11. Elena
Elena
The exam room is always cold. The harsh, fluorescent lights flicker faintly above, casting a clinical glow that doesn’t offer any warmth, just sharp, sterile clarity.
I brace myself, the chill sinking into my bones as I shift under the thin paper gown.
The scent of antiseptic, faint but ever-present, clings to the walls.
This space, this routine, it’s a part of my life now.
A constant reminder of what I’ve agreed to.
But today, something’s different. When I lie back on the table, my usual sense of detachment doesn’t come as easily.
Maybe it’s because I’m ten weeks pregnant now.
The pregnancy, that thing I’ve been carrying with barely a thought, is suddenly quite real.
It feels like it’s sitting just beneath my skin, making every little shift in my body more noticeable.
More significant. I can almost feel the baby’s weight now. The flicker of its heartbeat.
That small pulse of life, undeniably connected to me.
The cool gel touches my stomach, and I flinch as the coldness seeps into my skin, making my muscles tighten. Dr. Walsh hums quietly as she prepares the ultrasound equipment, her presence comforting but distant, like she’s always here for a purely professional purpose.
But I can’t quite focus on her. My mind keeps returning to the small, fluttering image on the screen.
The baby.
Tiny. Still so fragile. But I see the heart.
The strong, rhythmic pulse. There it is, in all its fragility and promise.
A life forming, growing. It feels like the world shifts, just for a moment, as I watch it beat.
That small flicker of life inside me, it makes everything else feel less urgent.
All the noise, all the chaos, the rules—none of it matters when I see that heartbeat.
“Strong heartbeat.”
Cormac’s voice cuts through the moment, smooth, steady, and... softer than I’ve heard it before.
I glance up at him, half expecting to see the same stoic expression he always wears.
But there’s something different now, something in the way his eyes focus on the screen, then flicker toward me.
Something in his posture that makes him look, just for a second, unsettled.
It’s barely there, but I catch it. And it makes my chest tighten.
“Development is perfect,” he continues, his words a kind of reassurance. But they don’t settle me. Not entirely.
His hand rests briefly on my shoulder, just a second. A fleeting touch, almost imperceptible, but I feel it. I feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of my gown, the weight of his fingers, the deliberate softness of his touch, like he’s trying to comfort me.
I can’t breathe for a second. My pulse quickens. My body tenses in that familiar way—too familiar now. The warmth of his touch spreads across my skin, and it’s like I can feel every inch of his presence pressing into me, surrounding me.
I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t want it. But it’s there. A current running beneath the surface. A sensation I can’t ignore, even though I know I should.
I want to pull away, but I don’t. I just lie there, frozen, watching the screen, watching the little flicker of the heartbeat.
And his hand stays there for a moment longer than necessary.
My breathing hitches, my chest tightening in a way I can’t explain.
The pulse of life on the screen and the pulse in my chest, they’re connected.
I feel them both, like they’re intertwined, and he’s the one to help me feel it.
His hand is light, but it feels like an anchor.
It holds me in place, and for just a moment, I feel safe.
I should hate this. I should feel even more trapped, dominated. This is wrong. He’s Liam’s father. My doctor. The man who controls everything in my life now.
But I do feel safe.
And that’s terrifying.
The moment stretches, and I can’t decide if I want him to move his hand or leave it there. I should want him to pull away, to give me space. But I don’t move an inch.
Finally, he removes his hand, like he knows the moment has passed, like the physical space between us has to be restored. He’s back to business. Back to being doctor.
I exhale, my breath a little shaky. I try to sit up, but the room spins for a moment. The dizziness hits me before I can react. Blinking rapidly, I try to focus, but the floor shifts beneath me, and the next thing I know, I’m teetering forward.
His hand is at my elbow, steadying me. His touch is firm, but not rough. His fingers are warm where they rest, and it sends another jolt through my body. My breath catches, and I can feel the flush in my cheeks. His hand stays there just long enough to remind me he’s close.
Too close.
I don’t pull away immediately. I shouldn’t feel this way.
But I do. The heat from his hand spreads up my arm, and for a moment, I feel the pull again.
The connection. That silent, unspoken thing between us.
His proximity, his scent, all of it is overwhelming, like I can feel every inch of him just by the press of his hand on my skin.
I swallow hard, trying to regain control of my breathing, my thoughts.
This moment, this closeness, it really shouldn’t be happening.
I step back quickly, shaking my head as though to clear the haze. I don’t know what to do with this feeling, this inexplicable want that lingers in my chest. I force my legs to stand straight, but I’m still a little unsteady. The dizziness is clearing, but my heart is pounding now.
“You should rest,” he says, his tone low, but there’s something else there. Something I can’t quite identify. “I’ll have the car take you home.”
I pull away just a fraction, trying to steady myself, but his scent—earthy, deep, and familiar—fills my senses, and my pulse accelerates once again.
My skin burns, my stomach flutters, and it’s like I can feel every inch of him just by the press of his hand on my skin.
It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and I have to fight the urge to close my eyes and lean into him, just for a moment.
“I can walk,” I insist, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’m fine.”
But my legs are still weak, and even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.
“No,” he says firmly. “You should rest. It’s a short ride, but you’re not well enough to walk just yet.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him I’m fine, that I’m not some fragile thing he needs to wrap in cotton, but the dizziness hits me again. The world shifts, and I stagger, my vision blurring for a second. But his hand is there, catching me before I can fall.
“I said,” he repeats, his voice softer now, but no less insistent, “you should rest. And I mean it.”
I’m caught. Stuck between my pride and the undeniable truth of how much I need him right now. His hand, warm and steady, never falters. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the sterile air of the room.
His proximity is suffocating, but I don’t want it to end.
And he notices. I see it in the way his gaze flickers over me. An unreadable expression crosses his face, something that might be guilt, or perhaps... understanding?
But he steps back, too quickly. “You need to sleep,” he says again, his tone professional now, like the distance between us needs to be reestablished. “I’ll arrange the car now. You’re not leaving here until you’re more stable.”
It stings, his crisp words, but I can’t fight them. I can’t fight him. He’s right, in the worst possible way. I nod, stepping back, trying to regain some semblance of normal. My body feels heavy, uncooperative, and it’s too much to try to pretend I’m fine.
I leave the room, trying to focus on my shoes clicking against the floor, anything to distract me from the thundering beat of my heart.
When the car arrives, I slip into the back seat, the cool leather pressing against my skin. My hands tremble as I grip my bag in my lap. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the memory of his touch. Trying to forget the way he steadied me.
I cannot want him.
The thought crashes through me like a wave, but it doesn’t stick. I can’t stop feeling it. His touch. His proximity. The way he moves. He’s always so careful, but I don’t want care. I want something else. Something I shouldn’t want.
I close my eyes tighter, trying to shut out the flutter of desire that has no business being there. I’ve already signed up for this. This life, this pregnancy, the conditions. This isn’t about want. This isn’t about me.
But I can’t stop myself from wondering... What if it could be?
The thought makes my stomach tighten again, and I lean my head against the window, staring out at the blur of the city passing by, trying to convince myself this thought will pass. That I won’t feel this again.
But it’s there, gnawing at me.
I want him.
And that changes everything.