The first trimester was silent torture. I never imagined creating life could so thoroughly devastate the creator. This wasn't the poetic journey described in books but a brutal physiological war. "Morning sickness"—that innocuous term—became my personal hell. It didn't confine itself to mornings but lurked like a specter, ambushing me without warning, wreaking havoc in my gut.

One busy Saturday at the Seagull, weekend tourists packed every table. I balanced a heavy tray of three sizzling steaks and a lemonade, navigating the narrow aisle. Suddenly, the rich aroma of meat, mixed perfumes from guests, and the sweet-sour tang of ketchup from a child's spill gripped my stomach like a vise.


Nausea surged through me. My vision blackened as the world spun violently. The tray trembled in my hands, silverware clattering. I clenched my teeth desperately, fighting the urge to vomit. Cold sweat broke out instantly, streaming down my temples. My knees buckled, my body tilting sideways. Just as I was about to crash down with the tray, a strong arm caught me.

"Good Lord, child, you're white as a ghost!" Martha's voice boomed in my ears. She grabbed the tray, set it on a nearby table, then half-carried me to the kitchen.

"Sit down, quick." She pushed me onto a chair, poured warm water, and pressed the cup into my hands. "What's wrong? Heatstroke? Or did you skip breakfast?"


The cup's warmth slowly thawed my frozen fingers, but nausea still churned in my throat. I couldn't speak, just shook my head weakly, gulping air that smelled of detergent and food scraps. Strangely, this kitchen smell now seemed medicinal.

Martha didn't press. Her sharp eyes—which had seen everything—studied me briefly. When her gaze fell on my carefully concealed belly, understanding flashed across her face. She didn't call me out, just sighed, her tone softening with motherly concern.


"You silly child, what can't you tell me? From now on, no heavy lifting. Just work the register and wipe glasses." Without waiting for a response, she pulled a thermos from her locker. "Ginger tea. Brewed it this morning. Settles the stomach. Come get a cup every day before your shift."

I watched numbly as her work-roughened fingers unscrewed the lid and pushed the steaming liquid toward me. The spicy ginger scent mixed with brown sugar's sweetness wafted up, somehow penetrating my frozen heart. Since my mother died, no one had cared for me so simply, so unconditionally. Tears sprang to my eyes—an emotion beyond sorrow, mixing grief and gratitude like rain on parched earth.

"Thank you, Martha..." My voice broke with barely contained sobs.

"What for? Drink up." She patted my back firmly. "Remember, if you're ever in trouble, tell me. It's hard for a woman alone. Don't carry everything by yourself."

After that, work became easier. Martha treated me like family needing special care. She prepared various foods daily—sour plums, toast, anything to ease morning sickness. She quietly adjusted my schedule to avoid the busiest hours. For the first time since New York, I felt pure, almost maternal warmth. Yet this kindness stung like a needle, reminding me what a despicable liar I was—trading fabrications for genuine care.

My inner torment peaked days later when Sally arrived.

That afternoon, I dragged my tired body home from work. As I pushed open the gate, I froze. A tall, familiar figure crouched in my yard, wearing a faded flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, exposing strong, muscled arms. He was hammering away at my rotted fence, replacing planks one by one.

"Sally?" I called tentatively, voice uncertain.

He turned at my voice, his honest face lighting up with a bright smile. Sun-bleached curls, boyish freckles, and those blue eyes—clear as the Pennsylvania sky of my childhood.

"Bella!" He dropped the hammer and crossed to me in a few long strides, his face a mix of joy and concern. "I kept calling but couldn't reach you. You barely answered my emails. I got worried and had to check on you."

Liam "Sally" Sullivan—my only friend from home. We'd grown up together, and he'd been one of Dad's best students, though in woodworking rather than painting. Always quiet, he'd used his skilled hands to craft little gifts for me—wooden birds, a tiny easel. Besides my father, he was the kindest soul I'd ever known.

