Page 89 of Sexting the Boss
Silence sits between us, and it’s heavy with everything I didn’t say for months.
My nurse knocks and enters with a small paper cup. “Potassium,” she says, then she glances at Ethan and back to me. “Visiting hours are flexible for emergency contacts, but he can’t sleep in the bed.”
“I don’t want him in the bed,” I say automatically, and it comes out sharper than intended.
Ethan’s mouth twitches once, almost a smile, then it disappears.
The nurse points at a chair closer to the wall. “He can stay in that chair,” she says, then she leaves.
I take the cup and swallow the pills, then I set it down and look at Ethan again.
“I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated,” I say.
“I’m staying because I want to,” he answers. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave.”
I hold his gaze, then I nod once. “Stay,” I say quietly. “But don’t talk over me. Not tonight.”
“I won’t,” he replies.
He sits in the chair, and he keeps his posture controlled, but his eyes don’t stop checking my face. I hate how much that steadies me.
Later, when the lights dim and the nurse says my labs are improving, I lie on my side and try to sleep, and I feel Ethan’s presence in the room like a guardrail.
At some point I wake up, and I find him watching the floor instead of me, hands clasped, jaw tight like he’s holding himself together on purpose.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He looks up. “No,” he admits. “But I’m here.”
That answer knocks something loose in my chest.
Morning comes with another blood draw and another doctor check. Dr. Patel tells me the numbers are better and my blood pressure is stable, and she signs me for discharge with strict instructions that I agree to out loud like I’m trying to get a stamp.
Malik texts me at nine.
Malik: You alive?
Me: Alive. Discharged. Don’t yell at me.
Malik: Drink water. Eat. Stop being stubborn.
I smile once, then I put the phone down.
Ethan drives me home in a rental, and the car is quiet, not awkward, just full of the new shape of us.
When we reach my building, he parks and gets out first, then he comes around to my side and waits while I move slowly, because my body has made it clear it wants gentleness.
At my door, I unlock it and step inside, then I turn back toward him. For a second the old panic rises because letting him in feels like undoing three months of distance.
He doesn’t step forward.
He waits.
“Say the thing you’re thinking,” I tell him, because I can read it on his face.
“I want to come in,” he says. “I also don’t want you to feel cornered.”
I swallow. “I’m the one who cornered myself,” I admit, and the honesty tastes raw. “I ran, and I lied, and I didn’t tell you about the baby, and I made you the enemy because it was easier than admitting I wanted you.”
