Chapter 4: Hands That Won't Forget

The storm hadn't let up since Marcus left. Rain still hammered the roof like it wanted in. My body had decided morning sickness wasn't just for mornings anymore. It came in waves that left me sweating and hollow, clutching the trash can like it was my only friend.

Vivian knocked once on the bedroom door. Three precise raps that somehow managed to sound impatient and worried at the same time.

"I'm fine," I lied through the wood. My voice cracked like cheap pottery.

She came in anyway. Of course she did. Carrying a tray with ginger tea and those plain crackers that taste like regret. Her auburn hair was pulled back today, severe, the way she wore it when she wanted distance. But her eyes gave her away. They kept flicking to my belly like it might vanish if she looked away too long.

"You look like hell," she said. Not mean. Just factual.

"Thanks. Pregnancy's a real glow-up." I tried for sarcasm but it landed flat. My stomach rolled again. I pressed the heel of my hand against my mouth and breathed through my nose.

She set the tray on the nightstand and perched on the very edge of the bed. Not touching me. Her long fingers drummed once against her knee then stilled. That tell again. She was fighting the urge to fix something. Me, probably.

The silence stretched between us, thick as the rain outside. My skin felt too hot, too tight. The baby did a little flutter that might have been gas or might have been judgment. I wrapped both arms around my middle like that could keep everything from spilling out.

Another wave hit without warning. Sour and violent. I lunged for the trash can but my bad leg tangled in the sheets. Vivian moved faster than I thought possible. One second she was sitting primly, the next her hands were in my hair, gathering the long dark strands away from my face with surprising gentleness.

I retched into the plastic bin, ugly sounds that echoed in the quiet room. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Humiliating. My body was a traitor in every possible way—forgetting her, remembering her, growing this baby I couldn't account for.

She didn't flinch. Just kept my hair back with one hand while the other rubbed slow circles between my shoulder blades. The heat of her palm burned through my thin t-shirt. I hated how good it felt. How some stupid animal part of me wanted to lean into it.

"Breathe," she murmured. Not a command. Closer to a plea.

I spat once, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. She produced a cool washcloth and pressed it to my forehead. Her fingers lingered at my temple, tracing the edge of my hairline. My pulse jumped under her touch.

I turned my head just enough to see her face. Those sharp cheekbones caught the gray light from the window, making her look carved from something harder than bone. Her eyes were fixed on the washcloth like it was the most important thing in the world.

"Why do you keep the house like this?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it. "My sketches in the drawer. The mugs in the exact spot my hands reach for. It's like you're waiting for a ghost."

Her hand stilled. For a moment I thought she'd pull away, retreat behind that wall of clipped sentences. Instead she let out this small, broken sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't hurt so much.

"Because if I change anything, it means you really aren't coming back. And I couldn't live with that. Not after what I did."

There it was again. What I did. The fight I could only remember in fragments. Her voice raised, mine sharper, keys in my hand. The door slamming like a gunshot.

I sat back against the pillows, legs shaky. She didn't move away. Our thighs pressed together now, heat bleeding through fabric. My body remembered this proximity even if my brain didn't. A low thrum started under my skin, unwelcome and insistent.

"Play it for me," I said suddenly. The words surprised us both. I didn't remember finding any playlist last night. But the urge was real, clawing up from somewhere my head hadn't caught up to yet.

She blinked. "What?"

"The playlist. The one with that terrible indie song about drowning in someone. I... I think I heard it. Before."

Color touched her cheeks. Actually touched them. Vivian Bellingham blushing. I would've enjoyed it more if my stomach wasn't still threatening mutiny.

"You weren't supposed to know that," she said. Her voice had gone rough.

"Why? Because it's pathetic? Or because it hurts too much?"

She stood abruptly, tray forgotten. But she didn't leave. Just crossed to the window and stared out at the rain like it might give her answers. Her fingers drummed against the sill—restless, agitated. Those elegant hands that apparently used to map every inch of me.

"Both," she admitted. "I play it when I can't stand the quiet. To remind myself what I ruined. What I pushed you into."

