“You do not get to decide everything,” I replied, though I did not sound as certain as I wanted.
“No,” he agreed calmly, “but I do decide who is safe under my roof.”
Days turned into weeks, and what should have felt like captivity slowly turned into something else.
My sister, Rachel, visited and brought pieces of my old life into this strange new one, and Ethan never interfered with that.
“Do you trust him?” Rachel asked one afternoon.
“More than I trusted Julian,” I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.
That answer changed something inside me.
Ethan was not gentle in the traditional sense, but he was careful in ways that mattered, and he treated my pregnancy as something worth protecting without trying to control me.
One night, when nausea and fear woke me, I accidentally called his number instead of the kitchen.
“What happened?” he asked immediately.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, embarrassed, “I just dialed wrong.”
“Stay there,” he replied.
He was at my door within minutes, bringing tea and quiet reassurance that made the panic fade.
We talked until morning, and somewhere in those hours, trust slipped into place without permission.