Page 69 of His Orders

“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t answer, just steps forward and kneels beside the duffel, unzipping it with the kind of care that feels too intimate for what we are now. He pulls out a sweater, folds it neatly, places it in the drawer. I watch him do the same with my jeans, my scarves, the lotion I use at night. Each item passes through his hands like a story he doesn’t know how to read anymore.

I want to cry.

I sit on the edge of the bed, knees pressed together, palms flat on either side of me. I try to find something to say, something thatdoesn’t sound like an apology or a plea or a scream. But there’s too much in my throat. It’s all still lodged there, thick with what I should have said weeks ago.

When the bag is empty, Ethan straightens, closes the drawer, and turns to me. His eyes meet mine, and something in me caves at the gentleness there. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something close. Something quieter.

“You’ll be safe here,” he says. “No one gets in without my key. And I’m not leaving you alone again.”

I nod because I can’t speak.

“Freshen up,” he continues. “I’ll be waiting in the kitchen.” Without saying any more, he closes the door, this time gently, putting space between us. I change slowly, peeling off the clothes I’ve been wearing all day like they’re a second skin I no longer need, dropping them in a heap beside the chair as the silence stretches around me, soft and taut. The bathroom is spotless, its polished marble and chrome so pristine it feels more like a spa than a real space someone uses every day, but the warmth of the towels and the scent of sandalwood soap are comforting in a way I hadn’t expected. I take my time washing my face, brushing my hair, trying not to look too closely at the shadows beneath my eyes or the way my reflection carries the weight of someone who no longer recognizes herself.

When I step back into the bedroom, my body feels a little lighter, but my chest is still tight, as though the skin there forgot how to stretch open fully. I’m not sure what I expected tonight—maybe silence, maybe polite detachment—but not the quiet knock that follows just a few minutes after I sit down on the bed.

I hesitate for a breath, then open the door.

Ethan stands there, still in the clothes he wore earlier, sleeves pushed up, the sharp lines of his forearms catching in the hallway light. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t ask how I’m doing. He just tilts his head toward the kitchen and says, “Dinner.”

I follow him wordlessly, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The scent hits me first—warm spices, rich and layered, the unmistakable blend of cumin, coriander, tomato, and ghee. My stomach growls, and it surprises me because I haven’t been hungry in days. Food has felt like a chore, a necessity I forced myself through. But now, standing in the doorway while Ethan lays out takeout containers and two plates, my appetite stirs like something waking from a long sleep.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” he says, not looking at me as he unpacks naan, rice, butter chicken, saag paneer. “So I ordered everything.”

It’s the most words he’s spoken to me since the parking garage. And they settle somewhere low in my chest.

“Indian’s perfect,” I say quietly, sliding into the chair across from him.

We eat in silence at first. I tear off a piece of naan and dip it into the paneer, the flavor so bright and comforting that I close my eyes for a moment just to sit with it. My body remembers hunger before my mind does. I eat slowly but fully, bite after bite, warmth blooming in my chest as if something is stitching itself back together, one spoonful at a time.

Across the table, Ethan eats less, his movements practiced but distant. His jaw is tense, his shoulders hunched just slightly, like he’s carrying something he can’t yet name. But he keeps glancing up at me, studying the way I hold the fork, how I breathebetween bites, as if he’s searching for something in the details I’m too tired to mask.

And then, just as I reach for my water glass, he speaks.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

The question lands like a stone in a still pond, sending slow ripples outward that hit every nerve I’ve been trying to quiet. My hand stills. The glass trembles slightly in my grip before I set it down.

I meet his eyes, and what I see there undoes me—not anger, not accusation, but something softer, wearier. A thread of curiosity stretched over a chasm of pain. For the first time in what seems like days, I see a glimpse of the man I fell for. The man who kissed my forehead that night we made love like he meant it.

“No,” I whisper. “I haven’t done the gender test.”

His gaze doesn’t shift. “Why not?”

I should lie. I should say I was waiting for the right time or that I didn’t want to know. But the truth slips out before I can stop it.

“I didn’t want to find out without you.”

His expression doesn’t change at first. But then, for a breath, something in his face eases. Just a flicker, a softening behind the eyes. A crack in the shell he’s been wearing like armor.

And it’s gone as quickly as it came.

He sets his fork down, wipes his hands on a napkin, and stands. “Get some rest,” he says, his voice low, flat.

I don’t move. I just watch him pick up his plate, turn his back to me, and walk toward the sink. The silence that follows stretchesall the while, even as he finishes washing up and leaves the kitchen, with me alone in it, staring down at my food as the tears begin to fall.

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