I watched her back, the perfect line of her spine. The way her bob swung when she turned her head slightly. Something in my chest twisted, painful and sweet at the same time. I wanted to hate her for keeping all these pieces of me. For not letting any of it die cleanly. Instead I felt this terrifying pull, like my stupid body had picked a side and forgotten to tell my brain.

"Come here," I said before I could think better of it.

She turned. Slow. Like she was afraid of what she'd find. Those dark eyes searched my face, looking for the trap.

I patted the bed beside me. Not seductive. Just tired. Needing something solid that wasn't my own treacherous body.

She sat. Closer this time. Our shoulders brushed and that low thrum under my skin kicked up a notch. I could smell her—shampoo and rain and that indefinable Vivian scent that made my mouth water for reasons I couldn't name.

"Tell me what you did," I whispered. "The thing that made me leave."

Her throat worked. I watched the movement, fascinated despite myself. Her hand came up like she might touch my face but stopped halfway. Fingers curling into a fist before dropping back to her lap.

"I tried to own you," she said finally. The words fell heavy between us. "The gallery. The apartment. I thought if I gave you enough security you'd stop looking for exits. Instead I built a cage and called it love."

The memory flickered again. Not full color, just edges. Her handing me keys. My own voice, brittle: I don't need you to fix my life, Vivian. I need you to see me.

My hand found hers without permission. Our fingers laced together automatically. Like they'd done it a thousand times. Her palm was warm, slightly callused in places that felt familiar against mine.

"I remember the fight better now," I said. My voice came out small. "Not all of it. Just enough to know I was scared. Of how much I needed you."

She squeezed my hand once, hard. Then gentler. Her thumb traced the inside of my wrist where my pulse was racing like it had somewhere better to be.

The touch shouldn't have done anything. We were just two women sitting on a bed while the world drowned outside. One of us pregnant with a baby that might belong to the other. But my skin lit up anyway. Heat pooled low in my belly, mixing with the lingering nausea in a way that felt dangerous.

I shifted closer. Not quite leaning into her but close enough that our arms pressed together from shoulder to elbow. Her breath hitched. I felt it more than heard it.

"Ingrid." My name in her mouth sounded like a warning and a prayer at the same time.

"I know," I said. Even though I didn't. Not really. I just knew that if I didn't break this moment I'd do something stupid like kiss her.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours. Hands linked. Shoulders touching. The rain a constant roar that somehow made the silence between us louder. My eyelids grew heavy despite everything. The exhaustion of constant nausea, of fighting my own mind, of wanting someone I couldn't quite trust pulled me under.

---

I woke in the greenhouse. Must have wandered there after the nausea hit again, needing air that didn't smell like both of us. The glass walls streamed with condensation, making the world outside blurry and distant. Perfect.

I was pretending to tend the herbs when Vivian found me. Of course she found me. The woman had a sixth sense for when I was trying to create distance.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," she said. Not quite scolding. More like stating a fact that pained her.

"I'm not alone. I'm with basil and regret." I didn't look up. My hands were covered in dirt from repotting something that probably didn't need it. The repetitive motion helped. Gave my racing thoughts somewhere to land.

She stepped closer. I could feel her behind me, that precise predatory grace that made the air feel thinner. Her shadow fell over the workbench, long and elegant like the rest of her.

"Let me help." Before I could protest her hands were there, reaching past me for the small trowel. Our fingers brushed. Just knuckles at first, then the full press of her palm against the back of my hand as she took the tool.

My skin remembered exactly how those long fingers felt elsewhere. On my hip. Tracing my spine. I pulled back too fast. Nearly knocked over a pot of mint. The sharp scent burst into the air between us, fresh and biting.

"Careful," she murmured. Not moving away. If anything she leaned in to steady the pot, her front brushing my back for one heart-stopping second. I felt the heat of her through both our clothes. The steady thump of her heart against my shoulder blade.

My breath caught. Loud in the humid quiet. The baby did another flip, like it was trying to get in on the action. Or maybe protesting the tension thick enough to choke on.

"This is ridiculous," I said. My voice came out rougher than I wanted. "We're not... I can't just fall back into whatever this was. Not when I don't remember why it ended. Not when Marcus is out there with his fucking folder of maybe-truths."

Her hands stilled on the soil. Those elegant fingers, now dirty, flexed once. I watched a small clump of earth fall from her thumb and tried not to think about how they'd feel against my bare skin. How they probably had, many times.

