Big Pedro Fan

"Time to move," he said. His voice was quiet but firm. "We can’t afford to be out in the open too long. We keep moving."

There were nods of agreement all around.

Without a backward glance, they started moving, becoming a silent line of determined faces as they quietly untied their horses and to mount them before moving off into the mountainous country.

Libby, unsure of her place in all of this, waited and watched as Catfish easily mounted his horse. 

Was she going to have to ride with him again? Was he going to leave her behind to die out here?

As though answering her unspoken questions, he looked down at her from the saddle. “Up here,” he said. “Behind me.” 

He held out his hand to assist.

She blinked at him. Once. Twice. Unsure of how to proceed.

“Here,” said Ironhead, stepping up beside her, “if you don't mind me bein’ over-familiar, ma'am.”

Libby watched on, bewildered, as he lowered himself down and threaded his fingers together to make a foothold. “Use my hands,” he explained, “and I'll give you a push up. You need to swing your leg around onto the horse.”

Libby nodded in acknowledgement at the plan. Carefully, she stepped her well-worn boot into his waiting hands.  Simultaneously, she reached out to grasp Catfish's gloved hand. His grip was surprisingly firm as he took hold. 

“Hurry up,” urged Redfly's impatient voice, “you're wasting time.”

Ironhead tutted and rolled his eyes as he  pushed her upwards. Using Catfish's hand, she maneuvered herself onto the horse's back, settling in behind him. Uncomfortable, but seated.

Ironhead quickly mounted his own steed and looked across at Redfly. “We're all ready now,” he said quietly.

Redfly rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, before digging his heels into his horse's flanks with a sharp “Git up!” 

The horse shook its mane before stepping forwards.

“Not much of a horse rider then?” Catfish addressed over his shoulder to Libby.

“Is it that obvious?” she replied sarcastically, wondering how to stop herself from sliding off the horse's back. “I grew up in a city. We only had handsome cabs. Never sat on a horse—until now.”

He merely snorted in response. “Well, when you're ridin’ as a passenger, you gotta put your arms around me, ma'am,” he said. “So that you don't fall off.”

With a click of the tongue, and a firm “Walk on” his horse began to move forwards, following the others. Libby lurched violently, unprepared for the movement, and steadied herself by grabbing at his midriff.

She could feel Catfish quietly chuckle as she secured herself. His chest heaved as he buried his amusement.

With masks pulled up to both protect from the dust and act as a disguise, the riders walked in the setting sun, their hooves muffled against the sandy earth. In lieu of having a scarf of her own, Libby tied one of her unused petticoats around her own face to keep the dust at bay.

The thud of horseshoes was broken only by the distant, mournful howls of coyotes. The moon, rising in the sky, hung low and heavy. As the sun sank below the horizon, it cast just enough silver light to guide their way.

Quietly, stealthily, they moved, keeping a close eye on every checkpoint along the route, scanning for any signs of soldiers or lawmen that might be hunting them. It was as though it had been agreed, without needing to say it aloud.

Libby wondered whether there were any search parties looking for her, or whether the wagon train had moved on without her and would she just be considered another one of those unfortunate souls that didn’t reach their final destination. More attrition on the western routes.

Ironhead lagged a little behind the group, his hand resting casually near the revolver at his hip, his sharp gaze seeking shadows, watching for movement.

Bugs ranged slightly ahead, blending into the darkness with ease.

And Pope and Redfly kept to the side, watching the ridgelines, the gullies, the outposts where danger could be hiding.

The steady sway of the horse beneath her and the rhythmic clop of hooves on the dusty ground worked magically.

At first, Libby tried to stay alert, her eyes scanning the distant shadows, her ears straining against the night sounds. She knew that they were moving further away from her lifeline on the wagon train and she felt afraid. But it wasn't long before exhaustion caught up with her.

The soft creak of the saddle leather, the muted thud of hoofbeats, the distant howl of coyotes weaving through the night, and the warmth of Catfish, all blurred together.

Libby’s head began to droop, drifting somewhere between memory and dream. The sight of the new schoolhouse shining in the afternoon sun swam between snaking wagon trains. Unaware of how far gone she was, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She woke with a jolt, her face pressed against Catfish's warm, dusty back. His free, gloved hand was clasped around hers, keeping her tethered to him. For a moment, she was disoriented by the gentle sway of the horse, the faint sounds of hooves, and cool early morning air against her cheeks.

She blinked groggily and looked around.

The early morning sky was pink and gold; the sun was beginning to rise in the East, stretching long, golden fingers across the hills. The world around them slowly came into focus. She could see the dry scrub, the pale, dusty ground stretching ahead, the faint silhouettes of the gang still moving steadily onward.

Catfish felt her stir against his back and grunted.

"Where are we?" she croaked, her voice hoarse and cracked from sleep and dehydration.

"Mornin', sleepyhead," grinned Catfish, twisting his neck to see her. His voice rumbled through his chest and into Libby's cheek where her face was still pressed. She sat up properly, blinking against the brightness of the new day. Her body ached from the long ride and the rough sleep.

"We’re about an hour's ride from the safe house," Catfish continued, his tone gentle. "A little, deserted place that folks don't ask too many questions about."

Libby licked her dry lips and glanced around. The terrain was flatter now, but still desolate. There were no towns, no real cover, only endless scrubland and a few twisted trees reaching toward the sky. The others rode in tight formation, their eyes sharp, constantly scanning the horizon.

“A safe house?”

“Yeah, there are a few dotted around. Often abandoned because they failed at farmin’ and such like. It's hard to live out here in isolation.”

He cast another look at her. "You alright?" he asked, his voice low with something approaching concern.

She nodded weakly. "Just thirsty," she admitted.

Without a word, Catfish reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his old, battered canteen, passing it to her. She took it with shaking hands and drank gratefully.

As she handed it back, she caught the way Catfish was looking at her, not just with concern, but with something deeper. Softer. Something like awe?

Their brief connection was broken by Pope's sharp voice calling back, "Keep your eyes open! We’re close, but this is the stretch they like to patrol!"

At those words, a tension rippled through the group. Hands checked weapons, posture straightened, and the pace quickened. Catfish turned back to face the front, eyes scanning the horizon.

The sun continued to climb, casting shortening shadows across the dry earth as the morning began. Several small dots began to materialize in the distance, becoming a cluster of buildings, a barn, and a modest house surrounded by a couple of fences. It was a solitary place, nestled in a hollow between hills, and looked peaceful, even inviting. Libby hadn't set foot in a house since leaving Independence and the idea of being in one filled her with excitement.

The group pressed on, the hooves a steady thud in the otherwise quiet. Libby leaned on Catfish, her body still stiff from the long ride, but her senses were now alert. 

Redfly, leading the group, glanced back over his shoulder, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. “Just a little longer,” he called, his voice gruff but steady. “We’ve made it this far; no point in slowing now.”

Sitting behind Catfish, Libby kept her head low, her eyes scanning the land around them as the group moved forward. She tried to ignore the discomfort, keeping herself focused on the conversation that drifted softly from the men around her.

It was a casual, but low, exchange. Their voices blended with the sounds of the horses, and Libby could barely make out individual words. The topics ranged from the weather to the condition of the horses, and even to idle comments about the surrounding landscape.

She noticed how Catfish’s low, gravelly voice contrasted with the sharper tones of Redfly. Ironhead's voice, though rare, was more measured, often punctuating the conversation with a statement or observation, his tone thoughtful. It all felt so... normal, yet there was an underlying tension that Libby couldn’t quite shake.

Despite herself, she found herself listening closer, trying to pick up any snippets of useful information. They weren’t talking about her directly, but she knew they were speaking in code in front of her. 

She had nothing to lose, so she ventured a question. “What's going to happen to me?” 

“What do you mean?” queried Catfish over his shoulder.

Libby cleared her throat. A combination of dust, sleep, and nerves seemed to have lodged in her chest. “To me. Are you planning to leave me here at this place?”

And suddenly, Catfish understood. “No,” he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the surrounding landscape.. “Your fate is still up for discussion.”

“I won't give you away,” said Libby quietly. “If you let me go. I won’t say anything. You have my word.”

“I believe you,” he murmured, casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder.

With that, the both lapsed back into silence, Libby clinging on just a little tighter.

As they approached the building, the group fell into a heavy silence, instinctively slowing their horses to reduce the sound of hooves and the plumes of dust trailing behind them. Tension in the air felt thick. Libby felt her heartbeat quicken as the quiet creak of saddles and the occasional snort from the horses seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.

Then she heard a sharp click. Her eyes flicked down and she saw that Catfish, like the others, had drawn his weapon. The barrel glinted in the sun, the motion was smooth and practiced, like something he'd done a hundred times before.

They were ready for anything. Ambush, betrayal, bloodshed. Despite the morning warmth, Libby shivered.

The ranch sprawled ahead as they trotted through the open gates. Eerie silence. No smoke curled from the chimney. No dogs barked. No movement stirred behind the shuttered windows.

Redfly raised his hand and the group came to a halt. One by one, they dismounted, weapons still drawn. Their boots crunched on dry dirt as they moved in a slow, cautious sweep of the grounds, checking every dark corner.

“Clear,” came the call from Ironhead, stepping out of the  crumbling barn.

“Nothing inside,” said Pope, reappearing from the house, his voice low.

Relieved but still wary, the group holstered their weapons. They led the horses toward the corral, loosening saddles and checking hooves. The animals were as exhausted as their riders, covered in dust, sweat-streaked, and eager to rest.

Libby stood quietly by the fence, watching events unfold, feeling lost and unnecessary.

“Who's taking first watch?” asked Redfly as they walked into the deserted house.

“I—I will,” volunteered Libby, raising her trembling hand slightly. “It—it seems only fair,” she said, quailing under the hard stare of Redfly. “I slept for a chunk of the ride here—”

Redfly snorted derisively at her suggestion, cutting off whatever else she might say. “No.”

"I'm not going to give you away," she said, gathering her courage again. She took a step forward, lifting her chin as she addressed him directly. “I can watch and raise the alarm.”

"You'll squeal the instant someone approaches. Go running to give us up," he countered, stepping forward to match her. "Catfish, you can take first watch."

Catfish groaned loudly, slumping in protest as the others gave him sympathetic looks, but grateful that it wasn’t them losing more sleep.

"You can cook," Redfly added, turning his dark gaze back on Libby.

Libby, growing irritated, planted her hands on her hips, her stance becoming defiant. "I'm not a cook," she said with a cool edge, her chin lifting even higher.

"But you're a woman," he snapped, the words out before he could stop them.

Libby’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so because I'm a woman, I should know how to cook? What next? Wash your clothes? Darn your socks? Mend your temper?"

Redfly’s face flushed, a flicker of shame, or fury, rising with the color. His fists clenched at his sides, and he opened his mouth to retort.

But before he could speak, Ironhead stepped between them, holding out a hand.

"Enough," he said firmly. "We're not going to survive the day if we’re too busy tearing each other apart."

There was a moment of silence. The air was tense and thick. Libby crossed her arms but didn’t argue further. Instead, she chewed furiously on her tongue. Redfly looked away, jaw tight.

Ironhead glanced at each of them in turn. "We all have something to offer. Let’s remember who the real enemy is."

Catfish muttered something under his breath, before casting a furtive look at Libby and shuffling to his post, rifle slung lazily over one shoulder.

Libby took a step backwards. "Fine," she said cooly, "but if anyone complains about the taste, they can eat dirt for the rest of the week."

Ironhead gave her a brief smile. "Deal."

Whilst Libby sorted through the limited supplies of dried, salted meats and coarse grains she had obtained from the saddlebags, she tried to think of something that might pass for palatable. Nearby, Bugs crouched low, coaxing a small fire to life in a discreet hollow near the edge of the ranch. They couldn't risk using the fireplace because smoke was a giveaway; even a thin trail could be seen from miles away in the open country. But they needed warmth and they needed food. 

As she sifted through the bags, her thoughts drifted to the nights on the trail and being huddled in a wagon circle beneath the stars. The meals were homely, stuck to the ribs, but comforting: johnnycakes, biscuits, rice and beans. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling. They kept the ever-present hunger at bay. Despite the way she’d snapped at Redfly earlier, she'd had done her fair share of cooking on the overland route in a need to feel useful. And over time, she’d picked up a few basic recipes, just enough to get by.

