Page 50 of His Orders

And when I wake, heart pounding and thighs damp, I know exactly who I was dreaming of.

It was never Daniel.

It was always Ethan.

The light is soft when I wake, not the dull gray I’ve come to expect from the city in winter, but something warmer, something closer to gold, the kind that filters gently through the blinds and brushes across my skin like an unspoken promise. For a moment, I lie still beneath the covers, curled around the faint ache that lingers behind my ribs, not from pain but from something quieter, something heavier and sweeter, something that feels almost like longing but doesn’t sting the way it used to.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand, sharp against the hush of the morning, and when I reach for it, eyes still heavy, I see his name on the screen and something inside me lifts before I can stop it. The message is short, not in length but in breath—it fills the room as if he’s standing here saying the words himself.

Morning, beautiful.

You moan my name in your sleep. Not complaining. Just wanted you to know. Also, I hope you’re eating something that isn’t just peppermint bark today. Or I’ll come over and hand-feed you something decent. Shirtless. Your call.

My laugh comes out before I can swallow it back, small and surprised, and maybe a little giddy, because the effect he has on me hasn’t dulled, hasn’t faded, and no matter how complicated the rest of it is, this moment is light and easy and bright.

I sit up slowly, stretching, one hand drifting down to my belly with the kind of unconscious tenderness I didn’t used to have, not when the idea of motherhood still felt like a concept I was trying to grasp instead of a reality blooming inside me day by day. But now, I can feel it—the slight change in shape, the gentle shift of weight when I move too quickly, the way my body is no longer mine alone. There’s something profoundly intimate about that, a quiet bond forming in the background of everything else, and this morning, for reasons I can’t name, it feels more like a gift than a burden.

“Hey,” I whisper, palm spread gently over the curve of my lower stomach. “You and me, kid. We’ve got this.”

The kettle whistles in the kitchen while I brush my hair into a loose braid, the scent of vanilla and clove tea wrapping around me as I move through the motions of the morning, grounding myself in small rituals that make the world feel gentler. There’s a sudden buoyancy in my chest, something light and fizzy, like hope dressed in caffeine, and by the time I finish my toast and pour the last of the tea into a travel mug, I’m already pulling out my phone again.

Cassie answers on the second ring, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that she’s still wrapped in fleece and attitude.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty herself. What’s got you calling before noon on a weekend?”

“I need a girls’ day,” I say, tugging on my coat with one hand while grabbing my bag with the other. “Baby stuff. Cozy shops. Flattering lighting. You in?”

There’s a pause, followed by the sound of her shoving off whatever couch she was burrowed into. “I’m wearing my softest jeans as we speak. Pick me up in twenty?”

We drive into Valleria’s old quarter where the sidewalks are narrow, uneven in places, but dressed now in pine garlands and red ribbons that sway in the cold breeze like the town has taken a deep breath and decided to be beautiful again. The storefronts glow with pre-Christmas charm, windows dusted in faux frost and filled with paper stars, hand-knit baby hats, miniature rocking horses, and shelves lined with honey and pressed lavender soaps.

Cassie drags me into a boutique filled with muted pastels and impossibly soft fabrics, and the moment I run my fingers along the hem of a tiny onesie shaped like a gingerbread man, something inside me cracks wide open. I press it gently to my chest, already imagining what it will look like against a sleeping cheek, and Cassie must see the way I blink too fast because she wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes.

“You’re going to be such a good mom,” she says, and I believe her, not because I’m certain but because she says it like it’s already true.

We wander for hours, sipping cider from paper cups and stopping to admire every little knitted cap and swaddling blanket. I let her talk me into buying a pair of ridiculously tiny booties shaped like snow bears and a blanket so soft it feels like a hug, and by the time we settle into a quiet café tucked between an antiques bookshop and a toy store, my arms are full and my heart is lighter than it’s been in weeks.

Cassie stirs her coffee slowly, watching me with that half-smile she reserves for the moments she knows she’s about to drop a question I won’t want to answer.

“So,” she says, casually enough to make me wary, “where are you planning to be once the baby comes?”

The question lands gently but heavily, like snow accumulating too quickly on a roof, and I pause mid-sip, suddenly aware that I don’t have a real answer. The Airbnb is temporary, barely furnished, and not mine. My mother’s place is out of the question, Drew’s house feels like a halfway point I can’t impose on, and Ethan’s—well, Ethan’s anything is still a world I’m not sure I can let myself live in yet.

“I don’t know,” I admit, fingers tightening around the mug. “Somewhere safe. Quiet. I’d like a nursery. Real walls. A window that gets sunlight.”

Cassie nods, not pressing, but I know she’s turning over ideas in her head already. “You’ll figure it out. Just don’t wait too long, okay? Nesting instincts hit hard. One day, you’re fine, the next, you’re crying because you don’t have enough drawer space for socks.”

We part with hugs and laughter and promises of more afternoons like this, and when I return to the rental, the weight of reality begins to settle back in around me like an old coat, familiar and heavier than I remember. My laptop waits on the table, charger already coiled, and within minutes I’m logged in, fingers skimming over keys as I answer emails and format marketing copy for a skincare brand I’ve been consulting with since spring. The work is light today—writing ad taglines, reviewing content calendars, sketching mood boards for aholiday launch—and it feels good to move through something I can control.

Outside the window, Valleria stretches in all its winter softness, streets lined with garlands and flickering lights, store windows glowing with the promise of warmth and something sweet. Snow threatens in the clouds overhead, but the air remains just warm enough to smell like cinnamon and cedar and something nostalgic, like a memory I want to hold in my mouth forever. For a moment, I press my palm to the cold glass and let myself believe that this could be mine—this city, this life, this quiet rhythm.

I wanted a home here once, a future that included long walks down these streets with a stroller in one hand and a coffee in the other, mornings spent folding laundry by sunlit windows, walls painted soft shades of green or blue or yellow depending on the baby’s whims, lullabies that echoed into corners filled with love.

Before my thoughts can take over, my phone buzzes with a call from Ethan. I answer on instinct, the warmth in my chest blooming just from the sound of his voice, low and calm and edged with that unmistakable heat that always curls around my spine like silk spun through fire.

“I was thinking,” he says, not bothering with hello, “that you’ve had too much responsibility and not enough popcorn this week. How do you feel about a movie night?”

I smile into the phone, the kind that creeps across your face before you can stop it, and lean back in the chair, my legs curled under me and the memory of this morning’s softness still lingering on my skin. “Sounds perfect. But only if it’s something with bad dialogue and a happy ending.”

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