"Marcus doesn't know you," she said. Clipped. Precise. But underneath it I heard the possessive edge that should have repelled me. Instead it made heat lick up my spine. "He never did."

I turned then. We were too close. Her sharp cheekbones, the severe line of her bob, those eyes that saw way too much. My back pressed against the workbench and she didn't step back. Our bodies aligned like they knew the choreography even if I didn't.

"Is that what I was to you?" I asked. "Something to control?"

Pain flashed across her face, raw and quick. She reached up like she might cup my cheek but stopped herself. Her hand hovered there, trembling slightly. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her palm.

"You were everything," she whispered. "That's what made it so ugly when I ruined it."

The confession hung between us. I could see the guilt eating at her, the way it made her shoulders curve inward just slightly. The great Vivian Bellingham, undone by her own need. Part of me wanted to comfort her. The rest wanted to run before I did something worse than comfort.

Instead I did neither. I just stood there while the greenhouse dripped around us and let her almost-touch burn against my skin. My heart hammered so hard I was sure she could hear it. The baby kicked again, right under where her hand would land if she lowered it another inch.

She didn't.

But she didn't pull away either.

The moment stretched until it felt like it might snap. My mouth went dry. I kept thinking about how my hands still reached for her in my sleep, judging by the sketches I'd found.

A loud knock echoed from the front of the house. Three times. Sharp and demanding.

We both startled. Her hand finally dropped, brushing my arm on the way down. Goosebumps followed in its wake.

"Stay here," she said. Back to the clipped commander voice. But her eyes lingered on my mouth for half a second too long.

I followed her anyway. Because apparently I had zero self-preservation when it came to this woman. My leg ached with every step but I pushed through, one hand on the wall for balance.

Marcus stood on the porch looking like a drowned rat in an expensive coat. Water streamed off him, pooling on the stone. In his hand was another folder, thicker this time. His boyish smile had sharp edges today.

"Couldn't stay away," he said when Vivian opened the door just wide enough to block him. "Brought the proof this time. Figured you'd want to see it before you get too attached to that baby, Viv."

My stomach dropped. Not from nausea this time. Something colder. I stepped up beside Vivian before she could slam the door in his face. Our shoulders brushed again—accidental, electric.

"Let him in," I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I want to see it. All of it."

Vivian tensed beside me. Her hand found the small of my back, possessive and protective at once. The touch sent heat spiraling through me despite everything. Despite Marcus's smirk. Despite the folder that might blow up whatever fragile thing we were building.

"Come on then," she said to him. Voice like winter. But her fingers pressed harder against my spine, right above where my shirt had ridden up. Skin on skin for just a moment. Warm. Claiming.

We moved into the living room like some fucked up parade. Marcus dripping everywhere. Me trying not to puke from nerves. Vivian radiating enough tension to power the whole coast if the generator failed again.

He spread the papers on the coffee table with a flourish. I didn't look at them. Not yet. My eyes kept drifting to Vivian's profile, to the way her jaw clenched so tight I worried for her teeth. To her hand, resting now on the back of the couch near my shoulder. Close enough that if I leaned back even slightly...

A sharp pain lanced through my abdomen. Not the usual twinge. Something vicious that doubled me over with a gasp. My hands flew to my belly as if I could hold the baby in by sheer force of will.

"Ingrid?" Vivian's voice cut through the sudden roaring in my ears. Her arms were around me instantly, pulling me against her chest. One hand splayed protectively over my belly, the other stroking my hair back from my face.

The pain crested again. With it came a flash—vivid, merciless. Tires screeching. The cliff edge rushing up. My hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

I knew. When I drove off that road, I knew I was pregnant. With her baby. Our baby.

The memory hit like another contraction. I clutched at Vivian's sweater, burying my face in her neck as the pain ebbed slightly. She held me tighter, murmuring something I couldn't quite hear over the thunder of my own heart.

Marcus was saying something. Demanding. But all I could focus on was the woman holding me. The one I'd apparently been willing to die to escape. The one whose hands still knew exactly how to hold what was left of me together.

I didn't know if I wanted to kiss her or kill us both for what we'd done to each other. Maybe both.