She reached for the large bag of flour, its top sealed with a twist of string. Working by feel, she mixed a rough dough in a tin bowl, adding water and a healthy pinch of salt. There was no leavening, but once cooked on the griddle, the flatbreads would be good enough. She’d make enough for breakfast too; they kept well if wrapped and stashed properly.

Next, she measured out the rice and dry beans into the heavy Dutch oven. It would take hours to soften the beans, but there was no shortcut with food like this. She added a few scraps of salt pork for flavor, then poured in enough water to cover the mixture and nestled the pot among the coals Bugs had laid.

She would need to keep an eye on the heat whilst the others slept to make sure that the water didn't boil off and ruin everything. That would be disastrous.

Libby sat back on her heels, wiping her flour-covered hands on her skirts. The scent of woodsmoke was rising now and it tugged at something deep in her chest. She glanced toward the wooden building where the others were sleeping. All was quiet.

The plait that she had been wearing in her hair since her capture, which was the style she usually wore to bed at night, was starting to come loose. Strands of hair had escaped their confines and so she untied it and let it hang free. Giving it a brief comb through with her fingers, she knew that having it down was impractical—it would soon be tangled and knotted without regular brushing, but she would try to master it later.

Knowing that Catfish was still awake, and posted on the front porch, and with nothing else to do but wait on the beans to soften, she dusted off her hands and made her way toward him. It was almost an impulse that carried her there.

The boards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped onto the wooden floor. Then, without a word, she slid into the empty chair beside his.

Catfish tilted his head towards her, hearing her arrival, and tipped the brim of his hat with a lazy flick of his fingers. "Howdy, ma’am."

“Hello,” she replied, immediately noticing how stiff and formal she sounded next to him. His easy drawl made her words feel too formal. Too crisp and too sharp.

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that settled between people not yet familiar, but not entirely uncomfortable. Not that she was sure that she should feel comfortable next to her captor, but she had come to seek him out all the same.

The late morning air was cool and still, the only sounds were the occasional rustle of scrub and the squawk of a bird of prey.

Finally, Catfish spoke, voice low and casual. “You ever think ‘bout goin’ back east?”

The question caught her off guard.

She glanced at him, but he was staring out into the wilderness, unreadable. "Sometimes," she admitted after a pause. ‘“I miss the weather. The rain. The unpredictability. It's tougher out here than I thought it would be.”

He chuckled softly at that, the sound barely more than a breath. “Ain’t much to miss, as far as I’m concerned. But I reckon you left more behind than I did.”

Libby lowered her eyes. “I left nothing,” she said quietly. “Apart from my library of books.” Her voice caught slightly. She missed them. They had been her sanctuary and her compass when she was adrift.

Feeling suddenly exposed, she pressed on. “I’m not from the East Coast. I’m actually from England.”

Catfish turned his head slowly to look at her, properly look at her this time, as if seeing something he’d missed before. “Well, darn,” he said, his eyebrows lifting and whistling between his teeth, “I thought your accent was mighty fine. Figured maybe Boston or one of those other fancy places out east.”

Libby gave a dry laugh. “Not quite. Just London, I’m afraid. Far more rain and fog.”

He nodded thoughtfully, like he was turning that over in his mind. “So what made you cross all that ocean just to end up out here in the middle of nowhere, on a wagon train?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because saying it out loud always made it too real.

“A chance,” she said at last. “To be something more than what was expected of me. Teach children who’ve never held a book. Build something of my own. Have my own schoolhouse.”

Catfish didn’t say anything right away, but she caught the shift in his posture, he became less guarded, more attentive.

Feeling more confident, Libby continued on. She had nothing to lose and hoped that in making a personal connection, it might help her chances of survival. “My name is Mrs. Elizabeth Green,” she said, her voice soft and steady.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Green,” he replied, more politely than she’d expected. There was no mockery in it, just quiet respect.

“And are you out here alone?” he asked after a moment. “Where’s Mr. Green?”

“Captain Green died in Africa while serving his country,” she answered quietly. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, his tone shifting, softened by something like genuine sympathy. “Army life’s a rough road.”

“You were in the army too?”

His face hardened for a moment. “I was.”

Libby gave a small, humorless smile. “If you’d met my husband, you might not feel so sorry for my loss.” The harshness of her words made Catfish sit up and take note. “He was never home. Spent more time at his gentleman’s club than he ever did with me. Cold. Detached. Belittling. Always entertaining army friends in his study. He knew how to have a good time with them. I was just a token spouse in a loveless marriage.” She sniffed, her voice edged with a bitterness that still hadn’t faded.

Catfish looked slightly taken aback, not by the story, perhaps, but by her honesty.

“If I had a wife like you waiting at home,” he said after a pause, more to himself than to her, “I reckon I’d never be able to leave the house.”

Libby turned sharply to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Pardon?”

“I mean it,” he said, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. “You’re real pretty, and you’re smart. What’s not to like? If you were mine, I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

Libby blinked, caught completely off guard by the bluntness of his words. Was that a compliment? It was so unpolished, so unexpected. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, the right response refusing to come.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, noticing the shift in her expression. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just... I was trying to say something nice. Pay you a compliment, is all.”

She smiled then, soft and a little self-deprecating, hoping to ease the awkwardness. “Thank you. Though I’m not sure how anyone could find much to like about me right now. My clothes are filthy, torn in places I’d rather not think about, my hair’s a disaster, I smell like the Devil’s armpit, and I’ve got dust in places I didn’t even know existed.”

He laughed. It was a low, rich sound that rolled from deep in his chest, and for the first time, his whole face lit up. The lines around his eyes deepened as they crinkled, and for a moment, he looked younger, freer as though the weight had slipped off his shoulders.

“Welcome to the club,” he said with a grin, his voice laced with warmth. “Out here, we all smell like that. You'll fit right in.” He paused, his tone softening. “And for what it’s worth... I like the way you look with your hair down. Looks real pretty like that.”

Libby looked at him then, her smile lingering. There was something disarming in his sincerity, something oddly reassuring in the way he looked at her.

Libby’s cheeks flushed slightly, though she was still unsure how to react. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

“You’re welcome,” he said, a warmth in his tone that made her stomach flutter despite herself.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments, but Libby couldn’t help the questions that were welling up inside her. “I—is there a Mrs. Catfish?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Is anyone worried about you out here?”

“Mrs. Catfish?” He snorted at the idea, his lips curling in amusement. “That’s funny. And no, no one. My parents are gone, haven’t seen my brothers or sister in years, and there’s no Mrs. Catfish.”

She absorbed his words attentively, noting the emptiness in his tone when he spoke about his family. It was a predicament similar to her own—no close kin to speak of. The silence stretched on until Catfish broke it again, his voice lower, more thoughtful.

“But I do like the company of women,” he added, his words seeming casual, “unlike your husband.”

Libby’s head snapped up, startled. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was sharp, offended by the sudden accusation.

Catfish didn’t flinch. His tone remained neutral, almost weary. “I said, I’ve kept the company of women—unlike your husband. Just never found one to settle down with. Serving in the army isn’t the life for anyone chasing domestic bliss.”

Libby recoiled, as her new-found compassion for Catfish evaporated in an instant, her thoughts spinning. Her anger rose. “Are you insinuating that my husband preferred the company of men?” she asked, her voice rising with a note of disbelief and horror. “How dare you be so presumptuous? You know nothing of my marriage!”

She bristled, her emotions tumbling over each other in a flurry of anger and confusion.

Catfish let out a long, quiet sigh. “I know what you just told me. And that was a man who was not interested in his wife.

I’m sorry,” he said, and this time the regret in his voice felt sincere, even heavy. “I guess I thought you had an inkling. It’s not so rare as folks like to think. No matter what the big book tries to teach us. Men living in close quarters, long stretches together… Sometimes… well, sometimes things happen. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And some men just prefer men. That's just how it is.”

Her first instinct was to lash out again, but the heat of her anger began to cool under the simplicity of his words. She sat silently, his voice echoing in her mind. I guess I thought you knew.

And slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. Captain Green had always been distant, always more at home in the gentleman's clubs than with her. He had never shown any romantic interest in her, and their marriage had always felt mechanical, devoid of passion. His love-making, if it could even be called that, had always been perfunctory—duty rather than desire. She had assumed that he was just standoffish, but now, in the light of Catfish’s blunt observations, she wondered if her husband had been living a double life she had never known about. That she was a decoy: a front of Victorian respectability to show to the world.

Libby remained silent, her thoughts whirring as she processed this new perspective. Maybe she hadn’t known her husband at all, not in the way she had thought.

They sat in quiet contemplation for a while, neither knowing what to say next nor how to break the uneasiness.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a lengthy pause. “I think I knew, on some subconscious level, that something was wrong with my marriage. I just thought it was me. That I was… barren and undesirable.”

Catfish snorted softly, muttering under his breath, “Believe me when I tell you, you’re not.”

Libby caught the words and looked at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “No?”

“No,” he said more firmly, clearing his throat. “I think you’re pretty. Prettiest lady I've ever had the good fortune to meet. And smart to boot.”

She tilted her head, her expression a mix of skepticism and sarcasm. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, especially since I’m the only woman out here for miles.”

“I’m not,” he said with a sigh, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I made a mistake kidnapping you, but I’m not making one now when I tell you that you are the most beautiful lady I ever saw.” He reached out, his hand finding hers and taking it gently. “I wish you knew how much I want you, and I wish you wanted it too.”

Libby’s heart raced, her mind spinning from the intensity of his words. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him. Not from someone who, just a day ago, had been nothing but a rough, gruff captor. He had been someone she had every reason to fear. But now his words were both unexpected and unsettling, stirring something inside her that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

She pulled her hand away, her breath catching in her throat. “I—I don’t know what to say,” she stammered, struggling to collect herself. Her stomach churned with a mix of confusion, fear, and something else. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

Catfish’s expression softened, and he lowered his gaze to the ground, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not right to put you in a position like that.”

Libby sat up straighter, her thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of everything. He was a man who had kidnapped her, a man she had every reason to hate and fear. And yet… the way he spoke, the way he seemed to care, it was confusing. She didn’t know what to think or how to feel.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and defiance. “I’m not... I’m not someone who’s just going to... fall into your hands.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Catfish replied, his tone more solemn now. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just that…” He paused, searching for the right words, his eyes not meeting hers. “It’s just that you’re something different. Something real. And I'm not sure how to handle that.”

Libby swallowed hard, her chest tightening with emotion. She turned her head slightly, unable to meet his gaze for a moment. “I don’t know who you are,” she said quietly. “And I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Trust me,” he said quickly, his tone urgent. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. But I'm bein’ honest with you, Libby. Honest in ways that maybe I shouldn’t be. Especially with my fellow outlaws just feet away from us, but believe me when I tell you that I will protect you out here and get you to your schoolhouse.”

They sat in thoughtful silence, both of them uncertain about what came next, unsure how to navigate the complex web of feelings that had somehow woven itself into their strange, uncomfortable bond.

After a long moment, Libby spoke, her voice softer than before. “I don’t know if I can forgive what you’ve done to me. Kidnapping me,” she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “But I… I can’t ignore that you’ve shown me a kindness. Even if it’s just in the small things.”

Catfish nodded, his expression unreadable. “I can live with that,” he said quietly. “Just… don’t forget I’m not the monster you think I am. I’m just a man. And I’ve been stuck in this world for too long.”

Libby took a shaky breath, her emotions swirling. “I don’t know what to think about you yet,” she whispered, “but I’ll figure it out.”

Catfish didn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn’t know how to handle the fragile truce between them.

Feeling exposed and a little off balance, Libby reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out the strip of worn fabric she used as a hair tie. With practiced fingers, she gathered her hair, smoothing it back from her face, then began to braid it with quiet precision. The effort required gave her something tangible to focus on. She could feel Catfish’s gaze on her whilst she worked. It was steady, unwavering. It wasn’t intrusive, but present. Still, it made her pulse quicken, the quiet intimacy of the moment as her hands moved deftly.

“Libby,” she said quietly, but with purpose, as she worked.

“Sorry?” Catfish raised an eyebrow.

“My close acquaintances call me Libby. I prefer it to Elizabeth. It sounds so formal and stiff.”

Catfish eyed her carefully, before giving her a small nod and a tentative smile. “Miss. Libby it is, then,” he affirmed, before returning to the task of watching the horizon, but with a softer gaze than before.

Libby reciprocated with a small, soft smile of her own, as her fingers continued to work through the ends, tying it off with a small piece of twine.