My heart plummeted as panic seized me. Instinctively, I held my canvas bag against my stomach, forcing a smile. "How did you find me?"

"Asked your old landlady. Said you left in a hurry, just mentioned heading west." He scratched his head sheepishly. "Figured you'd pick somewhere with ocean. You always talked about seeing the real thing."

His gaze traveled over my pale face, then down to my slightly protruding belly that I couldn't fully hide. The bright blue of his eyes dimmed with sadness and understanding.

He misunderstood. He thought I was like some TV drama heroine, hiding away to heal after being wronged by a man.

"I'm sorry, I..." I started, but words failed me.

"It's okay." He shook his head, cutting me off. "If you don't want to talk about it, don't. I saw your fence was falling apart, so I started fixing it. You should rest; you don't look well."

He didn't push or pry—just showed his care in the most straightforward way possible. He crouched down again, picked up his hammer, and resumed working. Each steady "thud" echoed in my chest, stripping away the hiding places for my guilt and vulnerability.

That night, Sally insisted on staying to cook dinner with the meager contents of my fridge. He made thick mashed potatoes and vegetable soup—comfort foods from our childhood. At my tiny table, he awkwardly shared funny stories from home, trying to cheer me up while I stared down, mechanically eating.

The warm, homey food didn't comfort me—instead, it catalyzed all my bottled emotions. When he finished washing dishes and found me silently crying on the sofa, he panicked.

"Bella, what's wrong? Is it... is it me? Am I making you uncomfortable? I'll go right now." He stood there fidgeting like a guilty child.

His words ignited everything—my grief, fear, self-loathing. I lost control and threw myself into his arms like a drowning person grabbing driftwood, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Sally... what do I do... I don't know what to do..." I sobbed into his shirt, breathing in sunlight and wood shavings. All my carefully constructed strength crumbled in an instant.

Sally froze momentarily, then his strong arms carefully wrapped around me, patting my back gently. He said nothing, just let me cry. His chest was broad and warm—a mountain sheltering me from the storm. His silence comforted me more than any words could have.

My sobs eventually quieted, though my body still trembled. His embrace felt so safe, so warm—I craved more. I lifted my tear-stained face to meet his blue eyes, full of heartache and helplessness. His face was so close I could see his trembling eyelashes and feel his warm breath on my skin.

Maybe it was grief intoxicating me, or maybe a primal need for warmth overcame my shame. Whatever the reason, I found myself tilting my head and pressing my cold, tear-wet lips against his.

Sally stiffened, his eyes widening in shock. He could have pushed me away—should have rejected this tainted, broken woman. But he didn't.

After what felt like forever, his hands moved from my back to gently cup my face, treating me like precious glass. Then he lowered his head and, with almost reverent care, deepened our kiss.

His kiss matched him—awkward and inexperienced, yet sincere and gentle. Nothing like Damian's predatory possession—just pure, heartbreaking tenderness. His lips were dry and warm, carrying a faint woody scent. His tongue explored cautiously, gently tasting my tears as if trying to absorb my pain.

In that moment, my broken heart felt cradled in gentle hands. An overwhelming warmth flooded through me. I stopped thinking, stopped fighting, and wrapped my arms around his neck, responding hungrily. I needed this kiss, this acceptance, this warmth—like a desert wanderer needs water.

He lifted me effortlessly from the sofa and carried me to the bedroom. I clung to him, face buried against his neck, feeling his strong pulse. He laid me gently on the bed, the simple frame creaking softly beneath our weight.

He leaned over me, his blue eyes like deep lakes in the dim light, reflecting my disheveled vulnerability. "Bella..." he whispered, voice hoarse with uncertainty, "Are you... sure about this?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I reached up, my trembling fingers brushing his cheek, tracing his nose, the slight roughness of his skin, finally resting on his lips. Then I pulled him down to me, answering with a deeper, more desperate kiss.

