Page 49 of His Orders

“Alright,” I say, my voice low. “Get your things. I’ll pack up.”

We don’t speak as we leave the cabin, and the silence that falls between us isn’t gentle or comforting or anything close to peaceful. I hold the door open for her even though she doesn’t ask me to, still absurdly protective even now, watching the way her hand tightens around the strap of her bag, her eyes flicking once toward the trees, not like she’s taking them in but like she’s already erasing them from her memory.

She climbs into the passenger seat without a word, her jaw set and her gaze fixed on something far beyond the pines, and when I slide in beside her and start the engine, I pretend not to notice the way she leans away just slightly, not enough to accuse her of retreating, but enough that I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical thing.

We drive. The tireswhirrbeneath us, the forest rising like a cathedral of verdant stillness on either side, and still she says nothing, her arms folded across her chest and her fingers gripping the sleeve of her coat like she’s bracing herself for impact.

I watch her from the corner of my eye, studying the shape of her in the morning light—the curve of her neck, the tension in her mouth, the way her body refuses to settle into the seat, like even here, even with me, she doesn’t believe she’s safe.

And I know that look. I’ve seen it in patients waking from anesthesia, eyes wild with pain they can’t name, still fighting battles their bodies haven’t recovered from yet. I’ve seen it in the children of addicts, in the wives of dead soldiers, in the mirror on days when I remember how many people I couldn’t save.

She’s building a wall right now, stone by stone, quick and clean and practiced, the kind of wall that doesn’t crumble with begging or softness or even truth, and the worst part is, I can tell she thinks she’s protecting me.

As if I haven’t spent a lifetime walking into the fire.

As if I didn’t choose her, knowing full well that she was already burning.

I want to tell her that I’ve carried more than this. That the blood under my fingernails and the ghosts I keep company withhaven’t made me run from the things that matter. I want to remind her of what it felt like last night, the way her body opened under mine, the way she trembled when she whispered my name into my mouth like it meant something more than surrender.

But none of that will reach her right now, not while she’s retreating into herself with that terrifying grace, not while she’s pretending that what we shared was temporary, a lapse in logic instead of the truth it revealed.

So I don’t speak. Instead, I watch the way the road curves ahead, how the trees thin and the land flattens as we near the outskirts of the city, and I wait, knowing this is the moment she expects me to let go.

Because what she doesn’t know—what she has never understood—is that I don’t let go of the things I want. I never have.

Not when I walked away from the kind of family legacy men sell their souls for just to prove that I could build something with my own hands instead of coasting on inherited power.

Not when I left behind the manicured halls and country club politics of the Cross family name, trading them for blood-stained scrubs and sleepless nights and the kind of respect you can only earn when no one hands it to you first.

And not now, especially not when I’ve seen what’s behind the mask, not when I’ve tasted the truth beneath her silence.

My jaw tightens as the skyline sharpens in the distance, each mile drawing us closer to the life she’s trying to hide from and the man I am no longer willing to be. I can feel the words stacking in my chest, ready to strike, ready to shatter the quiet she's trying to use like a shield.

17

IVY

The city rises before us in quiet defiance of everything I thought I could outrun, its skyline drawn in silver and glass, a sharp contrast to the soft hush of the cabin where time had folded in on itself and nothing had felt dangerous except for how deeply I wanted to stay. Now, as we cross into its heart again, I can feel the old weight settling back on my chest, not sharp or sudden, but steady and heavy and impossible to ignore, like armor I thought I had shed but never truly left behind.

Ethan drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting against his thigh, his posture calm, controlled, perfectly composed, but I know him well enough now to see the subtle tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze flickers toward me every so often even though he never speaks. The silence between us is built on everything we did not say when we left that cabin, everything I am too afraid to say now, because the truth is still tangled somewhere deep in my chest and I cannot tell yet whether it would save us or ruin everything.

He pulls up in front of my rental without ceremony, without a word, just the quiet droning of the engine and the subtle tension in the air that says he knows I am slipping again and he is waiting to see if I will come back. I reach for the seatbelt, fingers fumbling slightly even though I try to keep them steady, and when I open the door and step out into the street, the city air hits me in a wave of sound and smog and memory so thick it wraps around me like something alive. I close my eyes for a moment, just one breath, and then he is there beside me.

He says nothing as he walks with me to the door, and I am grateful for the silence, because anything he said right now would only deepen the ache building inside me. When we reach the house, I hesitate, not because I am unsure of where to go but because I can feel the pull of him behind me, steady and quiet, and I am terrified that if I turn around and look at him for too long, I will unravel. But I do it anyway.

And he is already watching me.

There is something in his eyes I cannot name, something patient and sure and impossible to ignore, and before I can think of a single excuse or explanation, he steps forward and draws me gently into his arms. His hands are warm against my back, and the press of his lips against my forehead is so tender it nearly undoes me. He does not ask for anything, does not demand a response or offer promises I am not ready to hold, only lets the silence settle around us in a way that feels like permission instead of pressure.

“You can take your space,” he says softly, the words spoken like a promise and a warning all at once, “but you are going to have to get used to my being around.”

I close my eyes again, and this time the ache that blooms behind them is softer, more like longing than fear. I should say something, should tell him this isn’t the right time, that we are both still too bruised to build anything lasting, but the words don’t come, and when I finally manage to meet his gaze again, all I can do is nod.

A small smile tugs at the edge of my lips, the kind that isn’t really about happiness but more about the way a heart softens when it realizes it is not alone. I do not tell him to stay. I do not ask him to leave. I simply turn and walk to the door, and when it closes behind me, I’m left with the weight of his voice still lingering in the space between my shoulders.

The house is cold and still when I step inside, the air holding the kind of quiet that only exists in places that have been left behind too long. I let my bag fall to the floor, peel off my coat with numb fingers, and make my way to the bedroom without turning on any lights. Everything is just as I left it, a little messier around the edges, a little emptier, and as I curl into the bed and let the scent of him on the sheets wash over me, something inside me finally begins to slow.

The dreams come quickly this time, no resistance, no fog, just heat and skin and the memory of Ethan’s mouth against mine, the way his hands knew how to find the places no one else ever thought to touch, the way he looked at me like I was not something broken but something worth holding anyway. In the dream, he is beneath me, around me, inside me, our bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the world shrinking to the sound of his voice in my ear, low and reverent and so full of want it steals my breath. He kisses me like he owns every secret I’ve ever kept, like he knows exactly how to unmake me and still chooses to piece me back together, and when I come in the dream, it iswith his name on my lips and his hand in mine, grounding me to a reality I don’t know how to reach when I am awake.

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