Chapter 4

　　I shouldn't have gone to Noah's house but that afternoon, after my checkup at the private clinic after the quiet hum of machines and the gentle smile of the nurse telling me that everything looked perfect, I got into Noah's car without thinking.

　　And when he asked, "Want to rest at my place before I drop you off?" I nodded.

　　I was too tired to lie, too sick of pretending I was okay.

　　His house wasn't what I expected. It was too warm, too quiet, bookshelves lined one wall like he actually read them. A piano sat untouched in the corner. The kitchen smelled faintly of ginger tea and cinnamon.

　　"Have a seat," he said, tossing his keys onto the counter.

　　I sank into the velvet couch, resting my hand on my stomach.

　　"How are you feeling?" he asked, returning with a cup. "Ginger and honey, helps with nausea."

　　"Thanks," I murmured. I took a sip. "You didn't have to do this."

　　"I know."

　　But he did it anyway.

　　He sat beside me, just close enough that I could feel his heat, but not touching. The silence stretched between us, comfortable then heavy.

　　I glanced at him. He looked tired like he hadn't slept much either. His tie was loosened again, top button undone.

　　"Why did you do it?" I asked suddenly.

　　His eyes met mine. "Do what?"

　　"Surrogacy. Why not… adoption? Or wait for marriage?"

　　He looked away.

　　"My grandfather wants an heir," he said quietly. "A Bennett legacy. A child born into the bloodline.

　　My throat tightened at the bitterness in his voice.

　　"And you?" I asked.

　　He looked at me again. "I wanted a child."

　　There was something in the way he said it that made me ache.

　　I set the cup down and leaned back into the couch, feeling the fabric under my bare arms. "I think about her sometimes," I said. "The baby. What does she like? If she'll have your eyes or my mouth. If she'll hate carrots like I did."

　　He stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

　　"You're not just a vessel, Grace."

　　I blinked. "What?"

　　"You're more than what I asked for," he said. "More than what I expected."

　　The room felt smaller and tighter.

　　He reached out slowly, brushing a lock of hair from my face. I should've pulled away but I didn't.

　　His fingers lingered against my cheek, warm and unsure. His breath was closer now.

　　I whispered, "We shouldn't."

　　"I know."

　　But he didn't stop nor did I.

　　He leaned in, and I met him halfway. The kiss was soft at first like a question then it deepened. His hand cradled the back of my neck, and I let out a shaky breath against his mouth.

　　He tasted like ginger and regret. He pulled back first, eyes searching mine.

　　"This is a mistake," he said, his voice hoarse.

　　I nodded, breathless. "Yeah."

　　But neither of us moved.

　　I kissed him again.

　　This time it wasn't gentle. It was hungry, like something that had been locked away too long. My hands found his chest, fingers curling around his shirt. He groaned against my mouth, pulling me closer, pressing me into the couch cushion like he couldn't help himself.

　　His hand brushed the curve of my stomach, then paused.

　　"You sure?" he whispered.

　　I looked up at him, breathless. "I'm not afraid of you."

　　His expression cracked. "You should be."

　　And then his lips were back on mine.

　　We didn't go all the way, not yet but when he carried me upstairs, when he laid me gently on his bed like I might break his fingers slid under the hem of my top, and his mouth followed the trail. The heat between us pulsed like something alive.

　　He kissed my skin like it was the first time he'd touched someone in years.

　　When his hand slipped lower, I gasped, and he paused again.

　　"I can stop," he murmured. "You just say the word."

　　I didn't because I didn't want him to stop, I wanted more.

　　I wanted him to touch me, to want me. To make me feel like I wasn't just a contract but like I was a woman and he did.

　　He touched me slowly, carefully. He kissed me like he was learning a language he didn't speak. He whispered my name so softly it felt like a prayer.

　　I came apart under his hands, trembling, breath caught in my throat.

　　After, he held me, No words, No apology.

　　Just warmth and silence.

　　Until he whispered, "This can't happen again."

　　And I whispered back, "Okay."

　　Even though we both knew we were lying.