"Oh, the beans!" she gasped suddenly, breaking the silence. "I nearly forgot."

She quickly stood and hurried off to the Dutch oven where the beans and rice had been simmering slowly. As she removed the lid, the smell of the slow-cooked rice and beans filled the air.

She stirred the pot carefully, her thoughts still tangled in the conversation she had just had. Of the way he had spoken to her. His rough, but gentle words. A simmering undercurrent of something between them.

The beans had softened just enough, and she added a bit more water to keep them from burning. Her hands moved of their own accord, her mind too preoccupied with other things. The fire crackled nearby, and the afternoon air, hot and dry pressed in around the ranch.

As she worked, she heard movement from behind her, the sounds of the others stirring in the late afternoon sun. It wouldn’t be long before they would need to eat. She ladled the beans and rice into neatly stacked tins, the rest of the meal, Johnnycakes and biscuits, stacked on a small, cracked enamel plate.

She moved to the fire and called out softly, “Dinner's ready. Time to wake up.”

The others groaned in response, the familiar sounds of tired men emerging from their sleep. One by one, the gang members came to life, stumbling out of their bedrolls. Bugs, still rubbing his eyes, slumped forward, the first to reach for a plate. 

“I'll go and relieve Catfish,” he said hoarsely, as he lifted a tin from Libby's hands. He walked, his stiff joints wrote with each step, across the yard and through the ranch to the front porch.

Barely a minute later Catfish appeared, looking tired and worn out. He took a seat around the fire, watching Libby as she worked. 

She caught his gaze briefly before she focused on serving the others, the quiet understanding between them now more palpable than before. As the men took their food, grumbling with sleepy hunger, Libby noticed Catfish’s eyes following her movements. To the casual observer, it might've looked as though he was hungry, but his eyes lingered, and not on the food.

She caught his gaze again as she set a plate before him.

Their eyes met for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, but intense. Libby’s stomach fluttered in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. She quickly looked away, feeling a heat rise in her cheeks.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, before picking up his fork, his focus still partly on her, but he said nothing more.

Libby sat down next to him after handing out the last of the food, their shoulders brushing briefly as she settled herself. 

As the others ate, she glanced at Catfish again, her heart racing with the unspoken tension. His lips were slightly parted, but he seemed content, focused on his meal. Yet, there was a shift in his demeanor, something in the way he regarded her. It made her feel both exposed and safe, the way an unspoken understanding could settle between two people who were still so much strangers.

She took a bite of her own food, her mind restless. The awkwardness had shifted into something else entirely, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it just a fleeting moment? Or something more? As she chewed thoughtfully, she felt his eyes on her once more.

This time, when she met his eyes, there was no retreat. Only a silent acknowledgment of something shared—something neither of them had words for yet.

"And you know this how?" she challenges you.

You sigh. "Do you really expect me to believe that Joel Miller, our neighbor of three years, who we've invited to our backyard barbecues and who attends church with us on a weekly basis.. is a porn star??" you ask with utter incredulity.

"I have proof." She searches through her phone and flips it over for you, showing you a screenshot. It's a picture of a woman's bare butt (you give Corinne a deadly look) as she's on all fours, and a man's hand on her hips. Corinne zooms in on the hand, tapping where the tattoo is seen.

"See? He has that same bullseye tattoo as Joel."

"How many men do you think have that same tattoo? It's the same as getting a barb wire tattoo on your bicep. That's not Joel," you tell her with certainty.

"We'll find out together," she says confidently, putting the picture in a reverse image search and waiting until it dings with an answer.

"That's funny.." she frowns. "It's not him.. I mean, it's him but it's a different name."

She shows you the screen loading to a porn site.

STEPDAD AUSTIN REDWOOD GIVES HOT STEPDAUGHTER ROXY ROSE A HARD POUNDING IN HER ASS

"My god, Corinne!" You smack her arm.

"Ow! Hey, I didn't do anything." She pauses. "Austin Redwood? Maybe that was his pseudonym."

"Austin.. like maybe Austin because that's where he used to live?" You recall him talking about having grown up there, nearly two hundred miles from this quiet suburban Houston neighborhood.

"So should we watch?" Corinne asks.

"I'm not watching porn with you."

"Do you ever watch it alone?"

"No!"

"Come on, just this once? So I can prove I'm right?"

Wordlessly you nod, bracing yourself for what is sure to be an embarrassing experience.

Corinne presses play and the smooth theme song introduces the video. You're holding your breath as the scene starts.

A young woman is shown sneaking into her house late at night, scantily clad in a mini skirt and tube top. Suddenly the lights flick on to reveal her stepfather in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a stern look on his face.

It's Joel. Your heart skips a beat.

"Young lady, do you have any idea what time it is?" God, that voice just makes you melt. He's wearing a white polo, tan trousers, and wire-rimmed glasses, for goodness' sake!

"Daddy," Roxy whines. She has bleach blonde hair and full pouty lips. "I was just out having fun. I can't help it if you're old and boring."

He gets up and towers over her, scolding her, telling her she should have been home at a proper time. She uses her feminine wiles to get out of trouble. It's an age-old trope, but it's one people like. People like your ex-husband. You cross your arms over your chest as you watch the scene play out.

They start kissing, a little soft and unsure at first before really getting into it, and Joel effortlessly pulls down Roxy's top and lavishes attention on her breasts, licking and sucking at her nipples. Imagining what it must feel like makes you feel hot underneath your clothes.

"I had a stepfather," you mutter to Corinne. "I never called him daddy. I hated him."

"Shh," Corinne nudges you. "It's just a fantasy thing."

Now Joel and Roxy are on the sofa and she's spreadagle before him as he kneels down to eat her out. Your breath hitches as you watch him use his tongue on her, your thighs closing together to relieve the pressure building up. You cast a guilty look at Corinne, who's entranced by the happenings onscreen.

The exaggerated moans coming from Roxy's mouth are questionable, and you turn the volume down just a little. Joel keeps at it, tonguing her shaved pussy, using his fingers until she squirts. ("Probably not real," you tell Corinne, who tells you to shut up again. Onscreen, Joel pulls Roxy sitting up and taps the broad tip of his dick onto her waiting tongue. She licks along it before stuffing it down her throat with ease, making exaggerated faces as she deep throats him. Joel's heard offscreen, groaning, his hands fisting in her hair. Roxy makes slurping, gagging noises which quite frankly turn you off, but you know it's meant for a different demographic. You and Corinne watch quietly as the camera cuts to different angles: Joel pummeling into Roxy from behind, a closeup of their joined bodies, and then her on top, facing away, bouncing eagerly, her small tits rippling.

"Wow," Corinne sighs as the video ends. "I had no idea Joel was hung like that. I assumed, because he's so hot, but.. wow."

You remain speechless, guilt coursing through your veins at watching this., as if you've imposed on his privacy. "So it's true.."

"Now we know why all the men in the neighborhood look up to him," Corinne laughs, "and why my Kevin idolizes him."

"What do we do?" you whisper.

"About what?"

"We just found out our trusted neighbor has sex on camera for a living! What's next, a meth den in our beautiful little community?"

"You sound crazy." Corinne shakes her head. "Leave the man alone. I'm sure he wants the same treatment as everyone else."

But you aren't so sure. Even after your friend leaves you're left with lingering suspicions about your newly befriended neighbor Joel Miller.

Despite those suspicions, after Corinne leaves, you pull out your phone and look up his entire filmography. Just to satisfy your curitosity. You don't even leave your house for two whole days, caught up in the glow of scripted sex on your screen.

And now you can't view him the same anymore. You watch from the safety of your front porch as Joel steps out of his own home, a two-bedroom, two-bathroom place with a pool (you checked Zillow out of curiosity when it was still on the market) painted a lovely ash gray. Unfortunately you'd asked about the paint color when you'd visited Joel his first official day in town, bringing a fresh lasagna to welcome him. "Pussywillow," he'd answered your question about the color of the paint job, and even now you recall the way he seemed to hold back from laughing.

It's an unfortunate name for such a pretty gray. You've got some choice words for Sherwin-Williams.

Today he's putting his tool box and safety equipment into the cab of his truck. Did porn pay for the truck? The house? The Pussywillow Paint Job? You wrinkle your nose at the thought.

As he's walking back towards his house you take a moment to admire the shape of his ass in those jeans, the curve just above those thick, muscular thighs. You've seen him naked without him knowing about it. Would he care if you've seen him? Probably not. His body is out there on websites for anyone and everyone to see.

As he returns to his truck your gaze wanders down to his crotch. Is it your imagination or is there a bulge you've never seen before today? Your mouth fills with saliva as you recall the way his dick had sprung free in the video you watched, thick and heavy, slapping his belly as he released it from his pants.

What does he taste like? You never enjoyed going down on your husband, and when you had any sort of sexual intercourse it seemed that you were a means to an end, only there to get him off. He made you feel so dirty afterwards as he rolled over onto his side of the bed and immediately dozed off. And you, with the sheets pulled up to cover you, would hurry to the bathroom to get rid of his mess between your thighs.

In the video, Joel came on his co-star's face. She'd stuck her tongue out like a baby bird receiving a piece of mushed-up worm as he stroked himself to completion and squirted his cum in her mouth, on her cheeks, eyes and forehead. And she appeared to love it.

Would you?

You're already getting wet thinking about it, kneeling before him as he looks down on you with that lust-filled gaze, biting his lower lip and grunting as he works himself with hand, holding your head still with the other hand. And with a strangled cry he erupts, painting your face and tongue with thick, sticky cum. And you do love it.

You're so deep in your reverie that you don't see Joel approaching you, a friendly smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye. Your name slides so smoothly from his mouth that you melt on the spot before snapping out of it and pulling your sweater tighter around you.

"Joel," you reply, feeling heat in your face as you force eye contact with him.

There's no way this is the same man who played a professor letting his student suck him off for a good grade, or the plumber who lets a lonely housewife ride him while he's working on her sink, or the rugged farmhand getting seduced by the farmer's daughter.

But you've seen those broad shoulders and thick biceps in action as he banged a sexy realtor against the wall of the new house she was showing off, and those are the same hips that other women have had their legs wrapped around, "fuck-me" pumps still on their feet. You've seen those hands palming huge fake tits and round globe-like asses, sometimes giving a hard spank. Those plush lips you're looking at right now have worked their magic on thousands of women as he's eaten them out for the camera.

"...it's pretty big, I think you'd like it.." he's saying to you, immediately snapping you out of your guilty thoughts.

"Huh?" you're dumbfounded. Is he talking about what you think he's talking about? He's chuckling, his eyes crinkling, showing the little lines etched around them. It's almost easy to forget that at his age he fucks people for a living.

"I'm buildin' some Adirondack chairs for the Romero family down the street, wanted to know if you'd like me to build ya one too."

Oh. Chairs.

"That's very generous of you, Joel. I'm fine with the porch furniture I have now."

"Are you sure? I don't mind it at all. I've got plenty of materials."

"I'm sure. Thank you."

"I can always-"

"I know all about you!" you suddenly shout, overwhelmed by his presence and his insistent offerings of homemade furniture.

"What do you mean?" he asks, a little smirk on his face.

You lean in and whisper, as if anyone else could be around, listening. "You're a degenerate, Joel Miller. And I'm going to tell the HOA that a good-for-nothing.. adult film star is living on our block. In fact I'll tell everyone."

Joel had always had an idea of what he wanted his life to be. After high school he learned a trade and got into the construction business. At first it was the dirty work: digging ditches, working on highways, the sun always at his back. Then he found work in carpentry, and found the construction business a better fit for him. Working with wood and creating places for people to start their lives. He got a real sense of purpose in his work.

He dated a few women here and there, but never anything serious. He liked his independence, and the only female he gave his heart to was his Australian Shepherd, Lady. She was more than enough for companionship.

Living in a quiet neighborhood in Austin, he was nearing forty when he started to feel restless. He liked his work and made decent money, but there was a certain thrill he felt was just out of his reach. Initially he blamed it on his middle age, counting it as a midlife crisis. He avoided buying a new sports car, staying true to his Chevy Cheyenne.

He started casually seeing a woman. They met at a bar and started hooking up a few times a week. One night, as they lay in her bed, sheets tangled across their sweaty bodies, she asked him if he'd ever done porn. He thought at first that she must be joking. This had to be an odd way to compliment his bedroom skills. But she said she had a friend out in California who made movies now and then, and that it paid pretty well.

