Never Need Me to Give Him a Child

The examination room was too bright, too sterile. I squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, my head still spinning from last night's drinks. Dr. Bergman—Jude—stood before me, his white coat crisp against his shoulders, his eyes filled with concern that seemed to cut through my alcohol-induced haze.

"Katty," he said softly, setting down his clipboard. "Let's get you comfortable for the blood test."

I nodded, my throat dry. As he reached for my arm to check my vitals, his fingers brushed against my skin, sending an unexpected jolt through me. I looked up sharply, catching something in his eyes—something that made my breath catch.

He cleared his throat and stepped back slightly. "The alcohol in your system might affect some of the test results."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for—the drinking or the effect it might have on his professional duties.

"Don't be." His voice was gentle. "But I am worried about you."

I looked down at my hands, twisted together in my lap. "No one's worried about me, Jude. Not really."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words. When I finally looked up, he was watching me with an intensity that made my heart skip.

"I'm here," he said simply.

Something broke inside me then—a dam holding back months, maybe years of loneliness and pain. I stood up suddenly, swaying slightly.

"Katty—"

"I need to feel something," I said, my voice barely audible. "Something real."

Before he could respond, I closed the distance between us. My hands found his face, drawing him down toward me. For a moment, he resisted—his body tense, his hands gripping my wrists.

"This is crossing a line," he murmured against my lips.

"We've already crossed it," I whispered back.

His restraint crumbled. One hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me against him as his mouth claimed mine. The kiss was nothing like I'd expected—hungry, almost desperate, as if he'd been holding back for far too long.

"The couch," I gasped between kisses, gesturing toward the small leather sofa in the corner of the examination room.

Jude hesitated for only a second before leading me there, his arms never leaving me. We collapsed onto the leather surface, my body fitting against his as if we'd been made for each other.

"Katty," he breathed against my neck, his hands sliding under my blouse. "We should stop."

"We can't," I replied, arching into his touch. "Not now."

The clinical setting only heightened the illicit thrill of what we were doing. The examination room—a place of sterility and professional distance—transformed into something intimate and forbidden.

His hands were everywhere, reverent and urgent at once. Each touch erased a little more of Orion's betrayal, replacing it with something warm and real.

"Tell me what you need," Jude whispered, his eyes dark with desire.

"Just this," I answered, pulling him closer. "Just for a little while, make me forget."

Afterward, we lay tangled together on the narrow couch, both of us breathing hard. Reality crashed back like a wave—the sterile room, the discarded medical supplies, the professional boundary we'd just shattered.

Jude's arm tightened around me as if reading my thoughts. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize," I interrupted, turning to face him. The guilt in his eyes was palpable, but there was something else there too—a tenderness that made my chest ache.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. "This was wrong."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But it felt right."

Silence fell between us again, but this time it was different—charged with the aftermath of what we'd done and the confessions I suddenly needed to make.

"He's cheating on me," I said quietly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Orion."

Jude's body tensed beneath mine. "Your husband?"

I nodded, tears welling up unexpectedly. "I found out... I think I've known for a while. He has someone else. A child."

"Katty—" Jude's voice broke as he pulled me closer, one hand stroking my hair. "I'm so sorry."

The tears came then, hot and relentless. Years of trying to conceive, of needles and hormones and disappointment—all while Orion was building a family with someone else.

"He doesn't even try to hide it anymore," I sobbed against Jude's chest. "Not really."

Jude held me tightly, his chin resting on top of my head. "What are you going to do?"

I pulled back slightly, wiping at my tears with the back of my hand. "I don't know. I can't prove anything yet."

Something shifted in Jude's expression—a resolve forming behind the guilt. He sat up, pulling me with him, his hands steady on my shoulders.

"I can help you," he said firmly.

I stared at him, trying to process his words through my emotional fog. "What?"

"Collect evidence." His jaw tightened. "I have connections. People who can help."

"You don't have to do that," I whispered, though part of me desperately wanted him to.

"This isn't just about... what happened between us." His eyes met mine, sincere and determined. "This is about you deserving better."

The tenderness in his voice broke something inside me all over again. I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his. "Why would you do this for me?"

His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing away a tear. "Because you matter, Katty. And what he's doing is wrong."

I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in. For so long, I'd felt invisible—first to Orion, then to the world as my identity narrowed to "infertile wife." But here was Jude, seeing me, choosing me.

"I don't want to wait," I said suddenly, a new resolve hardening within me. "I want evidence now. I want to know everything."

Jude nodded slowly. "Then we'll get it."

He pulled me into his arms again, holding me as if I might break. And maybe I would—but for the first time in years, I felt something other than despair.

Hope.

Or perhaps something more dangerous.

As Jude's heartbeat steadied beneath my ear, I made a silent promise to myself. This time would be different. This time, I wouldn't be the one who died—metaphorically or otherwise.

This time, I would be the one who survived.