Page 27 of His Orders

“Cooking,” I reply. “I need to talk to you.”

His tone shifts immediately. “Serious?”

I nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Seven?”

“Done.”

I hang up before I can lose my nerve, then tap Cassie’s name and hold the phone to my ear.

“Are we plotting world domination or just talking trash about our exes today?” she answers breezily.

“I need you tonight,” I say, the words a little raw. “Dinner. Seven. My place.”

She doesn’t tease me. “I’ll bring wine. Do I need to dress like I’m intervening or celebrating?”

“Both,” I answer.

The call ends, but the pressure in my chest doesn’t ease. I lean back, eyes unfocused, the ceiling above me suddenly too far away.

It’s strange, this being growing inside me. It terrifies me in ways I don’t know how to admit. Not because I don’t want it—I do, fiercely—but because I do. Because already, I’m making choiceswith someone else in mind. Because this tiny, unnamed thing is going to make me fight harder than I ever have, and I’m not sure I have any strength left to give.

Still, when I press my hand to my stomach, the panic quiets. Just for a moment. There’s a rush of something warm beneath my ribs, a soft thrum of love I wasn’t expecting. I’m not alone.

But God, do I feel lonely. The thing about people who are forced to run to survive is we don't get to keep a lot of friends. Our parents usually never care enough until it's too late, and sometimes, it's not because they don't love us but because they don't know how to show love in a way that counts.

My eyes mist as I look at a framed picture of my family. It's up on the kitchen desk, visible through the partition from beyond which I sit, to the side. I placed it there the first night and it's been there since. Drew and I are holding hands. My face is defiantly red and he looks like he's trying to contain me. Mom and Dad are smiling blankly for the camera. It sums up what we are to each other.

I get up and go to the kitchen, start slicing vegetables more out of need for distraction than hunger. The knife moves easily under my grip, the rhythmic scrape of it against the cutting board the only sound in the room. And yet, my thoughts drift. They always find Ethan Cross. The boy who used to ruffle my hair and call meSquirt. Unbidden, a smile comes to my lips and I chuckle.

I remember the summer I turned twenty-one. We were at the lake house. The fire had burned low and most of the adults had drifted inside, but I stayed. So did he. I’d been drinking, a Solo cup in one hand and a bad idea on my lips. I remember laughing too loudly, pretending not to see the way Ethan was watching me from the shadows. Some guy had come up behind me, touchedmy waist without asking. I laughed then, too. For show, but specifically to see what Ethan would do.

He moved the way gravity does, pulling all of us into his orbit. I didn’t even hear what he said to the guy, just saw the look on his face, how he seemed terrified and impressed all at once and how he vanished from the scene not too long after.

The moment he was gone, Ethan hauled me aside. “Be smarter, Ivy,” he growled, his fingers digging into my arm just enough to anchor me. “You deserve better than guys who only want one thing.”

I was flushed, tipsy, and angry that he wasn’t the one touching me like that boy. “And what if that’s all I want?”

He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw something crackle between us—raw and hungry. But all he said was, “Then pick someone who isn’t a fucking idiot.”

I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

Even now, that memory stays with me, the way he looked like he wanted to kiss and kill me in the same breath. I haven’t let myself think about that night in years.

And now he knows.

And I lied.

I finish chopping, hands moving without thought. I need to pull myself together before they arrive. I need to be composed when I tell them the truth.

But as I stare at the kitchen counter, heart thudding in my chest, all I can see is Ethan’s face. And all I can feel is the ache of wanting him.

It’s ridiculous how much I miss him. My body still remembers the feel of his touch, the searing heat of his gaze, the calm certainty of his presence. I tell myself I’m strong for walking away. For choosing silence over destruction. But right now, strength feels a lot like heartbreak.

My throat feels dry as I go upstairs to take a shower. The steaming water helps, as does the little self-care routine I follow it up with. I apply moisturizer to my face, a dab of balm to my lips, and comb out my hair until it's smooth. Then, I tie it up into a loose bun and stare at my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror of the Airbnb and tell myself to get it together.

---