"It's something to think about," she'd said. "Someone like you, with that big gorgeous cock? You'd be a star in no time."

Joel brushed it off at first, but the more he thought about it, the more appealing it sounded. He made decent money in construction, but it was backbreaking labor, and with his younger brother Tommy always getting in trouble with the law, it'd be nice to have some funds for bailing him out of jail when the occasion rose.

And let's be honest, what guy wouldn't go for the chance to work in porn after all?

Only a few weeks later did he call up his girlfriend and told her he was ready to go to California.

It turned out porn could be a shady business if you didn't already have an in. People succumbed to scams in a desperate attempt to make money and get famous, not knowing the difference between a casting couch audition with questionable people, and reputable folks in the industry.

Joel got lucky finding an actual production company. He auditioned for roles, having taken off some time from work in a last ditch effort to see if this tree could produce any fruit. He worried he was too old, that he wasn't good looking enough, though he turned heads everywhere he went, and when he finally dropped trou at his first audition, he left the producers with their jaws on the floor. He was built, he was blue-collar, he was hung. He became the Everyman of porn.

He remembered his first film as if it was yesterday: a correctional officer in a prison full of horny females who seduced him to help them escape. It had all been a blur of lights, makeup, and the smell of sex. Shooting porn was nothing like he thought it'd be. There were constant cuts to get different angles on camera, not to mention promo videos in costume where he posed with his costars. At the end of the day he was exhausted and he had a gnawing ache in his lower back, but he was a few hundred dollars richer.

In the rest of his time in California he made six more films. The cast and crew he'd worked with were friendly and professional for the most part. Part of the fun was getting into character. Some scripts had some heart, and he could tell they were written by someone who cared. Others were pure fantasy without much acting or directing needed.

When he returned to Texas, he only stayed a month or so before going back to the San Fernando Valley to do more films. He got himself an agent and made the decision to go freelance with his construction job, giving him the freedom to shoot as often or as little as he wanted.

The Cockfather, Dong Day Afternoon, Beverly Hills Cock, Good Will Humping, Intercourse With the Vampire, Riding Miss Daisy.. along with smaller films like Backdoor Housewives 7, Big Booty Hoes Go to Hawaii, and Sorority Sex Slaves. He made a name for himself under the nom de plume Austin Redwood, the name of the city he was born and the street he grew up on. It also didn't hurt that "redwood" immediately invoked thoughts of hard-ons.

Throughout his filming career he dated on and off, but never anyone special enough to stay with. Being in porn tended to turn women off. Nobody wants to be in a relationship with a man who fucks other women for a living. He understood it. Even dating within the industry came with its own hang-ups. Jealousy wasn't unheard of, and conflicting shooting schedules often created rifts. It could be a competitive environment. Joel found out it was easier just to be alone.

Eventually he made enough money to buy his parents a big new house in Round Rock, paid for his younger brother's wedding, and put enough into savings and investments to tide him through the rest of his life. Not a bad little cushion to land on. As he got older he took less jobs, finding peace in working with his hands again. He was offered a foreman position and gladly accepted here in the small town where he met you.

He didn't fool himself that no one would know who he was. While he was popular with the male demographic who saw themselves in the various blue collar characters he played, he got a lot of attention from the younger women who recognized him, and even got some propositions, many of which he turned down. He wasn't a saint after all, and sex in the industry was more about aesthetic and stamina over actual pleasure. He enjoyed being with real women who weren't simply acting a part. It was refreshing to be around people who were unfamiliar with his work, though he still got the occasional "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

He liked the small town he found when he settled down, away from the fake plastic of the West Coast. He liked the people, the community, and he liked you. You were always so shy, seemingly shut-off from the world. But you were sweet and welcoming to him. He'd rightly assumed you didn't know about his porn persona.

Until now. You're standing in front of him with a look of smug superiority on your beautiful face. You're the last person he thought would ever discover his alter ego. And despite the upper hand you must feel you have right now, he can't help but be a little relieved.

"You're the last person I wanted to lie to," he says honestly, his guard down for the first time in awhile. "I didn't keep that secret out of hostility or anything like that.. can I come in so we can talk? I'd rather not do this on your front porch."

With a moment's hesitation and a deep breath, you open the door and let him in. Seated in your rooster-themed breakfast nook (it's not lost on Joel that you've decorated the place you eat with cocks) you pour yourselves some iced tea. Your heart wants to pound right out of your chest, thinking of him in those scenarios you watched him in. You remember how he made those women scream, even though Corinne has told you most of that is for the camera. You're not so sure - his girthy length looks like he'd make any woman go wild with one deep, sharp thrust.

"Why?" you ask him. It's the first question on your mind. "Why do this? It's sinful.. it's degrading. Don't you care about the women you.. do those things with?" You cross your arms, not realizing you're hugging yourself.

Joel smiles, licking the sweet tea off his lips after a sip. "I care about everyone I work with. It's important to me to have respect for the women I do scenes with. Granted, not everyone is that way, and that's pretty fucked up, pardon my French." He looks at you, wanting to allay your fears. "It's important for me to have chemistry with whoever I'm working with. Now, I don't like everyone I've worked with, but my job is to bring them pleasure. I'm there to put on a show for people - like yourself, if I may - who fantasize about sex for whatever reason. And yes, I've come to care for many women I've partnered with in the industry. I've remained friends with most of them."

"Do you date them?" you ask. "Don't you worry about falling in love? Or worry if they'll fall in love with you?"

"What you're seeing onscreen is simply the finished product, just like a regular movie. What you don't see is the director shouting out the next move, telling me to kiss her here, telling her to move her leg there, et cetera. It doesn't make for the most romantic setting, I can tell you that," he chuckles. "There's no moonlight or violins. Just.. gymnastics, really. And while it's fun sometimes, sex onscreen is nothing like sex in real life. Onscreen I'm just an extra, just a prop for the beautiful woman to use. Did you know most women who watch porn watch it for the women? They also like to watch two dudes going at it. Only guys really like hetero porn, so the women become the centerpiece for that." He sighs, unused to having to explain himself, but it feels great to unburden himself this way to you. "So to make a long story short, I haven't really dated anyone in the industry, at least not knowingly," he adds, recalling the first girlfriend who'd helped reveal his calling in porn.

"Don't you worry what others will think of you if they find out what you do?" That judgmental part of you is still hoisting her flag of self-righteousness, despite the fact that you're trying to take his explantion with some measure of grace.

"I suppose I could, and to be honest, it's different for men. Women usually bear the brunt of it, socially ostracized and such." He shakes his head. "But never in my life have I been ashamed of myself in any capacity. There's just too much in this world to worry about what everyone's thinkin' of me. Truth is, everyone is just thinkin' about what everyone else is thinkin' of them."

"I've never thought of it that way," you mumble, arms crossed in a fashion of aloofness.

"I'm not gonna apologize for what I do with my life, or the choices I make," he says quietly, solidly. "I just want you to understand where I'm comin' from."

There's a fullness in the silence that follows. Condensation grows on the glass of tea you've left untouched. "Thank you for being so transparent with me," you telll him.

He nods, keeping his gaze on you. "You seem disappointed.."

"I'm not," you tell him quickly. "I guess I'd thought.. it's so stupid, really." You cover your face with your hands.

"You can tell me."

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth, meeting his gaze with much less arrogance and self-rightetousness this time. "I thought maybe.. you liked me?"

A slow grin grows on Joel's face. "Is that what this was about? You jealous?"

"What? No!"

"Because to tell ya the truth, I do think you're a beautiful woman. I just didn't think you'd be very accepting of a man with a past like mine."

"I thought you don't care what other people think."

"I didn't want to get to know you and then risk you walking away when I told you the truth. And I would have told you eventually.."

You think on this. Maybe it's better you found out this way, Otherwise you'd be having this conversation as an argument instead, half your heart already given away, breaking under the strain of his omissions. "It would've taken me some time to come around," you admit.

"But right now? What is it that you want?" he asks.

You look him straight in the eye, attempting to be as fearless as he is. "I want you to fuck me like one of your video girls."

It's taking the patience of a saint for Joel to let you guide him to your bedroom, watching you shyly undress. You're worried that you don't look like the girls in the videos he does, but his mouth instantly salivates at the sight of you, uncovered little by little. Your cotton button up shirt is gone, your slacks shucked off. Sensible bra and panties, no frills, just white cotton. He should have known you'd match even when you're not expecting anyone to see you like this.

He knows you're going off every porn script ever when you kneel in front of him, hands on his belt.

"Wait," he stops you. "This ain't about me. You don't got anythin' to prove. Just let me make you feel good."

"But.. don't you want me?" Your voice is small.

That one question sets him on fire. He'd love your mouth on him, but he's already overwhelmed and hot, he's not sure he'd last long enough if he lets you.

"If you're going to taste me, it's gonna be after I've made you scream my name so loud the whole neighborhood will hear."

"Oh my god," you mutter, desire pooling between your thighs.

"Come here," he says, leaning back on your bed. "Sit on my face."

All former shyness goes out the window as you're riding Joel's face, wanton moans freed from your lungs, as if you've been holding them in all this time, just waiting for him to come and release them. His large hands grip your thighs, keeping you in place above him, each smothered groan and moan vibrates through your flesh, your slick pouring out, covering his mouth, nose and chin, drenching him as he tongue fucks you, and spoils you rotten with his tongue on your clit.

It's so different from the way your ex-husband would eat you out - with trepidation and what you could almost sense as disgust. He made you feel less than worthy. And right now Joel's doing exactly the opposite, worshipping you like a goddess.

Right when you feel yourself on the brink of coming, he pulls back, pressing messy kisses to the insides of your thighs, leaving you hanging, the physical ache so strong that you whine for him until he puts his mouth on you again.

He makes you take a break after three orgasms, during which you managed to squirt for the first time ever, your body bent over, gripping the headboard. He lifts a glass of water to your lips, making you hydrate yourself for more.

It's not like in the videos. There's no quick cuts to new positions and angles that are sure to titillate the viewer. Instead he makes it all about you, your comfort and your pleasure. You swear you could get spoiled on this treatment, probably fucked too dumb to do anything ever again.

He eats you out from behind, keeping your ass cheeks spread wide, lapping you up from bottom to top, his tongue teasing the rim of your ass hole, and with your permission he dips a fingertip inside, smiling as you clench around him.

"I'd love to take your ass. Bet you've never had a cock in here, huh?" He laughs when you shake your head. "Not today though, baby girl."

You don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"You said you want me to fuck you like one of my scene partners?" he reminds you. "You're the director here. You tell me exactly what you want."

You bite your lip. (If Joel wasn't hard already that would immediately set him off.) "Do you remember your character in Star Whores?"

"A New Hole, or Attack of the Moans?"

"The first one.. where you were with Angelique Noir in the back room of the cantina."

"Ohh.. that one," he says, eyes glittering. "You sure you can handle it?"

Truth is you're not sure, but you'd never forgive yourself if you don't try.

"I'm sure," you say with more certainty than you feel.

That's how you find yourself horizontal - your back pressed to Joel's chest, his knees bent as he supports you, large hands gripping your thighs as you keep your own legs bent. It's a vulnerable position to say the least, and not super comfortable, but you know it looks good, and the way Joel's thick cock is pressing against your entrance is exciting.

He's gentle and teasing with your clit, wanting you as wet and ready as possible before he's inside you. Hearing you gasp and moan, thighs already shaking with pleasure, is only making it harder to hold back. "Need to be inside you," he murmurs. "Just a little."

"Yes, Joel," you grant him that much, and then there's the warm, liquid feeling of lube drizzling on your cunt before he adds more to his dick. You're wet enough but he wants this to go as smoothly as possible. He knows it's just right when you gasp at the nudge of his tip pressing inside.

"Relax," he grunts out, still working at your clit, spreading your lips apart. Pushing in a little further he feels your channel easing up, allowing more of him in as he thrusts up, causing you to gasp. "You okay, darlin'?" he asks breathlessly.

"Yes.. Joel.. keep going!"

He does as you command, keeping a firm hold on your thighs as he thrusts in slow but steady, your cunt opening around him like a flower, stretching beautifully around his fat cock. He doubts you can take all of him the first go. Even professionals have a hard time with that. Thanks to editing it looks easy on film. What they don't show is the prep done beforehand, the breaks they take, the hydration, the lube.

"Put your arms up," he whispers, his hands traveling up your body, tracing soft patterns across your hips, belly, breasts, lightly pinching your nipples, testing the water to see how much you want and how much more you can take.

