I didn’t mean to disappear from Nicholas. Not entirely. Not the way it happened.

But fear wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t something you talked yourself out of once it took root. It gripped me tighter each day — a cold, sharp thing that lived just beneath my skin. I couldn’t let him see the way my body had changed. The way my hands trembled when I thought no one was looking. The way I flinched when he stood too close, even though there was nowhere safer than the space between his arms.

I was terrified he would look at me the way Daniel once had…with disappointment first, then disgust. That he would see my growing body as a burden, not a miracle. That he would think I had tricked him, trapped him, the way women in ugly cautionary tales always seemed to do.

So I pulled back, little by little, hiding the truth inside sweaters and excuses.

I wore even looser blouses. I kept my jacket zipped during meetings, even when the office wasn’t cold. I replied to Nicholas’s questions by email instead of walking the ten feet to his door. I found reasons to leave early, reasons to avoid the tight, weighted glances he sent across the room whenever our schedules forced us together.

And he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He waited longer than I expected before saying anything, but when he did, it wasn’t a casual, passing comment. It was a full confrontation.

It happened near the staff kitchen, after a quarterly review ran late and most of the building had emptied out for lunch. I was pretending to drink coffee, clutching the paper cup with both hands to steady them, when I felt him approach.

Nicholas stepped in, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne, a clean, dark scent that wrapped around me before I even lifted my head.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice low and even.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t back away. I just tightened my grip on the coffee and said, “I’ve been busy.”

He leaned against the counter with a casualness that didn’t fool either of us. His body blocked the only easy exit without being obvious about it. He wasn’t trapping me. Not physically. Just… asking for something I couldn’t give.

“You used to be busy,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, “and still find time to look at me.”

I focused on the coffee, watching the ripples on the surface, pretending the floor beneath my feet wasn’t tilting.

“I’m not avoiding you,” I lied.

His gaze was steady, unflinching. “Did I do something?” he asked, the slightest roughness at the edges of his voice betraying more emotion than he probably wanted me to hear.

“No,” I said quickly, too quickly.

“Elena,” he said again, softer now, like he was saying my name might unravel whatever wall I was building.

I pressed the coffee cup harder against my palms, grounding myself in the minor sting. “It’s not you,” I said. “It’s me.”

He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath you take when you’re trying not to push too hard. “I’ve heard that line before.”

“Well, it’s true this time,” I muttered.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. He just looked at me, waiting, giving me the space to step forward if I wanted to.

“Then tell me what’s going on,” he said, steady and sure.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

“Why not?”

I shook my head, fighting the lump rising in my throat. “Because you won’t like the answer.”

His expression shifted. It was not anger nor hurt, but sadder. Like he had been waiting for this moment longer than even I realized.

He pushed off the counter and closed the last inch between us, enough that the heat of him brushed against my jacket. He didn’t reach for me. He didn’t demand.

He just stood there and said, voice rough and low, “Try me.”

The words hit me harder than any accusation could have. They made my throat ache with the pressure of everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. I looked up at him, and for a moment I thought about telling him everything. About the night that hadn’t been a mistake. About the twins growing inside me, steady and real.

But then I remembered what it meant to rely on someone. What it had cost me before.

I smiled and said, “I’ll get those reports to you by noon.”

I didn’t wait for a response.

I turned and walked away, feeling the weight of his stare on my back every step of the way. Feeling the ache bloom, slow and certain, deep inside my chest.

Because I knew that if I turned around, if I saw his face one more second, I wouldn’t have the strength to keep lying.

And God help me, I wasn’t ready to stop lying yet.