Page 47 of His Orders

The fire’s burned low, little more than glowing ash in the hearth, and the cabin has settled into that hushed rhythm it only finds at dawn. I sit up slowly, my joints stiff, back still aching in that way it always does after years hunched over operating tables. I breathe deeply, steadying myself with the scents of cedar and smoke and the faint trace of her, and for a long moment, I don’t move.

A soft sound pulls me back—a rustle, a hiss of steam—and I know exactly where she is.

I find her in the kitchen, haloed in soft morning light, barefoot in my shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she pours coffee intoone of the chipped porcelain mugs my mother collected decades ago. There’s something almost sacred in the sight of her like this. She fits here. That’s the part I can’t shake. Not just in the room, but in the rhythm of it, moving through this space like it was always hers, like she’s always belonged.

When she glances up and sees me watching her, she doesn’t startle. She only lifts the mug slightly, offering it like a peace treaty. “I made coffee,” she murmurs, voice still husky from sleep. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

I step into the room slowly, drawn more by the quiet tether between us than the caffeine. “I’d be insulted if you hadn’t.”

She passes me the cup, and when our fingers brush, the contact is warm. Familiar.

We ease into the morning with that same quiet intimacy, the kind that comes from shared silence rather than shared words. It’s easy, deceptively so. She moves around the kitchen with an unspoken grace, pulling ingredients from the pantry while I light the stove. There’s no need for direction. No need to talk through the steps. She cracks eggs while I slice shallots, the kitchen filling with the scents of butter and smoke and something sweeter I can’t quite name.

“I’m still surprised at how well you cook,” she says at one point, eyeing the way I stir the pan with practiced care.

I glance at her. “You think a man makes it through fourteen-hour shifts without learning how to feed himself?”

Her laugh is soft. “Touché.”

And somehow, it spills from there. Stories, little pieces of who we used to be before the world came for us. I talk about thehospital, about the years spent buried in anatomy texts and long nights shadowing trauma surgeons who had stopped believing in anything but the scalpel. I tell her about the patient I lost in my third year of residency, a boy not much older than I had been when I first put on a white coat.

“He coded on the table,” I say quietly, setting the spatula down. “Internal bleed we didn’t catch fast enough. His parents were waiting just outside the OR. I walked out with blood on my hands and a lie on my tongue, because no one teaches you what to say when a life slips out from under yours.”

Ivy doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t look away.

“I was supposed to go into politics,” I add after a beat, pouring coffee into her mug. “Family money. Diplomatic lineage. The Cross name was built on marble estates and boardroom wars. But I grew up surrounded by men who would rather polish a lie than face the truth, and somewhere around seventeen, I realized I’d rather wield a scalpel than a signature.”

Her expression softens, eyes tracing mine with something I can’t quite decipher. “Do they hate that you walked away?”

“My mother pretends I’m on sabbatical,” I say dryly. “My father stopped pretending anything a long time ago. He thinks saving lives is noble… for someone else’s son.”

I could stop there. I should. But something about the way she watches me—open, still, curious in a way that never feels performative—makes me want to hand her something real.

“You know, the Holts used to summer with us.”

That’s when her shoulders go still. She doesn’t look up, but her hand freezes over the rim of her cup, her thumb just hovering there.

I keep my voice even, as if I don’t notice the way her entire body just locked down.

“Daniel’s father and mine sat on a dozen boards together. Mergers, land development, political funding. There was a time I couldn’t go to a holiday gala without tripping over one of the Holt boys in a pressed navy blazer and a haircut they all seemed to share. Daniel was the youngest—always watching, always listening, even when no one wanted him around.”

She still doesn’t move.

This time, it’s evident that I’m on the right track, even though Ivy still hasn’t named any names or told me anything about her past in a way that should make me suspect Daniel of being a jackass.

“I didn’t like him. Not then, not now. Something about him always felt calculated. Too quiet, too observant. My mother used to tell me that kind of silence meant good manners. But even at fifteen, I knew better.”

My voice lowers, memory bleeding in.

“There was this one night. Summer estate in Chesapeake. I was seventeen. Daniel showed up late to a bonfire, smelling like scotch and ash, even though he was just a kid. And when he laughed, it wasn’t right. Not like someone who was having fun. Like someone who was practicing. I remember thinking—God, this boy’s going to be dangerous one day. That was the first time I ever thought something and prayed I was wrong.”

I glance up. Ivy is staring into her coffee like it might offer her a way out. “I dated him for a while.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Drew and I weren’t fans.”

“You never said anything.”

“Didn’t seem like my place.”

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