He commits to lazy, shallow thrusts, still toying with your nipples, lightly pulling, cupping them as they bounce with each lunge. "This okay?" he asks, somehow able to speak sentences. You're the tightest pussy he's ever been inside. Your husband must have rarely fucked you on the regular, or he had a tiny dick. Likely both. You're nodding, forgetting to use your words, stumbling over basic turns of phrase as his cock plunges into you. "Yes, Joel! Oh god yes!"

It feels like the greatest achievement of his life when you start to come. He's had years of practice in knowing when you're about to see God. Your walls start to flutter, your limbs tightening, moans growing higher in pitch. Watching you, feeling you lose control, when he's sure you've never let yourself go like this, makes him feel like king of the world.

And he's not done yet.

His age, his years in the industry, helped him to gain a healthy stamina. He puts you in positions you've only ever seen onscreen: wheelbarrow, grasshopper, reverse cowgirl, piledriver. You're sore but you're screaming his name. You're overstimiulated but he cools you down and gives you water, fucking you with zeal when you're ready to go again.

For the grand finale, right before you're boneless and your passion is slaked, he brings you to your knees. You already know your place, sticking your tongue out like a baby bird, ready for the warm jets of his come on your face, your tongue, Joel's hand firm on the back of your head.

"There," he says, the last stroke sending a spurt of white on your cheek. He's panting, wide, muscled chest heaving.

You tentatively lick some off near your lips, the taste salty but not unpleasant. "How do I look?"

Joel chuckles. "You look like you could do a few movies with me."

The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.

And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.

He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.

Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.

“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”

This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.

At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.

“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”

Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.

“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”

Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”

You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.

“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”

“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”

“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”

“Yeah, that’ll end well.”

“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”

You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.

“Funny,” you managed.

You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short. 

You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.

You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.

“Thank you,” he said.

You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.

“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“It’s brewing. And the banana?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

He always said no, but today he hesitated.

“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.

What?

“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”

Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?

He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.

Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?

You tucked your pen behind your ear.

“I should go get your coffee.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”

“Thank me? You said that already.”

The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.

But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.

“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”

“You what?”

“I take it back. No thank you for you.”

You failed to hold back a surprised grin.

“Ungrateful bastard.”

Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”

Was he… flirting with you?

You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.

Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.

It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.

So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.

“Coffee will be right out,” you said.

Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.

“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” you said.

You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.

You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.

A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.

You untied your apron.

“I’m going to take my fifteen.”

Casey’s brow furrowed.

“Really? We just started.”

“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.

As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.

You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.

Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.

The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.

Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.

Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?

Clint: 10:00? For two hours?

You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.

Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.

Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.

Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.

It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.

Clint took a moment to respond.

You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.

You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.

Your phone buzzed again.

Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”

Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.

Clint: Did you get it?

Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.

Clint: I get it.

Clint: Is the tip good?

Angel: You’re good. Thank you.

Clint: You said that already.

Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.

Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.

Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.

Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.

Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.

You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.

It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.

When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.

You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.

It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.

When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.

You reached for the rose shampoo.

It was empty. Damn it.

You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.

You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.

It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.

Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.

Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.

Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.

10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.

You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.

Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.

You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.

In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.

Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?

You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.

God, this had been a long day.

You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.

It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.

Handsome stood on the other side.

What?

What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?

Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.

Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.

He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?

Were you the something?

Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.

“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”

That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?

“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”

Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.

The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.

“You didn’t know?”

Handsome gave you an incredulous look.

“Does it seem like I knew?”

It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”

Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.

You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?

It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.

“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”

Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.

“You know what time I come in?”

“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”

You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.

At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.

“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”

“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” you said.

Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.

But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.

They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.

No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”

“You are?”

“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”

Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.

A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.

Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.

Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.

“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.

It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.

“Okay,” he said again.

He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.

“Want to come inside?”

You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?

He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.

If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.

These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.

The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.

“Let me take your coat.”

You handed it over numbly.

There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.

Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?

You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.

There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.

You rose to your feet.

“Here? Or the bedroom?”

“Not the bedroom.”

“Okay, then.”

You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.

He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.

“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”

He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.

“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”

You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.

“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”

Clint’s attention snapped to you.

“Cheating?”

You gestured to his hand.

“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”

“Oh,” was all Clint said.

He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.

“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”

Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.

“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”

Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.

You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?

You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.

But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.

“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”

Clint gave you a strange look.

“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”

“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”

Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”

“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”

“I know,” Clint said.

You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.

“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”

You turned to sit facing him on the couch.

“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”

“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.

“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”

A suspicion formed inside your mind.

“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”

“Yeah.”

Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?

“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”

“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.

Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why. 

“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”

Clint nodded at his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”

He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.

You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason.  You stayed where you were.

“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.

He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.

“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”

Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Sure, he didn’t.

“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”

Fuck.

“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”

“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”

You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.

“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”

You shook your head.

“You just told me you don’t like lying!”

A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.

“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”

He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”

“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”

“You thought I made it up?”

“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”

“You’re lying about Titan.”

“I really wish I was.”

Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”

“I don’t want good form,” he said.

“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”

He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”

Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.

“Um. Probably a blowjob?”

Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”

Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.

“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”

Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”

You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”

“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”

“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”

“I will.”

You walked over to his end of the couch.

Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.

You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.

“Can you make some space?” you asked.

Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.

He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.

Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.

“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?

But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.

Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.

Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.

A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.

You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.

“Should I stop?”

Clint hesitated, then shook his head.

You didn’t move.

“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”

Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.

“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”

You brought your hand to his erection.

Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.

You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.

You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. 

He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.

“Clint – ”

He pushed your hand away.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”

He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.

Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.

His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.

You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.

Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You forced your voice to stay level.

“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.

“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”

“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”

His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”

“That isn’t true,” you said.

An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”

You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.

“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”

He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.

“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”

So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.

And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.

“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.

Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.

“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”

Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.

But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.

You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.

“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.

Clint sighed.

“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”

This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.

“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.”

He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”

You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.

And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.

“Take a seat,” Clint said.

You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”

“I noticed. I like it up here.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”

You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.

“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”

“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”

Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.

“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”

“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”

Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”

Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“Um. Either is good.”

He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.

While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.

“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”

“Really?” you asked.

Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.

“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”

“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.

You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.

The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.

Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.

“Clint,” you said.

He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.

“Is that any good?” you asked.

“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”

“Bluey.”

Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”

It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.

“It feels good,” you said.

Clint smiled softly. “Good.”

He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.

You nodded to it.

“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”

Clint grinned.

“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”

“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”

“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”

“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”

“Um. For transportation.”

“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”

“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”

You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.

“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”

He shook his head. “Not right now.”

He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.

“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”

You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.

“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”

Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.

You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.

“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”

You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.

“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”

Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”

His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”

“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.

He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.

Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.

“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.

Clint shrugged.

“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”

“Does she say anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”

He’d thought about you two together?

“What kind of opinions?”

Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”

“She wants you to go away?”

“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”

Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.

For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.

“Where’s your daughter tonight?”

He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”

“Do I spoil your kid?”

“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”

You shook your head no.

“Do you think you will?”

The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?

“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”

“For kids?” Clint asked.

“For each other.”

Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“What?” you asked.

“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”

“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”

Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”

“I will.”

“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”

You nodded. “We were really young.”

“And…uh…”

“What happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”

You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clint said quietly.

You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.

You busied yourself finishing your drink.

“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.

“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”

He’d noticed you doing homework?

“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”

It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.

Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”

“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”

He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.

“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”

Your face burned.

“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”

You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”

Clint fell quiet for a moment.

“I get it,” he finally said

He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.

Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.

Clint caught you watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.

“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”

“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”

He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”

“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”

“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”

A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.

“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.

“Twice. A long time ago.”

He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?

“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”

You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.

“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”

Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.

“That’s what you want to know?”

You shrugged.

“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”

“Do I now?”

Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.

“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”

“Where are they?”

“The usual places,” he said.

“Like..?”

Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.

He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.

It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.

“Interesting,” you managed to say.

“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.

“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”

Clint swallowed.

“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”

You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.

Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.

He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.

And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.

He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.

“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”

Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.

You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”

The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.

Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”

“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”

Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.

Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”

“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.

Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”

“Hot?”

How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”

You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”

“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.

Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.

By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.

“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.

You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.

“Could you…?” he asked quietly.

He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.

A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”

Your pussy throbbed with heat.

Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.

The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.  

“Clint,” you said.

He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.

“Do you want to take a break from your break?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”

Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.  

“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.

“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”

“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”

“Yeah?” you breathed.

Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.

“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”

Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.

Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.

“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”

You managed to nod.

“We can do that.”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.

“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.

Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.

With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.  

It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.  

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.

You felt a needy flicker in your core.

Clint nodded to your garter belt.

“Take that off.”

You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.

“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.

Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.

“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”

You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?

You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.

Clint took in a heavy breath.

You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”

He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.

A whimper drifted from your mouth.

Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.

“You like him, huh?”   

“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”

“Go on.”

“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.

“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”

Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.

“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”

“Please?”

“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”

“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”

A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.

Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?

You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.

Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.

The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.

Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.

Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.

“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”

Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”

Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.

“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.

Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”

You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.

Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”

As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”

You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.

You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“Do you want me to take these off?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”

He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.

Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.

You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.

“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”

You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.

Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.

“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”

He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.

It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.

Clint grew very still.

And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”

He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.

A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.

You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.

You whined, and Clint met your eyes.

“Was that okay, gorgeous?”

You nodded. “Until you stopped.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah?”

“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”

Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”

“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.

“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”

You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.

Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.

“You wanna meet him?” he asked.

“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”

Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.

He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”

Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?

Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You obeyed at once.

He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.

Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.

He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”

He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.

You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.

Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.

“This okay?” Clint asked.

You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.

Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.

You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”

You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.

“Spit on him, baby.”

You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.

Clint inhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”

He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.

“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”  

Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.

You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.

“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”

He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.

His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.

“I want you to spread her open.”

You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.

It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.

“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”

You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.

“Oh yeah, she wants him.  That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”

“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”

“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”

With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.

“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”

Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”

Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.

“Tell me what you want,” you said.

He answered at once.

“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”

“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”

Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.

His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.

You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.

Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.

You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.

Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.

A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.

Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.

“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”

Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”

“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.

“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”

Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.

You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”

You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.

“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”

Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Yeah?”

Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”

“Tell me.”

“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.

Holy fuck. Oh, God.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”

Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.

“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”

He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.

Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.

He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.

Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.

“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”

Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”

He cut himself off.

“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”

He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”

Clint stilled. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”

“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”

You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”

Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.

He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.

“Goddamn is she pretty.”

The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.

Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.

“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”

He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.

Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.

“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”

Oh, fuck. Did he mean –

“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”

White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.

“Please.”

Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.

“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”

He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.

Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.

Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.

Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”

The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.

You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.

Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.

The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.

He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.

He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.

“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”

“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”

“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”

Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.

“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.

Clint grinned. “Hated it.”

You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.

Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?

You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.

“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.

“A little. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”

You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”

“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”

Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.

You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.

“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”

You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.

“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”

You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”

You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.

A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?

The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.

You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.

“My phone,” you said.

“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”

He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.

You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”

Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.

“Everything good?” Clint asked.

You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”

Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.

“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”

“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”

“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”

You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.

But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.

Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.

He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.

You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.

You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.

A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.

You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.

The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.

You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.

This would pass. Your body was just confused.

You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.

Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.

When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.

A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.

What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.

You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.

His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.

Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.

He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.

Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.

“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”

It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.

“Then why did you give me this?”

“12.5%,” Clint said.  “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”

“I took pictures,” Clint said.

“I begged you to take them.”

“I came all over you.”

“I begged for that, too.”

“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”

You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.

“I’m not charging you,” you said.

“Then call it a tip.”

“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”

He paused, and his eyes found yours.  

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I.”

Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”

“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”

“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”

“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”

“Right,” Clint said.

He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.

He’d lost his wife only a year ago.

You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.

“I’m going to leave,” you said.

Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.

His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

Your throat felt tight.

“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”

Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”

You squeezed his hand.

“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”

“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”

You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?

Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.

You swallowed a heavy feeling.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”

Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.

“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”

“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”

Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.

The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.

He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.

You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.

Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.

A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.

Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.

Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.

And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.

But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.

You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.

This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.

Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.

“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”

You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”

Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”

“Shut up,” you muttered.

Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”

You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.

The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.

By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.

You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.

2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.

At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.

You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.

“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.

You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.

It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.

You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.

You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.

“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”

You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.

He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.

You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.

This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.

“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.

“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”

“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”

“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”

“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”

“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”

His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.

“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”

As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.

“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”

She blinked sleepily. “Da.”

