16. Gen
Chapter 16
Gen
T here’s no grand declaration or a dramatic moment where I throw my phone across the room and scream into the void. It’s quieter than that. Smaller.
I just stop trying.
I stop reaching out. Stop checking my phone. Stop hoping the unread notification will magically turn into something that means he still cares.
Because he doesn’t.
And I need to stop pretending he ever did.
I delete the thread the night before my first doctor’s appointment. Not because I want to, but because I can’t walk into that office tomorrow still holding onto something that was never mine.
Evie offers to come with me, of course. She offers three times, actually—once with bribery, once with threats, and once while waving a very real “emotional support croissant” in front of my face. But I say no. I need to do this alone. Just once. Just to prove I can.
Because I will be doing a lot of this alone. My baby has a biological father, but they won’t have a daddy.
The clinic is bright and modern, located on a floor that is numbered five thousand in a stupid-tall building that was obnoxiously difficult to get to. The elevators took forever, the waiting room was full of women who looked much more prepared than me, and I’m ninety percent sure the receptionist silently judged my top.
I’m not late, but I still spend the entire check-in process with sweat pooling under my arms and my stomach tying itself into tighter knots with every passing second.
The nurse who takes my vitals is kind, in that detached, professional way that tells me she’s seen hundreds of girls exactly like me—young, unprepared, trying to fake a composure they haven’t earned yet.
I keep smoothing the hem of my blouse. It doesn’t help.
I don’t want to be here.
When the doctor comes in, she introduces herself as Dr. Kim and smiles softly as she delivers the news I already know. I am indeed pregnant. I answer questions I didn’t prepare for. Try to nod at the right times. Try to sound like I’m capable. Responsible. Stable.
Then she dims the lights, rolls in the ultrasound machine, and before I can brace myself, there it is—small, grainy, impossibly real. A flicker of a heartbeat. She says everything looks healthy. Then she asks if I’ve decided what kind of support I’ll need.
The question breaks something loose inside me.
Support.
The word echoes as I walk out of the office with a paper in my hand and a hollow ache in my chest. There’s no one waiting for me in the lobby. No excited partner. No curious family member. Just me. And a new, more complicated version of my life.
Outside, the light feels too bright. I blink up at the sky and try not to cry. I fail.
I haven’t told Evie how bad the fatigue’s gotten. Or how some days, brushing my teeth feels impossible. Or how every time I think about my future, all I see is the outline of a man who won’t call me back and the shadow of a baby I don’t know how to raise.
I want to believe I can do this on my own.
I want to believe that being abandoned this early in the process doesn’t mean I’m already failing.
But the truth is—I don’t feel strong. I feel small. And very scared.
And I feel alone.
Except I’m not. Not really.
Because Evie is waiting. She’s sitting in her car in a fire zone, legs curled up on the passenger seat, a coffee in each hand, and a death glare for anyone who looks at her funny. She doesn’t ask questions when I slide into the front seat. She just hands me the coffee with the extra sugar and rests her hand over mine the whole ride home.
Because Silas—Silas has become a constant. Sweet. Steady. Relentless in the softest way. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry. But he’s always there. With texts. With food. With jokes that almost make me forget I’m falling apart inside.
He’s turned up on my doorstep twice in the past week. Once with fresh-baked bread. Once with a playlist of “Songs scientifically proven to lower your cortisol levels” and a six-pack of mineral water. He never stays long. He just stays long enough to remind me that someone sees me. That someone is still showing up.
And right now, that matters more than I want to admit.
Max keeps checking in with polite but loaded questions. It seems like he’s offering support even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what’s actually going on. The man is too observant, though. He definitely sees something .
After I get home, I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the edge of my bed for a long time. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just sit, holding the appointment summary in my hands like it might give me answers if I stare long enough.
It doesn’t.
But eventually, I stand.
And when I reach for my phone, I don’t think. I don’t talk myself out of it.
I just open the text thread I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Not Sebastian’s.
Silas’s.
Me: Are you home?
Silas: Just got here. What’s up?
Me: Can I come over?
There’s a pause. Half a beat. Then?—
Silas: Door’s already unlocked.
* * *
Silas lives in a converted warehouse in Dumbo. Of course he does. It suits him in ways I can't even begin to explain. It's a little trendy, but I like it.
He opens the door before I can knock.
His eyes sweep over me—my oversized hoodie, the leggings I wore to the appointment, the tired set of my mouth—and he doesn’t ask a thing. Just steps back and says, “Come in.”
I do.
He takes the keys from my hand, sets them in a bowl by the door. Then he disappears into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a steaming mug of tea.
“I wasn’t sure what kind you’d want,” he says. “So I made the fancy one with too many vowels.”
I smile and take it from him with both hands. Our fingers brush. I don’t look up.
The building is all steel beams and original brick, but somehow, his place feels warm. Lived in. There’s a bike hung above the entryway, a record player spinning something low and jazzy in the background, and a delicious smell drifting from the kitchen—clean and a little spicy. It smells like comfort.
We settle on the couch. No talking. Just quiet. I take a slow sip of the tea. It’s peppermint and something floral. I don’t know. I don’t care. It helps.
For a few minutes, I just breathe. And he waits. It's one of the things I love most about Silas. He never pushes. He's happy to just wait me out and accepts what I'm willing to give.
