Page 39 of His Orders

He gives me a rueful little chuckle. “Okay.”

“I’m serious, Ethan.” I try to hold his gaze, even though it hurts to say it. “It’s just for tonight.”

He nods. “I know.”

He doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t try to negotiate space that I’m not offering. Instead, he takes the mug from my hands, sets it aside, and wraps the comforter around my shoulders, tucking it gently under my arms like I might unravel if he lets go.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

I let him pull me toward the bed, his hands warm and steady as he guides me beneath the covers. When he lies down beside me, it’s not possessive. It’s quiet. Careful. His arm slips around my waist again, just like before, palm resting low over my belly.

I settle into him, letting the tension drain slowly from my shoulders, even as the pressure behind my ribs remains. My hand drifts down, covers his, and I close my eyes. In this quiet moment, with Ethan’s breaths brushing the back of my neck and the city sleeping outside, I let them live inside me.

The baby is yours.

You’re the father.

And I don’t know what will happen when I say it.

I don’t know if you’ll stay.

I don’t know if this thing between us is strong enough to survive it, or if it’ll crumble under the weight of everything we never said.

But I want to believe it could be different this time.

I want to believe that telling you the truth won’t ruin everything, that maybe it’s the only way we get to something real.

And still, the fear sits heavily in my chest, curling tightly around my ribs.

Because if I’m wrong and if you leave, if Daniel finds out, if this ends the way every other thing in my life seems to—then I won’t just lose you. I’ll lose this fragile, terrifying hope I’ve been clinging to.

13

IVY

When I wake, the apartment is hushed, the soft glow of morning creeping in through the edges of the curtains. The sheets still hold the warmth of Ethan’s body, and I find myself curling into that space without thinking, breathing in the traces of him that linger on the pillow. There’s a soreness between my thighs, sharp and sweet. It pulls a blush from me and makes me press my face deeper into the cotton, eyes closed, heart slow.

He’s gone. I knew he would be. There’s no sound of him moving through the apartment, no kettle whistling, no firm footsteps crossing the floor with surgical certainty. Still, for a moment, it feels like he’s here. I stay like that longer than I should, tangled in sheets that smell like sex and warmth and the kind of comfort I forgot how to want.

My phone buzzes against the nightstand. I roll onto my side and reach for it without opening my eyes.

A message from Drew.

Lunch today? Blair’s craving Thai and I want to see your face. Noon? XO.

Beneath it, I see another notification. Then another. Messages from unknown numbers, timestamps scattered across the last few days. I tap once.

Your taste in men is getting worse. I wonder what Ethan would do if he knew the whole truth. You’re not very good at running, baby girl.

My chest goes tight. I set the phone down face-down, swallow the nausea clawing at the back of my throat, and pull the blanket tighter around myself. There’s a bitter taste that rises every time I think of last night. Not because I regret it. I don’t. Not even close. But because I know I’m dancing on a blade's edge, and I just handed Ethan a better grip on the hilt.

He hadn’t asked for anything when he left. No promises. No lingering words. Just a warm brush of lips to my shoulder, a hand smoothing the hair from my cheek, and the sound of his voice low against my skin.

“I have to go. Emergency page.”

I’d kept my eyes closed, too afraid of what I might say if I looked at him. He’d dressed quickly, methodically, like he was used to leaving things behind. When the door finally shut, I’d counted to sixty before letting myself breathe.

Now, in the quiet aftermath, I try to rebuild the walls I’d so carefully dismantled the night before. It was a moment. A slip. Nothing more.

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