“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”

“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”

Clint grinned. “Exactly.”

He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.

You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.

“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”

“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”

“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”

There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”

Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.

“Those tables aren’t in your section.”

“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”

“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”

He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.

“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”

A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”

If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖

end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.

taglist: @burningnerdchild @okiegal68 @shadowqueen2024 @milla-frenchy @the-sophverse @cozymochaa @pleurspetal @bratty-spicee @pedrit0-pascalit0 @ptolemaea444 @perpetualharpyresonance @littlepedrito @whimsywhisper0899 @copperhalfcent @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @daniel-bruhhl @mcthsman

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FRANKIE MORALES

watching the weather by @berryispunk

summary: They only met once. Two strangers stranded by a storm in Albuquerque. Years, oceans, and letters later, the weather hasn’t stopped following them.

damage control by @/berryispunk

summary: After a chaotic New Year’s Eve, Frankie wakes up wrecked on your couch and you nurse him with coffee and teasing.

HARRY CASTILLO

then came you by @pedroscurls

series summary: after lucy, harry believed he was destined to be alone. he had given up on his dream to be a father and husband. that is, until he met you who gave him hope for a future he thought was lost. 

the ex education by @missadangel

Summary: Born and raised on the Upper East Side — mother’s an actress, stepfather runs an empire that’s suddenly “under review,” and your brother’s the reason you have gray hair. You married perfection in your 20s Years after your picture-perfect marriage went up in smoke, you left New York to “heal.” Now you’re back, in your 30s — and saw your ex-husband on the cover of TIME. Wow. He got richer, your family’s going down, and somehow, you ended up working for him. Cried? Yes. Bad idea? Definitely. What could possibly go wrong?

AUTHOR'S PICKS (my own work)

when did you get hot? - Frankie Morales x OFC

series summary: You and Frankie have been friends since middle school. He leaves to go overseas for almost five years, and when he comes back, you look at him in a different way than you did before. Will you act on it?

crash of worlds - Javier Peña x f!reader

summary: the world isn't what Javier thought it was, and he makes the decision to come home.

western nights - Joel Miller x fDoctor!reader

series summary: You'd go to great lengths to protect the people you care about, and so will Joel. Regardless of how he feels about you, that's one thing the both of you can agree on.

la dolce vita - Harry Castillo x OFC

series summary: a year after heartbreak for both you and Harry, the two of you find love in the most unexpected place. thing is, Harry is one of your closest friend's brother-in-law. will you still act on it?

In the middle of the night, Javier stood in the bright refrigerator light staring at the bottles she had pumped and stored before bed. The milk white as sugar. Basically fresh. He licked his lips, suddenly feeling wide-awake. He’d never tried her milk or anything. He wondered about it often, more often than he cared to admit, and though he tried to stop, he could not help it. But that wasn’t why he was here. No. Sneaking a drink behind her back hadn’t crossed his mind when he came downstairs.

But for a split-second Javier swore something possessed him. 

Whether it was desperation or sleep deprivation, he didn’t know, but he stuck the nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue around in that way she always liked. The last few weeks, he’d spent an ungodly amount of time thinking about this: her sensitivity, the taste, if the milk would be sweet or soft and buttery like rich cream. 

And now here was his chance, only this nipple was chilly and nothing like hers. The artificial rubber scraping his front teeth both disturbed and sobered him. Everything felt wrong. Really fucking wrong. This bottle was meant for Lola, not his gluttonous tongue. 

“What’re you doing awake?” 

Javier ripped the plastic bottle out of his mouth so fast that a spurt of milk landed on his chin. He wiped it away before he turned to find her rubbing her eyes; and now heading this way, her bare feet thump thump thumping against the wooden floorboards until she stood right beside him. The white light reflected off her silky blue nightgown like still water. 

His eyes must’ve looked wild because she tilted her head and said, “Did I scare you?” 

Javier was so stunned he could only nod. How did he not hear her coming? And had she seen him? Or was it too dark? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he might’ve been caught. 

“Well, that’s what you get for not waking me up.” 

Or maybe not. He thumbed at the residual sticky spot on his chin. “You looked too peace—” 

“While it’s sweet, really, how much you care about my sleep, I’m not the one who has work in the morning.” She yawned into her hand. “Besides, I can already feel myself getting full again.” 

His cock twitched, disarming him just long enough that she plucked the bottle right out of his hand. The rubber tip all wet with his spit, really shining like a spotlight. Any hope he had for getting off scott-free was instantly gone. He had no clue how she wouldn’t notice, always too perceptive for her own good. 

Javier swallowed hard, mentally toiling over what to say, how to explain. Yes, I’m a freak. I’ve been imagining drinking your breast milk for weeks. But I swear, I didn’t even take a sip.

Something twisted in his gut, only for her to say…nothing? Huh? She placed the bottle on the center shelf and shut the refrigerator door, snuffing out the bright light. 

Now, in the shadows, there was no way she could see the hot shame on his cheeks, not even as her hand found his and guided him upstairs. 

—--

Javier didn’t know which option was worse. Either she genuinely didn’t see the bottle in his mouth or perhaps trusted him too much to even consider it; or she did notice and chose not to say anything to spare him the humiliation. 

Or was it rejection?

It didn’t matter. Whatever the case, he decided to take it as a sign. Not gonna happen. The next two days, Javier tried to forget about this fantasy, starve the beast, so to say. 

But when he came home from work on Wednesday, he found her on the couch – shirtless and holding clear domes against her chest, the outer edges of her areolas spilling over the silicone rim. 

His tongue grew thicker than a brick in his mouth. Watching her nurse the girls never turned him on, the act seeming too…precious. Sacred. But pumping – Jesus – even when she did it in the soft-lit nursery, it elicited a Pavlovian response. 

She never pumped in the living room. At least not around him, not in broad daylight with the August sun pouring through the windows, allowing him to see the subtle suction, the faint outline of her nipples, the rhythmic pull that elongated her breasts. Chug-chuk-chug. Fresh milk foamed into the bottles. 

“Thought you might wanna feed the girls when they wake up from their nap,” she said, apparently unaware that he was seconds away from drooling like a basset hound. 

It was a miracle that he managed to nod. All the blood in his brain was rushing down, down, and he had to excuse himself, “Gonna shower real quick.” 

He didn’t even kiss her before fleeing upstairs, into their bathroom. His entire body burned despite shedding his clothes, socks, all scattered on the spongy navy rug. After nearly tripping face-first into the porcelain tub, he cranked the squeaky brass handle to the left and a rush of water drenched his scalp, sluiced down his back. Not even the sudden coldness could scare away his erection. It didn’t make sense. He’d touched himself just days ago. 

Maybe his body was still trying to make up for lost time. Those initial newborn weeks, Javier couldn’t recall having a single sexual thought. Too damn exhausted, both physically and mentally. Buried under spit up and laundry and cartoon-printed diapers. 

It didn’t last that long, though. Within a month or so, Javier felt that distinct familiar ache in his groin. And just like he had done since her third trimester, he took care of it – alone. No hesitation. And no clue what he would awaken either. 

It had never occurred to him, until that day, that her breast milk could be an erotic thing. But it was; oh, it was. He had found that out in this very shower, hadn’t he? Yeah, he’d been stroking himself while thinking about her tits when all of a sudden he imagined her saying, really pleading: please please drink from me. 

Javier shuddered as he remembered the mess he made on the porcelain basin. He’d come so hard that it startled him, too, somewhat confused him. It wasn’t like he wanted to call her mommy or wear a diaper or some shit like that – not that he was judging or had any right to anyway. 

For God sake, he couldn’t stop picturing her on the couch. She was still down there, the machine whirling and whirling. It was unnerving how bad he wanted to be that pump. 

Was this weird? Or normal? How should he know? Drinking your wife’s breast milk didn’t exactly come up in everyday conversation. And he sure as shit wasn’t going to ask Doctor Kelly or his dad or Steve. 

Fuck no. 

Before the girls were born, he likely would have confided in her. Or, at least, found some roundabout way to gauge her interest: Do you ever wonder? What’s it taste like? Have you ever tried it before? 

Sex, both talking and the act itself, used to be easy between them. But now? Things felt so different now. 

Neither of them had brought up sex in a little over a month, not since her six-week follow up. She physically had healed, so Doctor Kelly gave the all clear, but the way she tensed and bit the inside of her lip told him another story. She wasn’t there mentally. In the car, he’d taken her hand, kissed her knuckles and said: 

“There isn’t a rush, you know that right? Whenever you’re ready, just let me know.” 

It would happen again someday, he knew, and so he would patiently wait, keeping his mouth shut just as promised. He missed sex – no shit – but more than that he missed her eagerness, her willingness, her desperation to have sex with him. So often he would tease her to the point where she begged. The back of his ears burned as memories of her moaning his name overwhelmed him. 

And now, underneath the rapidly warming water, it was becoming harder to deny himself. He even thought about work and laundry and what to cook for dinner but nothing helped. And he really didn’t have time to wait this erection out. The girls would be awake soon. 

He had to just do it. His hand snaked over his chest, following the stream that ran down his torso before wrapping around his cock. He groaned like it’d been decades, the tight grip of his fist making him buck helplessly into the air. 

Javier intended to make this quick, not bothering to be soft or gentle. He tried not to think about her breasts, but that lasted all of two seconds. They just looked so engorged, so overwhelmingly full. He couldn’t help but imagine being downstairs, his mouth replacing the plastic cones on her nipples. His jaw went slack. Every drop of water landing on his bottom lip made him whine and wish it was her milk instead. 

He stroked himself faster, thrusting into his hand. Fuck it. In real life he might never taste her, so why not fantasize? This could be just for him and the solitude of their shower.

—-

Javier hadn’t masturbated back-to-back days in years. The release brought on by his own hand would never compare to the real thing, but it was as if he was a hormone-crazed teenager again – his hand had worked up and down so fast that it might’ve chafed his skin if not for the water. 

He had no intentions to keep up the streak, though, as he arrived home from work on Friday. Fucking his hand once or twice a week, fine, but every day was not healthy. Not to mention what he had been imagining, too, what he’d pictured happening on the couch. He was already somewhat regretting allowing himself to fantasize in the first place. 

He was both ashamed and not. But it was much too late; he’d already done it, had already glimpsed the dark rip in the fabric of his mind. The memory of her heavy breasts, the foamy look of her milk, had lingered long out of the shower. 

Why did he want this so badly? 

With three-month old twins, he really didn’t have time to psychoanalyze. 

The girls were already waking from their nap, so his shower only lasted long enough to wash his body and hair. 

Once downstairs, he found her on the living room floor at the safari-theme play mat where the girls wiggled and kicked their feet when she spoke in that bright-motherly tone. “Here comes daddy. Yes there he is. There he is.” 

Just as easily as she slipped into her role as wife, she became a mother. She had learned the differences in their cries, too, could decipher their needs and wants as if she had done this for years instead of weeks. For her, it just clicked. 

But for him? 

Javier wouldn’t say taking on his fatherly role came as naturally. Most of the time he felt like he was sprinting just to try and catch up with her. Sometimes he would feel a prickling near his ear when he imagined what might’ve happened…if he had to do this alone. How could he? Only because of her, he’d started to find his footing. 

“Hi girls. Did you have a good day?” he said and they babbled back in vowel sounds. 

He picked up a sunflower-shaped rattle and shook it, wondering if he was doing this right. The rhythm seemed off, but the girls only smiled and watched him intently. Marisol gripped his thumb and pulled it towards her mouth. He leaned forward, unable to resist giving her stupidly-small nose a kiss. They were still so tiny, a little over ten pounds each. 

“They missed you.” 

And what about you? He almost said back, but didn’t. It sounded too pathetic. “Is that what they told you?” 

“In their own way.” She smoothed down Lola’s full head of dark hair. “So how was work?”

They fell into an easy conversation, their usual routine. Feedings. Tummy Time. A thirty-minute nap, so Javier and her could eat dinner uninterrupted, followed by more play time and feedings and finally, their bedtime routine. 

It was insane how much life could change within a year. On a Friday they would sometimes grab a bite to eat or rent a movie at Blockbuster down the street and she would huddle against him on the couch, her head resting against his chest or in his lap. But lately, they were in bed by nine. 

With the girls asleep, she went and took a bath – alone – and he cleaned around the house. He put away odd-textured toys, unloaded and loaded dishes, threw an obscene amount of pastel onesies into the dryer, then headed into their bedroom. The bathroom door was still closed, the frame glowing like a golden-orange halo. The loud glug-glug-glug of draining water meant she wouldn’t be much longer. 