When I’m ready, the words come out in a rush. “I don’t know how to do this.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Then let me help. Let me take care of you.”
My throat burns. “Why?”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean, why?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’m working on that.”
“But you don’t—you shouldn’t—” I shake my head, panic rising. “You’re sweet. And funny. And good. And I’m a mess. I have a company that barely runs without me. A body that feels like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. And a baby that’s not yours.”
His face doesn’t change. “You think any of that scares me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Silas.”
“No.” He moves closer, his palm cradling the side of my face with infuriating gentleness. “You don’t get to push me away just because someone else couldn’t handle how extraordinary you are.”
I look away. His thumb strokes under my jaw. My breath catches.
“You’re exhausted,” he says. “And hurting. And fighting to hold everything together, even when no one’s making it easy. So let me be the easy thing.”
My eyes sting. I don’t want to cry. Not again.
“I don’t want to put all this on you,” I whisper.
“Please do. I want to help.”
He leans in and kisses me on the forehead.
His hand is still cupping my cheek like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. I close my eyes for a moment and just let myself feel it.
Then I kiss him back on his gorgeous lips.
And everything inside me unravels.
I set the mug aside blindly, reaching for him as he deepens the kiss. His hands slide into my hair, over my back, slow but deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t push. He just touches me in a way that makes me feel wanted. Not claimed. Not overwhelmed. Just wanted.
We move to the bedroom in a blur of kisses and whispers. He lays me down with reverence, not aggression. His shirt falls to the floor, followed by mine. I start to hesitate again—my body is softer than it used to be, a little swollen, a little tender. And I've only done this once, with a man who didn’t want to keep me.
He senses it immediately.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Don’t hide from me.”
I try to speak, to explain all the reasons this is a bad idea. He kisses the words right off my lips.
“I see you,” he says. “And I want you. If you’ll have me…”
He undresses me slowly, mouth tracing every inch of exposed skin. There’s no rush, no pressure. Just soft groans and tangled limbs and the way he says my name when I gasp.
This is nothing like it was with Sebastian. And I hate that my mind goes there. I just want to forget all of that.
I shouldn't be doing this. This is too fast, too much, too soon. Silas doesn’t know—not really—and if he did, if he knew what I was carrying, what I’ve already ruined, he wouldn’t be touching me like this. He wouldn’t be looking at me like I’m something sweet and worth holding.
He kisses my neck and I flinch—not from fear, but from the weight of it all. The guilt. The fear. The fact that I’m barely holding myself together, and he’s giving without hesitation.
My hands push at his chest, not hard enough to make him stop. “You don’t want this,” I whisper. “You think you do, but you don’t. I’m a mess, Silas. I’m scared and hormonal and pregnant with?—”
“I know what I want.” His voice is quiet, firm. His mouth brushes my jaw, then lower. “And I want you.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.” He kisses me again, slower this time. “You’re not a burden. You’re not broken. You’re the bravest fucking woman I’ve ever met.”
His lips find mine. And every protest I have—every terrible what-if and trembling doubt—melts into the press of his mouth and the sure, steady way he touches me.
And when he sinks inside me, I stop thinking altogether.
The world narrows to the weight of him above me, the stretch and slide and heat of it. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, anchoring him there, the only solid thing I can hold onto.
He moves slowly at first—long, deliberate strokes that make my breath stutter. He’s watching me again. Not just looking, but seeing. Every flicker of expression. Every sound I can’t swallow.
His breath stutters against my neck. “Jesus, G. You feel—” His words cut off with a groan and buries his face in my shoulder. “—so fucking good.”
His hand finds mine, fingers threading tight, grounding me while he thrusts deeper, slower, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
I arch into him, chasing more—more friction, more pressure, more of whatever this is that makes my pulse race and my heart ache at the same time. I’m raw, nerves exposed, but he handles me gently.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, like it’s a fact. “Strong. Fucking impossible not to want.”
I close my eyes, but he kisses them open. “Don’t disappear on me,” he whispers. “Stay with me, G.”
I do. I hold on.
He moves again—deeper now, harder. The rhythm of it makes me gasp. Makes me moan into the space between us. His hand skims down my thigh and back up to grip my hip, anchoring me as he drives into me with a rhythm that feels more like worship than sex.
It’s not dominant. Not demanding. But it is consuming. His mouth is everywhere—my neck, my shoulder, my chest. Every sound he makes, every word he says, only drags me closer to the edge.
It’s not the same as it was with Sebastian—and that’s what undoes me. Because Silas doesn’t just want to fuck me. He wants to be close. He wants to wrap around me and whisper filth and sweetness in equal measure while I come apart in his hands.
“You feel so good,” he breathes against my ear. “So damn good, G.”
His pace shifts—deeper, harder, a little rough now that I’m gasping for it. Every thrust pulls another moan from my throat, louder than I mean it to be. I’m unraveling fast, but he doesn’t let go. He stays close, kisses me through it again and again until my body goes taut, my climax crashing into me so hard I feel like it will never subside.
He follows with a groan and a final thrust, spilling inside me. There’s no condom. No protection. Just skin and heat and the quiet, reckless intimacy of letting someone all the way in.
We stay like that for a while. Breathing together. Limbs tangled. No words, just the rise and fall of our bodies and the question hanging in the dark between us.
What now?