think I’d survive the surge.

But what then? If I apologize, he’ll want to see me again. And if he sees me again, he’ll eventually see the cracks. He’ll see the deficit I carry around like a second skin. He’ll realize that I’m just a girl in a wrinkled silk dress who’s one bad month away from losing her kitchen lease.

I’m a watercolor painting, and he’s a cathedral. You don't hang a watercolor in a cathedral. The scale is all wrong. The light would just fade me until I was a blank canvas again.

I catch my reflection in the darkened screen of my television. My hair is a mess of blonde tangles. There’s a smudge of eyeliner under my left eye. I look like a woman who just survived a wreck.

"You did," I whisper to the room. "You wrecked the only good thing that’s happened to you in three years."

I reach for my pen and add another line to the page:

It’s easy to blame the mountain for being too high, but the truth is, I’m just afraid of the view.

I close the journal and stand up. I have catering prep today—a bridal shower for a woman whose engagement ring probably costs more than my life insurance policy. I have to go be the invisible help again. I have to put on the apron and the smile and pretend that I’m not the girl who jumped out of a window because a man was too kind to her.

But as I head toward the shower, my eyes keep drifting back to the phone.

He's still there. In my blocked list. A giant waiting in a silent apartment.

I wonder if he’s still looking at the wine glasses. I wonder if he’s already realized he’s better off without a girl who treats a fire escape like a life raft.

The thought of him moving on, of him finding a woman who isn't afraid of the heights he reaches, makes my chest tighten until I can’t breathe. It’s a different kind of panic than the one I felt in his bathroom. This isn't the fear of being seen.

This is the fear of being forgotten.

I move through the motions of getting ready like a ghost inhabiting its own body. I scrub the eyeliner from my face, tie my hair back into a knot so tight it pulls at my temples, and slip into my uniform—black slacks and a crisp white button-down. This is my armor. In this outfit, I have a purpose. I have a script.

…………

I arrive at the venue, a sun-drenched brownstone in the West Village, lugging three heavy crates of hors d'oeuvres up the front steps. My muscles scream, a dull ache reminding me of every iron rung I climbed down last night.

"The service entrance is around the side, sweetie," a woman in a sage-green silk suit says, barely looking up from her clipboard as she blocks the front door.

"I’m the caterer," I say, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears.

"Exactly. The side door."

I don't argue. I never argue. I just lug the crates back down and head for the narrow, shadowed alleyway. As I walk, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a darkened window. I look small. Efficient. Replaceable. This is the version of Ivy St. Claire that the world expects. This is the version that doesn't get invited to sit at the marble island and drink vintage wine.

Inside the kitchen, the air is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive hairspray. I start setting up the tray of Petit Bites—miniature lemon tarts with hand-piped meringue, smoked salmon on rye crisps no bigger than a coin, and tiny cucumber cups filled with herbed goat cheese.

Temporary art, Thatcher had called it.

I stop, a piping bag clutched in my hand, as his voice echoes in my head. He had listened to me describe these tiny things with such genuine fascination. Most people would change the subject and just talk about their real estate portfolios. Thatcher had actually asked me how I managed to get things perfect. He listened to me explain the chemistry of sugar as if I were lecturing at Oxford.

He didn't see a caterer. He saw a creator.

"Ivy! Are the tarts ready? The bride is nibbly," the event planner barks, snapping her fingers near my ear.

"Almost ready," I murmur, my heart doing that heavy, leaden thud again.

I start arranging the tarts on the silver platter, but my hands are less steady than usual. I keep thinking about last night and how inadequate I felt. Every person in the next room is convinced they are worth the world. They stand tall, they speak loudly, and they take up space without apologizing for it. And here I am, hiding in the kitchen, feeling like an intruder in a life I’m literally being paid to be a part of.

Why did he pick me?

That’s the question that’s been rotting in my gut since the moment I swiped right on his profile. Out of all the women in this city—women who would know exactly which fork to use and wouldn't flinch at the sight of a three-story ceiling—why did he want to spend his Tuesday night with a girl who smells like flour and failure?

I carry the first tray into the parlor. The room is a sea of pastels and forced laughter. I move through the crowd, offering my temporary art to people who don't look me in the eye. I am a moving piece of furniture. A prop.

"Oh, these are so tiny! How precious," one woman says, taking a tart and immediately turning her back to me to continue her conversation.

Precious. It’s a word for dolls and tea sets. It’s a word for things that aren't meant to be taken seriously.

I think about Thatcher’s hands. Those massive, scarred, capable hands. He didn't look at me and think I was precious. He looked at me and thought I was significant. He treated my thoughts like they had weight, like they were made of the same steel and stone he uses to build his towers.

The realization hits me so hard I nearly drop the tray.

I didn't run because I was afraid of him. I ran because I was afraid of who I might become if I stayed. If I let myself believe him—if I let myself believe that I was worth the space he was offering me—I’d never be able to go back to this. I’d never be able to stand in a kitchen and be the help ever again.

I’d have to be big. And being big is the most dangerous thing a girl like me can do.

I finish the round and duck back into the kitchen, my chest heaving. I pull my phone out of my pocket. My thumb moves of its own accord, navigating to the blocked list. I see his name. Thatcher.

I think about his message. Please just tell me you made it home safe.

He wasn't checking to see if I was coming back. He wasn't demanding an explanation for the open window. He just wanted to know if the girl he saw—the one he thought was worth more than a footnote—was still breathing.

I unblock him.

The silence of the kitchen is broken by the hum of the industrial fridge, a sound so similar to the one in his apartment that it makes my eyes sting. I open our chat. The cursor blinks, steady and patient, waiting for me to find the courage I didn't have at midnight.

I start to type. Thatcher, I...

I delete it.

I'm sorry I climbed out the window.

I delete that, too. It sounds ridiculous. It sounds like a line from a bad rom-com, not a real-life apology to a man who probably thinks I’m insane.

I look at the last line in my journal, the one about being afraid of the view. I realize that I’ve spent my whole life looking at the ground. Maybe it’s time I looked up. Even if the height makes me dizzy. Even if the fall kills me.

I type three words and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

I’m home. Safe.

I hold my breath, staring at the screen. I expect nothing. I expect him to have blocked me in return. I expect him to be done with the "precious" girl and her disappearing acts.

Then, the three little dots appear. He’s typing.

My heart isn't just thudding now; it’s racing, a frantic, wild thing that’s finally found its way out of the dark.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: February 2026

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