Eden Ivy Face: Slap

“Morning,” Ivy murmured, handing the mug over with a soft smile. “You need this more than I do.”

Both women burst into laughter, the sound bubbling and infectious. Eden clutched her cheek, eyes watering from the sudden sting, while Ivy leaned against the counter, still giggling. eden ivy face slap

The sisters spent the rest of the morning prepping—Eden rehearsed her words (this time with a grin rather than a strained voice) and Ivy tended to her thriving ivy vines, each leaf glistening with dew. When the time came, Eden walked out of the cottage with her head held high, feeling the soft echo of Ivy’s slap still resonating in her mind as a reminder: confidence isn’t a script; it’s a feeling that blooms when you let yourself be vulnerable. “Morning,” Ivy murmured, handing the mug over with

Ivy, who had been quietly arranging a bouquet of lavender and rosemary, watched her sister’s agitation with a furrowed brow. She could see that Eden’s confidence was wavering, not from lack of preparation, but from the pressure she put on herself. The sisters spent the rest of the morning

Eden turned, eyes wide, to see Ivy holding her palm out, her face a mixture of shock and amusement.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the rooftops of the sleepy town of Brookfield, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. In the modest, ivy‑covered cottage at the end of Maple Lane, two sisters were already awake, their minds already racing with the day ahead.

Ivy’s smile dimmed a fraction. “That sounds amazing, Eden. I’m really proud of you.”