Page 23 of His Orders

Because I’ve already decided what matters most. And it isn’t being believed.

It’s keeping this baby alive, keeping myself safe long enough to become the mother I never thought I could be.

The silence stretches again, but this time Ethan takes a step back. He looks like a man trying to make sense of a diagnosis that doesn’t match the symptoms. Like he’s waiting for the part where I admit I’m lying.

But I let the lie sit. I let it build its own scaffolding. I let it become truth in the way all survival stories eventually do.

He just stands there, his body tense, jaw locked, gaze fixed on me like he’s trying to solve an equation that refuses to cooperate. I know that look. He’s trying to understand things that don’t make sense. And right now, I don’t make sense.

He’s trying to line up the timeline in his head, tally every clue, trace every missing detail. I can feel the calculation running behind his eyes. My answer didn’t land clean. It’s not sitting right with him because he knows me. He knows the way I talk when I lie, the way my voice tightens and my shoulders hold still, as if any sudden movement might give me away.

I sit straighter on the hospital bed, holding the thin sheet across my lap like it might help hold back the tremble in my fingers. The nurse gave me a fresh gown and a tired smile, then vanished. Her absence leaves a silence too thick to breathe in, the kind that waits for one of us to break.

Ethan hasn’t moved.

He’s still in his coat, his clothes rumpled like he came straight from a shift, like he walked off a trauma floor and stumbled directly into mine. His hands are clenched, fingers flexing once, then again, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t believe me. I can see that plainly.

But he also hasn’t called me out. Not yet.

Just when the pressure builds too high, the curtain rustles and another, older, nurse returns with a clipboard and starts rattling off observations, blood pressure, heart rate, and mild dehydration. I nod at her words, grateful for the interruption. Ethan’s gaze never leaves me.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, cutting her off. “I just need to go home. I’d like to be discharged.”

The nurse frowns. “You really should stay for observation. Especially given your history of fainting and?—”

“I’ll follow up with my OB.” My voice is firmer this time. “I just want to go home.”

She hesitates, looking between me and the man beside my bed, then gives a short nod. “I’ll get the paperwork.”

She leaves, and for a moment, the silence rushes back in.

Ethan still hasn’t moved. He’s staring like he can will the truth out of me if he holds still long enough. My skin prickles under the weight of his attention, but I keep my chin lifted. I won’t crack. I can’t.

He speaks, finally.

“You really want me to believe that?”

His voice is low, controlled, stripped of anger but rife with the kind of tension that makes my chest ache. I shake my head, not to answer him, but to stop myself from saying the wrong thing.

“There’s nothing to believe, Ethan,” I reply. “It’s not yours. That’s all there is.”

He flinches, barely, but it’s there. A slight shift in his jaw. A sharp breath through his nose. I know he wants to argue. I can see it in the furrow of his brow, the disbelief flickering behind his eyes, but before he can speak again, the nurse returns with a release form and a pen. She places it in my hand, kindly, as if she understands that some things are better left unspoken.

I scrawl my name and slide off the bed. My legs still feel wobbly, my body slower than usual, but I force myself upright. The moment my feet touch the floor, I feel the eyes on me again. Ethan hasn’t moved from his post, but he’s watching, assessing, as if he’s waiting for me to collapse again just to prove a point.

I reach for my clothes, tucked neatly on the nearby chair. He turns his back while I change, which is somehow worse than if he hadn’t. It’s not distance. It’s restraint. And restraint means control.

I tug on my sweater, smooth my hands over my jeans, and step into my boots.

“Thank you,” I say, finally facing him. “For… staying. But I’m fine now.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even blink.

I walk past him, careful and slow, keeping my back straight, ignoring the pounding behind my ribs and the nausea that still churns low in my belly. The ER feels too bright, too open, too loud. A child is crying down the hall. A pair of nurses argue softly behind a curtain. Somewhere, a monitor beeps out a steady rhythm that seems to echo my own ragged heartbeat.

The glass doors hiss open, and I step into the night.

Cold air washes over me, sharp and immediate, a balm and a punishment all at once. The streets are quieter than I expected, but not empty. A car drives by, its tires hissing over wet pavement. The faint scent of something fried lingers from the diner across the road. I pause at the edge of the sidewalk, unsure whether to turn left or right, unsure if I’m walking or calling a car, unsure of anything except the need to leave this place behind.

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