All defenses crumbled with that kiss. His heavy breathing filled my ears as his usually skilled hands fumbled with my buttons. When his cool fingers touched my skin, I shivered—not from fear but from a strange mix of shame and anticipation.

His kisses traveled methodically—from my lips to jaw to the sensitive curve of my neck. Each touch lit a small flame, warming my cold body. When he exposed my breasts—fuller now from pregnancy—he paused. Complex emotions flickered in his eyes before desire and tenderness took over.

He lowered his head to my chest like a child finding home. His warm breath and slight stubble against my skin sent unfamiliar pleasure coursing through me. I arched involuntarily, a moan escaping my lips.

"Sally..." I whispered, my voice broken and dazed.

He looked up, blue eyes burning yet still clear. He undressed, revealing a young, sturdy body—healthy tan skin and natural, working-man's muscles, not Damian's sculpted perfection but honest strength.

When he entered me, I gasped in pain. It had been so long... My body remembered, both resisting and craving. Sally noticed immediately and stopped, sweat beading on his forehead. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, voice strained with restraint.

I shook my head, wrapped my arms around his back, and locked my legs around his waist, urging him on. I needed this pain—this real, honest sensation to drive away those other memories.

He moved slowly, gently, each thrust filled with care as if I might shatter. His lovemaking was awkward but tender—no technique or conquest, just two lonely souls finding comfort in each other. I clung to him, each movement seeming to purge some of the filth from my soul. Tears flowed again, not from sadness but from something complex—part liberation, part surrender.

At climax, my mind emptied completely. All thoughts vanished, leaving only primal sensation and my body's instinctive response. Sally released a low, satisfied growl in my ear as he spilled his warmth inside me.

Afterward, he didn't withdraw but stayed atop me, his weight offering final comfort. I listened to his strong heartbeat—steady, reassuring, constant.

But as my body cooled and reason returned, guilt crashed over me like never before.

What had I done?

I'd used him. Exploited his pure kindness to fill my emptiness. Let him touch my defiled body, enter the space now nurturing another man's child. I'd dragged him into my filth.

My body went cold. I gently pushed him away. Sally immediately raised himself, concern filling his face. "What's wrong, Bella?"

I couldn't meet those honest eyes. I turned away, my voice barely audible with shame. "...I'm sorry, Sally. I... shouldn't have done this."

Sally was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out, tucking my hair behind my ear and wiping tears from my cheek. "I should be apologizing," he said softly. "I took advantage when you were vulnerable."

He moved away, pulled the blanket over me, and tucked it around my cold body. Then he sat beside the bed, watching me quietly. Only our breathing broke the silence.

I don't know how long we stayed that way, but eventually dawn broke. After our sleepless night, heavy silence hung between us. Sally didn't leave—he quietly made breakfast, then returned to fixing the fence, as if last night had been just a strange dream.

Just then, my phone notification light blinked. An email from Professor Finch. My heart jumped as I opened it with a strange mix of panic and anticipation.

"My dear Bella," his familiar, elegant prose began, "I hope this doesn't disturb your peace. I have news: next week I'll attend a conference on Renaissance light and shadow techniques in a coastal city near you. Three days of lectures, then two days free time."

My breath caught.

"I've been missing both the sea you've described and you, with your gift for seeing beauty. Might I have the honor of visiting my most talented student, to witness firsthand the scenery you've portrayed so vividly?"

"Looking forward to your reply."

"Yours, Alistair."

My phone slipped from my fingers onto the bed, the words "Yours, Alistair" burning into my vision like a brand. Outside, Sally's hammer struck the fence—steady, persistent, loyal.

In an instant, my world spiraled into deeper chaos. On one side stood my innocent past and Sally's awkward protection; on the other, the artistic sanctuary and spiritual connection I craved with Finch. And here I stood at the crossroads, carrying a secret that belonged in neither world, with nowhere left to run.