Now, in boxers and a white t-shirt, he laid atop their floral comforter, a few throw pillows propped against the wooden headboard to cushion his back. He was about to grab his book and reading glasses from the bedside drawer when the door opened, wafting in the smell of lavender soap.

She stood in the door frame, wearing a black satin robe with the sash tied in a perfect bow. The short length exposed her dewy legs and most of her thighs. 

“I might need your help,” she said with a wide vulnerable look in her eyes that made him sit up straight. “My breasts are really sore and achy. I’m worried they might be getting clogged.” 

Javier stared at her, not blinking, unsure if this was a dream. Maybe he’d dozed off while rocking Marisol to sleep. It seemed possible, but also Doctor Kelly had warned this could happen. That she was an oversupplier. 

Was that when his desire took root? 

He cleared his throat, along with his head, and finally said, “What’d you need from me?” 

Wordlessly, she climbed onto the bed, into his lap, and her bare, damp thighs felt cool against his rapidly heating skin. And now he was seriously regretting not getting a hand on himself earlier. Silk or something equally soft rubbed against his quad, so at least she was wearing panties. Thank God. No doubt he would’ve combusted on the spot at the feeling of her bare cunt. 

“I tried massaging them myself, but it didn’t help.” 

She undid the bow, but the robe stuck to her clean skin, only revealing a sliver of cleavage. The sash dangled at her sides, tickling his knees. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and the way she toyed with the lapels for a moment made her appear hesitant but also…not. This must've been his imagination, but, at the same time it almost seemed like she was performing a strip tease, purposely moving slow and luring the robe open to expose her breasts. 

And there they were, right in front of him, more engorged than he’d ever seen them before. The skin stretched, smooth and tight. Nipples hard, too. His mouth flooded with saliva and he had to avert his gaze, only her panties were black and shiny, just as tempting and sexy as her robe. He should’ve looked up instead of down. 

He stared directly at her belly button when he said, “So… massage ‘em?” 

“Do you want me to show you?” 

“No.” His voice was tighter than he intended, but the thought of her touching her tits while sitting on him was enough to make his balls painfully ache. “Just tell me if it’s wrong.” 

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Her ass cheeks jiggled back and forth as she shifted just enough to clutch his shoulders. Her arms formed a sort of makeshift cage, practically forcing him to look at her milk-filled tits. 

Javier already felt his cock betraying him, of course, already twitchy and rising with humiliating speed. She was bound to notice eventually. He imagined, at some point, it would poke her in the stomach or thigh and he’d give a tomato-faced apology for his goddamn baser instincts. If only his body could be on the same page as his brain and realize this was strictly medical. Essential. Based on the Mastitis pamphlet he’d read, that shit sounded brutal. 

Sexual or not, he always wanted, really needed to make her feel good. 

He rubbed his hands together to warm them first; except he must’ve done a piss-poor job because she shivered when he touched her waist. He mumbled an apology but did not pull away or stray from this ten-and-two position, which seemed a more neutral zone. 

Not enough to fully compose him, however. 

His hands still trembled a little as he climbed up her torso, lingering on the crest of her ribcage a moment. A distinct, concentrated heat was radiating from her chest. It was as if only that part of her body ran a low-grade fever. 

Javier cupped her tits, his fingers shaping around the outer swells. His chest hitched at the weight, their new fullness. He liked to think himself an expert on her breasts, having touched them hundreds, thousands of times. Hell – he’d even massaged them in ways similar to how he was now, but he had never felt them like this. So dense, like a rich flourless cake. A firmness that made him wonder why she insisted he feed Marisol tonight and with a bottle pumped this afternoon, no less. But he didn’t trust his voice enough to ask.  

Instead, he kept applying gentle pressure with his thumbs, sticking to the perimeter at first. There were no visible signs of a knot, neither a lump or a discolored patch to direct him. Not feeling anything hard either, he pressed deeper and slowly worked his way towards the center. 

His diligent efforts weren’t entirely selfless, though. As much as he wished he could say they were, the longer he searched, the less secure he became. Every knead and touch stripped off yet another layer of his resolve until he felt lost and dizzy. 

The only sounds in the room soon became her moans and these ugly, harsh nostril tones that he couldn’t stop making. Not that he tried. Too consumed in the act, the inward path of his hands, the way she panted yeah yeah yeah keep going. 

And with nowhere else to explore he let his fingers encircle her nipple, felt it bunch and stiffen as she gasped beautifully. 

Milk dribbled onto his thumbnail like vanilla-smelling paint. His tongue peeked out from his lips and it was taking everything in him to keep his cool, to not lean down and lick. 

“Did you like the taste?” 

It took him a second to realize what she said before his gaze snapped to her face. “What?” 

“The other night.” She tilted her head coolly. “Did you like the taste?” 

His pulse spiked, making him very aware of his clammy hands on her breasts, the warm milk sliding down his fingertip. “I. I didn’t–” 

“You didn’t like it?” 

“I didn’t try it.” The words catapulted out of his mouth. “Shit. I almost did, but couldn’t do it.” 

She raised her eyebrows, as though he’d said something wildly intriguing. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist and, without breaking eye contact, she brought his milky thumb to her lips and licked. It was shocking, the wet slip of her tongue. He didn’t know which of them moaned louder. 

“You wanna try it, I know you do.” She gave another kitten lick, apparently enjoying the taste. “So what stopped you?” 

Javier did not know what to say. Words had never come easy to him. And especially not right now, not in this state, for how could he think with her milk and spit drying on his finger? He had to physically shake his head a little to focus on that night, remember the cold bottle in his hand. It was true, the rubber taste in his mouth hadn’t felt right, but it was more than that. So much more. At the end of the day, no matter how many times he’d feasted on her cunt and eaten her ass, he would always want – 

“Tell me,” he murmured and she leaned closer, almost instinctively. “Need you to tell me I can use my mouth. 

He had spoken too stupidly. It did not come out as he wanted, but she still said, “Yes. Yes, I want you to.” 

Her permission nearly made him lose control – all he wanted to do was bury his face in her tits, slurp and suck and be greedy with it – but this also felt like a gift. Something he thought would only exist in his dreams. And he’d be an idiot not to treat it like such. 

He placed tender kisses along her collarbone, her sternum, each one making her whimper and God – he really missed hearing her whimper. He murmured her name reverently as he mouthed at her breast, unable to believe she was letting him have this. She shivered – out of desire or nervousness, he couldn’t tell but her skin felt more feverish than before. 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, but she cradled the back of his skull as though to encourage more. 

More. 

And he obeyed. His mouth captured her nipple, only sucking long enough for a splash of milk to hit his tongue. Creamy and sweet – better than he imagined – like a warm slice of Tres Leches Cake. Heat bloomed in his gut and before he could stop and think, he stole another drink. Then another. Another. 

An ungodly noise escaped his throat, a trickle of milk spilling out the side of his mouth. He couldn’t seem to get enough, though. There was still a small part of him that felt like he was doing something wrong. He wondered if he was enjoying this too much, if she found his desire disturbing. She was always so goddamn generous that he would hate to take more than she was willing to give. 

He did, finally, pull away; his mouth made a wet popping sound, but without wiping his lips, he leaned back just far enough to study her face. The glazy look in her eyes, her bite-swollen lips, and he couldn’t believe it – she was enjoying this. 

Still, he found himself asking, “This feel good?” before his head dipped to her other breast. His tongue circled and circled her recently-ignored nipple. 

“Ohhhhh yes. Javi!” 

The way she said his name, that desire-soaked voice, made something snap deep inside him. He grabbed a handful of her ass and tugged her impossibly close, smashing his nose against her plump breast. 

It was frantic. His lips alternated between kisses, strokes, and devouring her whole. Foreplay with her tits had always aroused her to a certain extent, though, more so in a soft sigh and breathy kind of way. Definitely never like this. He imagined she would be sensitive but fuck – she was pulling his hair and crying his name like he’d been edging her for hours. 

And now, the room smelled distinctly like sex, only he had no idea what direction this was headed. Did she want more? He really didn’t want to ask, didn’t want her to feel pressured. But she was rolling her hips, her clothed slit pinned against the raging tent in his boxers, and he was getting close to a shamefully quick orgasm. 

“Want me to come like this?” His voice was low, milk-thick. “Fuck. Just tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

She rocked backwards, relieving the pressure off his cock which also made it painfully throb. He clamped down on his jaw in order to keep from whimpering like a wounded dog. 

Her gaze flickered to her nightstand, back to his face. “I bought condoms at the store yesterday.” 

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Javi–” 

“Whatever you want, I need to hear you say it.” He brushed across the sensitive spot on her neck, then nipped at her chin. Underneath his palm, goosebumps rose over her skin. 

“You,” she whispered. “Make me feel good.” 

Her fingers snagged into his hair and she drew him into a bruising kiss. It felt good – wet and noisy. She licked the seam of his sticky lips, slid her tongue between his teeth and moaned. 

Fuck – he’d missed kissing her desperately, breathlessly, in the sanctity of their bedroom. 

She toyed with the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He ripped it off and tossed it on the floor as soon as she crawled over to her bedside drawer. She rummaged out a condom along with a tiny purple bottle. 

“I also got some lube,” she said. “Just in case–” 

“We’re fucking using that.” He beckoned her to hand it over with a crook of his finger. “Now, switch me spots and get comfortable.” 

She moved the pillows more towards the middle, laid back and spread her legs until there was enough space for him. Nestled between her thighs now, he dropped the bottle of lube onto the comforter to pet her hips. In the warm lamp light, the wet marks of his greedy mouth all shiny on her nipples. His gaze dipped to her cunt, her panties molding against her seam and lips. He swallowed the urge to tear away the satin and fuck her senseless. 

The doctor had warned sex, especially the first time after a c-section, could be painful. Dry and stingy and uncomfortable. If he wanted to make her feel good, which he did, he needed to ignore his own desire and stretch her open with fingers first. 

“So pretty.” He stroked her thighs until he reached the elastic stitching of her panties. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. “Just relax. I’ll go slow.” 

“I trust you.” 

He hummed his approval, one hand caressing her hip as his fingers swept across her clothed slit. Soaked. She was so wet that when he teased her folds her panties made a splish-splosh noise. And oh – he could smell her, even through the satin, he could smell the seawater spice of her that always drove him insane. 

When he touched her clit, she let out a moan that was barely human. He’d never heard her make such a noise. He would’ve assumed she also touched herself when nobody was around, but maybe not. Maybe this was the first time in months that her clit had any real attention. 

“More?” he asked and in response, she bucked her hips. He clicked his tongue. “Use your words, baby.” 

She groaned, cried, “Please, God please more!” 

“There you go.” He hooked his fingers around her panties, shoved them down her legs before tossing them on the floor. She spread herself wider and he stared without shame. Her cunt was such a pretty thing: glossy and swollen and even better than his memories. The sight made his cock viciously jerk, a gush of pre-come no doubt staining his boxers. 

Javier had to clench every muscle in his body just to keep from fucking the mattress or his hand, and most of all her. He took a breath, retrieved the bottle of K & Y Jelly – near the foot of the bed – and popped open the lid. A drugstore lube, so it smelled a little like plastic. Not that he cared with how utterly desperate she looked, all exposed and whimpering for him. 

Once his fingers were nice and coated, he reached between her legs and spread the slick over her lips and fever-hot slit until everything was drenched. He focused on her clit first. Tight circles before he flicked it with just enough pressure to make her thighs twitch. One finger slid down to tease her entrance. “Can I?” 

She furiously nodded, an urgent chant of yes yes yes spilling from her lips. 

Most of the time he would watch her cunt eagerly swallow him: cock, fingers, tongue, or whatever she was taking from him. All very erotic. But now, easing into her, Javier intently studied her face for any signs of pain. Her eyebrows pinched together at first, but inch by slow inch, pleasure burst from her lips, releasing sounds that were like gasps but higher pitched. 

“Good girl. Took it all. Took it so well,” he said, making her eyes roll into the back of her head. 

He drew back, before pushing forward. Over and over and over again. Slow but deep. Expertly finding the spongy spot that she ached toward, curling and bending and pressing just right, and she was so aroused, so open and eager and moaning for him and him alone. 

