{POV Lila}
My first full day in the Hale residence felt surreal, like I'd stepped into someone else's life and couldn't find my way back to my own.
I woke up in a guest bedroom three times the size of my old apartment, surrounded by furniture that probably cost more than my entire student debt.
The sheets were Egyptian cotton—I'd looked it up after feeling how impossibly soft they were, unable to believe fabric could feel like sleeping on clouds.
The morning light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the room in a warm golden glow that made everything look like a photograph from an interior design magazine.
Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect. Everything felt like a lie.
I spent the morning unpacking my meager belongings, trying to make the space feel like mine.
My worn quilt looked almost comical draped over the pristine bedding. My stack of medical textbooks cluttered the antique desk that probably belonged in a museum.
By afternoon, I was curled up on the bed, phone in hand, navigating the minefield of texting Harper. Every message felt like walking on broken glass.
How's the new place? I asked. Derek driving you crazy yet?
From Harper: It's amazing. We're still figuring out whose turn it is to do dishes, but the makeup sex after arguments is worth it. TMI? Definitely TMI. Anyway, what about you?
I stared at the screen, guilt coiling in my stomach like a snake preparing to strike. I'd told Harper I was going to visit my mother for an indefinite period—a family situation that needed attention.
The lie had come out so smoothly, rolling off my tongue like I'd practiced it for years. And Harper had believed me without question, because why wouldn't she? Best friends didn't lie to each other about things like this.
Except I was lying. Drastically, horribly lying.
I wasn't at my mother's house three states away. I was in Harper's childhood home, sleeping down the hall from Harper's stepfather, preparing to carry his baby.
Everything's fine, I typed back, the words bitter on my tongue even as I wrote them. Just dealing with some family stuff. Mom needs help around the house. You know how she is.
From Harper: Ugh, I'm sorry babe. Let me know if you need anything. We should video chat soon—I miss your face!
Miss you too, I responded.
A knock at the door made me bolt upright, spine rigid, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
"Lila?" Stefan's voice, muffled through the wood. "Can I come in?"
I smoothed down my hair, checked my reflection in the mirror across the room, hated myself for caring what I looked like. "Yes, come in."
The door opened, and Stefan stepped inside.
He'd changed out of the clothes he wore during the move—no more pressed slacks and button-down shirt.
Instead, he was wearing gray sweatpants and a soft navy henley that clung to his shoulders in ways I desperately tried not to notice.
His hair was slightly mussed, probably from running his hands through it the way he did when he was tired. His feet were bare against the hardwood floor.
He looked domestic. Relaxed. Human in a way I rarely got to see.
Something fluttered dangerously in my chest.
"Just wanted to check on you," he said, leaning against the doorframe with easy grace. "Make sure you're settling in okay. Do you need anything? Extra blankets, towels, anything at all?"
"I'm fine. The room is beautiful. Thank you again for... for all of this."
Stefan nodded, then hesitated, as if debating whether to say more.
"I was thinking of watching a movie tonight. I already ordered Thai food—including that green curry you like. The one you always order when you and Harper get takeout."
He paused, a hint of uncertainty crossing his features—vulnerability that looked strange on someone so composed.
"Would you like to join me? Unless you'd rather have some time alone. I understand if you need space to adjust."
I knew I should say no. Should maintain distance, preserve boundaries, protect whatever remained of my sanity.
The smart choice was obvious—stay in this room, keep the door between us, remember that he was married and I was the surrogate and this arrangement was supposed to be purely professional.
But the thought of sitting alone in this beautiful, empty room, drowning in guilt and longing while he was just downstairs, sounded unbearable.
"I'd like that," I said softly. "Company sounds nice."
Downstairs, the living room was warm and inviting. Stefan had set up the coffee table with containers of Thai food—spring rolls, pad thai, my green curry, his massaman.
The TV displayed a streaming menu, some action movie already queued up. Candles flickered on the mantle, and the whole scene felt dangerously intimate.
I settled onto the leather sofa, hyper-aware of where Stefan sat—close enough that I could reach out and touch him, far enough to maintain propriety.
The cushion dipped slightly under his weight, and I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and warm that made me want to lean closer.
The movie started, explosions and car chases filling the room with noise, but I couldn't focus on the screen.
My attention kept drifting sideways, stealing glances at Stefan's profile in the flickering light. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his eyes crinkled slightly when he was amused. The relaxed set of his shoulders.
There was something unexpectedly sexy about seeing him like this—casual clothes, bare feet propped on the ottoman, completely relaxed in his own home.
When he laughed at something on screen, the sound rumbled through me in ways I shouldn't acknowledge, settling low in my stomach like warmth from the food.
I forced my eyes back to the movie, having no idea what was happening in the plot.
Halfway through, we both reached for the spring rolls at the same moment. Our hands collided over the container—his fingers warm against mine, the contact electric and unexpected. We both froze.
The moment stretched, neither of us moving, neither of us breathing. His hand was larger than mine, his skin slightly rough, and every nerve ending in my body seemed to be concentrated in the places where we touched.
"Sorry," Stefan murmured, pulling back.
"No, I—sorry, go ahead." My voice sounded strange to my own ears, breathless and wrong.
He gestured for me to take one first. I did, my hand trembling slightly, praying he didn't notice. The spring roll tasted like nothing.
My entire body was focused on the phantom sensation of his skin against mine, the way my pulse was racing, the way he was very carefully not looking at me.
We finished the movie in loaded silence, neither of us acknowledging the tension that had settled between us like a third presence on the couch.
When the credits rolled, Stefan cleared his throat and gathered the empty containers, and I escaped upstairs with a mumbled goodnight.
In the safety of my borrowed room, I pressed my back against the closed door and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
This was going to be so much harder than I'd imagined.