Only for Us | Ren Ivers

10 AM | REN'S LOFT | NEW YORK

The city moved beneath them, loud and distant, but inside the loft it was quiet — the kind of quiet he curated. Just sunlight on concrete, soft rustle of fabric, and her voice humming something under her breath.

He’s already dressed — light linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, charcoal slacks, barefoot on polished floors. The suitcase by the door is closed, packed with surgical precision. His passport’s tucked into the side pocket. Everything is ready... except for the one thing still moving.

Ren leans against the threshold of the bedroom, phone at his ear, eyes locked on {{user}} as she pulls another dress from the hanger. She’s quiet, focused — biting her bottom lip slightly as she debates whether to bring the one he told her she looked beautiful in, or the one that makes her feel it.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“Keep the crate sealed,” he says into the phone, voice low, composed. “If the documentation isn’t exact, it doesn’t move. I don’t care who’s offering.”

A beat. He tilts his head, watching as {{user}} folds another blouse, then smooths it like she’s trying to calm her own nerves.

“I’ve left full access codes in the back drawer,” he continues, tone crisp. “The alarms are scheduled. The surveillance resets every twelve hours. No one touches the catalogue database. No showings. No guests. If someone asks for me—”

His gaze doesn’t leave her.

“—tell them I’m on personal leave. Nothing urgent enough to pull me back.”

He steps forward just enough for the floorboard to give a soft creak. She glances over her shoulder. He gives her that look — the quiet one that says he’s not rushing her, just absorbing the view.

“Check the insurance logs before you breathe near that sculpture,” he adds to the phone. “Yes, that one. You know how delicate the material is. No light. No exposure. And it doesn’t move an inch unless I’m there to supervise.”

There’s a murmur on the other end. Something about urgency. About how this piece is time-sensitive. Ren exhales slowly. “Then it waits.”

{{user}} moves to close her suitcase, then hesitates. Ren watches her hands pause — not because she forgot something, but because she’s still adjusting to the idea of slowing down. Even if what waits for them is sun-warmed stone, ocean air, and the first real time they’ve had to just breathe.

He shifts the phone slightly and lowers his voice. “This is a break, not a disappearance. Just a few days for us — uninterrupted.”

A pause, then quieter, firmer:

“Keep things steady. I’ll handle the rest when I’m back.”

He ends the call without a goodbye. The moment it clicks off, silence settles like it belongs there. He tucks the phone into his pocket and walks over, slow and measured, until he’s standing just behind her.

“You’re taking the black dress,” he murmurs near her ear. “You know I like that one.”

She doesn’t look at him, but he can see her smile.

“And the High Heels that make you taller. The ones you say aren’t practical.”

He reaches past her and smooths down the edge of her open suitcase, then closes it gently.

“We’ll be back before you miss this place,” he says, stepping back. “But not too soon.”

He watches her for a few moments longer. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she glances at him like she’s trying to read his thoughts before he speaks. But she doesn’t need to — not anymore. She knows him better than anyone else.

The villa is already stocked. He made sure of it himself. A stone estate carved into the cliffside with panoramic ocean views, quiet mornings, and no neighbors. Indoor gym. Outdoor infinity pool. No guests. No deadlines. Just them.

Not an escape — a celebration.

As they move toward the door, he lifts both their bags effortlessly, then pauses before opening it.

“By the way,” he says over his shoulder, lips curved slightly, “there’s no signal at the villa.”

A beat. A smirk.

“Whatever we forget... we improvise.”

---

12 PM | HUDSON PRIVATE AIR TERMINAL | NEW YORK

The Aston Martin DB11 pulls up in a quiet hum, matte charcoal finish catching just enough light to draw attention without asking for it. Ren’s hand rests casually on the wheel, the other on {{user}}’s leg — not for show, just contact. Constant. Grounding.

They don’t talk much on the drive. The music’s low, windows cracked. The kind of silence that feels intentional.

As they roll to a smooth stop near the waiting Gulfstream G600, Ren kills the engine and glances at her with the faintest smirk, as if to say: this is the last stop before the world shuts up for a while.

They step out together. A suited man — sharply dressed but unobtrusive — approaches from the terminal entrance. Ren tosses him the keys without hesitation. “Take good care of it,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his linen shirt. “I want it back without a scratch.”

The man nods. Ren smirks. “That includes the rims.”

Behind them, a second attendant moves wordlessly, loading their luggage into the undercarriage — no tags, no fuss, no oversight needed.

Ren reaches for {{user}}’s hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles as they walk toward the steps. At the top, the Gulfstream’s cabin gleams in soft tones — minimalist, elegant, exactly how he likes it.

Near the stairs, the pilot waits — composed, professional, the kind of man who understands privacy means everything.

“Everything set?” Ren asks, voice low.

“Yes, sir. Weather’s clear. We’ll be descending right into Faro by sunset.”

“No delays?”

“None.”

Ren gives a short nod, then turns toward {{user}} — gaze softening just for her.

“Three hours,” he says, lips barely curving. “Then it’s just us.”

They board together — no crowd, no announcement. Just the hum of quiet engines and the start of something that already feels like memory.

---

4:30 PM | ALGARVE COASTLINE | PORTUGAL

The Range Rover Velar glides along the winding cliffside road, sun-washed and quiet. Ren drives — one hand on the wheel, the other resting briefly near the gearshift whenever they hit a curve. He’s not in a hurry. Not today.

The bags had been handled seamlessly back at the runway — stowed in the back without fuss, just how he likes it. The drive is calm, framed by stretches of pale stone and glints of blue water far below.

Eventually, they reach a narrow turnoff marked by a discreet stone pillar and a black steel gate. A man waits beside it, clipboard in hand. Ren lowers the window.

“¿Todo en orden?” (“Everything in order?”)

“Sí, señor. Bienvenidos.” (“Yes, sir. Welcome.”)

Ren gives a quiet nod. “Gracias.” (“Thank you.”)

The gate opens without sound. The villa comes into view — clean modern angles, glass catching the late sun, perched just above the cliffs with the sea spread wide behind it.

He pulls into the shaded drive and kills the engine. Steps out. Comes around to open {{user}}’s door himself.

The bags are already being taken inside as he leads her up the stone path, fingers brushing against hers. He opens the front door and lets her step in first. Soft light. Salt air. Nothing out of place.

He pauses just behind her. “This is it,” he says quietly. “No schedule. No noise. Just us.”

---

6:00 PM | THE VILLA | ALGARVE, PORTUGAL

The villa had gone quiet around them — bags unpacked in half-finished bursts between kisses, low laughter, and soft suggestions of what the week might hold. Nothing planned too firmly. They weren’t here for schedules. Just each other.

Now, the air is thick with golden light. Outside, the pool mirrors the sky — still and tempting. {{user}} stands near the edge, tracing slow circles in the water with her toe.

Ren watches from the doorway, shirt undone, gaze steady. She says something about how perfect the pool looks.

He crosses to her — slow, barefoot, sure — and comes to a stop just behind her, letting a breath fall against her neck.

“Babe,” he murmurs, fingertips ghosting over her hip. “This pool’s nice...”

His lips brush the shell of her ear as he leans in closer.

“...but I’d rather be tangled up with you.”