Javier realized, not for the first time, the intensity of his desire. Of course he had always enjoyed sex, ever since that first fumbling in the backseat of a mustard brown Buick at sixteen. Except between him and past women, there had always been a gap. Sex had been a means to an end. Just fucking. Just two detached rocks bluntly striking together for friction, seeking some type of release – either biological or psychological, sometimes both. Good at the time. Even great and helped keep him sane. But nothing – nothing could compare. He didn’t know something like this could exist until she let him into her bed. 

She, curious and passionate and loving, had shown him a world of intimacy from which he’d restricted himself for too long. It was intoxicating. Addictive. He could never live without it again. Now, his gaze flickered from her mouth to her chest to her torso rising and falling with every audible breath, and soon Javier thought he’d go wild if he couldn’t touch more of her. 

“Let me add another one.” The words came out in a rush, sounded more like a demand than a question, but she didn’t seem to care and immediately told him: I need it. I need it. 

With two fingers stretching her open and thumb circling her clit, Javier shifted and leaned forward to kiss her stomach — a place he wanted to worship. 

“Most perfect fucking thing. Swear you get prettier everyday baby,” he mumbled into her softened flesh and felt her clench. 

“Oh that’s – Shit. I’m close.” 

His lips, the sharp tip of his nose caressed every new mark that formed from bringing their daughters into this world. He lifted his head to admire her incision line. He remembered cleaning that freshly pissed-off wound when her abdomen was too sore and she was too weak to move. It had healed nicely since then, the skin only a bit risen, a shade or two different. 

He kissed the scar tenderly, delicately, as though the incision could possibly split open and he would be transported back to the hospital again, back in the room among strangers and balloons where he had waited and waited and waited, scared out of his mind that she would leave him behind in this world and with no clue how to be alone anymore. 

But she was here. She was in their bed, with his fingers buried in her white-hot flesh, her body humming with life as she climaxed. 

“Yeah. Good. C’mon that’s it,” he whispered encouragement until she looped her fingers through his hair and tugged hard enough to make him grunt. 

When she finally released him and he withdrew his hand, he could see her all over him. If not for the waxy resin of lube, he would’ve tasted her. Instead he curved his fingers back inside her. She must not have expected it because her walls squeezed like a fist. 

“Javi!”

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Come on. I need…” she trailed off when he added a third without warning. Her mouth stuck open mid-word as he massaged the inner lining of her walls. 

“Need what, huh?” He plugged her full and wiggled his fingers, only making it harder for her to speak. “Tell me.” 

Now her thighs were quivering, same as her voice. “Wanna…fuck. Fuck me. Please.” 

It took every scrap of strength he possessed to not fuck her right then and there, completely bare. But that was how she got pregnant, wasn’t it?

This time, rather than think with his dick, he carefully slipped from her body and grabbed the aluminum packet. After rolling on the condom and lathering it with lube, he asked, “How do you want me?” 

She instructed him to sit back. They were both fully undressed, matching frantic expressions with her climbing in his lap and fisting his cock for the first time tonight. He seized her hips and curled his toes, unable to stop himself from moaning. She responded similarly as she smeared his flush-red tip through the swollen lips of her pussy. 

Notched at her entrance, he said, “Take it nice and slow.” 

“I will.” 

She braced one hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped firmly around his base. His jaw clenched at the initial stretch, the blossoming of her cunt. She sank down and down and God – she felt so good. Wet and tight, her walls convulsing wildly. Only the condom kept him from prematurely finishing. 

“So much. Forgot how… it’s a lot,” she panted and he almost smirked. No matter how shameful it felt, he couldn’t help but swell with pride every damn time she needed a moment to adjust to his size; it was encoded into him. Some barbaric instinct that made him want to believe she’d never taken bigger. Nobody had ever claimed her so wholly.

His hand caressed her face, feeling the soft bulb of her cheek. “Always take it so well though, don’t you baby?” 

“Uh-huh,” she whimpered when she angled her hips, pinning him in the best way possible. She began to rock, a fluid back and forth. Back and forth. She didn’t rush. He didn’t want her to either. This was worth savoring. 

“That’s it,” he said in a low baritone that made her lashes flutter. Her neck arched towards the ceiling like a flower seeking the sun. Even though she had a beautiful throat, he gripped the back of her neck possessively. “Keep your eyes on me. Keep ‘em here. There you go.” 

In the honey light of the room, his thumb tucked behind her ear, he admired her focused brow, arouse-stricken mouth, the slight expansion of her pupils. His breath caught at the thought of never seeing her like this again. What the hell was wrong with him? Even while inside her, he could not forget almost losing her. That possibility had left him sick and stricken then; but only afterwards, in moments such as this, had he come to understand the terrifying scope of what life without her would truly mean. No more potpourri or warm sheets, no more uncapped tubes of mint toothpaste or half-full water glasses cluttering side tables. 

Relief and unrealized grief thrummed through his veins. Unable to speak, he tilted his head and demanded her mouth. It wasn’t a kiss, more a desperate smack of lips. A declaration of teeth, tongue, and spit. He was eclipsed under her frame, with her hips rolling faster. Faster. The wooden headboard bump…bump…bumping against the wall like a crashing wave. 

“God. I need you. I need you,” he murmured, the words coming out frantic and lacking, but how could he think straight?

“I know. I know.” She stroked the crown of his hair while guiding him to her breast, encouraging him to suck. When he encircled her nipple and began to drink, he swore being inside her made her taste more sweet. 

He groaned. “Taste good. How do you taste this fucking good?” 

Rather than wait for her to speak, he went back to suckling and lapping and soon, he noticed that she was desperately moaning. Javi Javi oooh just like that. 

The room vibrated with the pitch of their sex – all sloppy desire and heat-hump skin rising and perspiring together. She was making a mess on his lap, pussy drooling all over him. Slickness like a warm tongue licked past his balls and he hoped it would dribble onto the comforter, form darkened blots like souvenirs on the red and navy floral pattern. 

His cock pulsed, really throbbed this time. He was no stranger to the heated feeling building in his gut, but never in his life, not even as an early teen, could he recall coming like this. From just grinding and sucking on tits. Usually took more movement, a little bounce or thrust, some basic up-and-down stuff. But – 

Oh God. A climax propelled in his belly, heaving and screaming like an untamed bull, and she pushed down even further. Deeper. Until she couldn’t take another inch. 

“Not gonna last,” he was forced to admit; the words punched from his lungs the moment her ass grazed the scant hairs on his thighs. 

“It’s okay. I got you.” 

“No. Want you to come too.” His hand on her hip slid between them to find her clit. He could tell when he made contact by the way her cunt squeezed and constricted like a knot. “Use me. Come on, use me. Take what you need.” 

She didn’t hesitate, her fingers curling through his hair and sealing him against her pretty tits. He devoured her, inhaled her without a hint of shame. She let out a ragged cry, began to ride him with wild, tall-saddle strokes, her pelvis grounding against him in a way that made his wrist temporarily numb. His fingers were trapped, shooting static. Fuck. He had to just press against her clit, hope it would be enough pressure. 

It must’ve been because she quickly spasmed around him, making those noises she made when she was close, those deep throaty moans. So fucking hot. Did she know what her noises did to him? The way she said his name? It was too much. A pitiful sound of his own vibrated his throat right before he finally broke. 

The orgasm that overtook him was different than anything he had experienced before, with her or women he’d gone to bed with in the past. Shockingly intense. It was almost as if the warm vanilla taste made him lose all sense of control in his mind and limbs. Lost in this, he couldn’t help thrusting upward. His hips pistoned off the bed again and again. A clumsy rhythm, but she still gushed. Milk on his chin. Pussy clamping around him. Her climax amplified his own, making him come so hard and long that his eyes watered shut. 

Afterwards he had to release her nipple in order to catch his breath. He glued his forehead to her sternum, inhaling the scent of her fresh sweat while listening to the hearty blur-blur-blur in her chest. Their skin was damp now, both of them syrupy, but his hands worked to pet her hips, trace the column of her spine. Orgasms always left him desperate for touch. He was still buried inside her, going soft, and yet… 

His body craved more. More. At times, especially like now, he wished he could sprout extra arms. Wanted to wrap around her like an octopus, attach himself to her. Maybe it was strange but fuck – he wanted to be completely enveloped with her. 

Finally, after a long moment of panting, Javier had a clear enough mind to say, “I didn’t mean to get that rough at the end.” 

“Who was complaining?” Her head swiveled from left to right. “Because it definitely wasn’t me.” 

“Like being smug, huh?” He gave her left ass cheek a light swat. 

She let out a girlish squeak, gripped him by the back of the neck, then kissed him sweetly. A happy humming sound came from her closed lips before she said, “Tastes good, doesn’t it?” 

Still, he had sleepless nights and bad dreams where he was running through their dark, empty house screaming. She never answered. He could never find her. It disturbed him, wrenched him out of sleep and sent him scrambling to her side of the bed. 

He knew that anxiety around impending parenthood was normal. After all, he’d read the books, gone to Lamaze, and everyone said: Who wouldn’t be nervous? This is a monumental transition in your lives. And yes, in the beginning, the idea of fatherhood terrified him — and still did — but that quit being his chief anxiety once her pregnancy classified as high-risk. 

Although Javier hated to admit it, the violence he’d witnessed daily in Colombia had irreversibly altered him. He could never forget what he had done. What he had seen. Watching the gravest what-ifs splatter across commune streets like bloody flea markets had made him painfully aware how even a slim possibility could become a reality. 

Of course, he never spoke about his struggles. Tried not to add to her stress levels. She needed him strong, and so whenever a disturbing thought popped into his head, he simply stuffed it down his throat and behind his ribs. He’d learned from an early age that avoidance was easiest. 

And now, on this hellishly hot day in May, Javier was seven hours into grading final exams and had no plans to stop. Coffee cup drained. Eyes drier than yesterday. The muscles in his hand screaming from his determined grip on the pen. 

When his office phone rang, he didn’t bother to check the caller ID before answering, “Javier Peña.” 

“Well hello there sir, what’s with the formal greeting?”

Her voice was the last thing he expected. He might have worried something was wrong if she wasn’t overtly teasing him. But instead, he paused from slashing out another wrong answer. “Don’t you like when I use my professor voice?” 

“Only when you don’t sound overworked.” 

“Hearing me say two words made you think I’m overworked?”

“Did you forget I live with you?”

“It’s just grades, baby,” he said. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Listen here tough guy, I didn’t call to pick a fight. Just wanted to know whether you’d make it home in time for dinner.” 

God – he hoped so. Over the last three days, he’d consumed an ungodly amount of fast food and was sick of eating alone in this cinderblock room. He wanted to be home. With her. But he was putting in these long grueling hours so he could finalize everything and be done, just in case the babies decided to come. 

Any day, Dr. Kelly said at their last appointment. Any day now. 

“Depends how long it takes to enter final grades.” Javier sifted through the stack of exams, which he’d cut in half since this morning. “But I’ll do everything in my power.”

-----

Five hours later, Javier dropped all necessary paperwork off at the registrar’s office just in time for dinner – carry-out from an Asian restaurant, not too far out of his way. 

As expected, this time of day, the sky was on the verge of sunset when he pulled into his driveway and parked. The living room curtains were drawn, lamp light spilling through the fabric, and though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was in there, waiting. 

His heart beat a little faster as he unbuckled the takeout bag next to him. In the back seat, he retrieved his suit jacket and briefcase from in between the matching pair of plaid Graco’s that Joe helped him install last week. Sometimes, in the rear view mirror, he’d catch a glimpse of the car seats and feel a pang of disbelief. He had been so sure this would never be his life. 

But now, he lived on a street with mainly young families. Neighbor kids rode their bikes on the sidewalk, shrieking and ringing their bells, as he made his way to the front door. He was actually thinking about how he had to mow this weekend. If he didn’t, the old man next door who was a freak about keeping the grass below a certain would swing by — Just checking you're alive. Dear God. He could never understand people’s obsession with yards. 

Still, by the time he stepped inside the foyer, he mentally cleared an hour on Saturday to mow, and dumped his suit jacket onto the console table. His briefcase thumped onto the wood floor, flopping beside their packed hospital bag that was ready to go whenever. 

“Is that daddy?” she asked in that slightly higher pitch she reserved for the twins. “Or maybe it’s a burglar?” 

“Are you trying to scare them?”

“No. Just trying to add a little excitement in their lives.” 

“And you chose to do that with burglary?” He asked. He walked into the room and surprisingly, she was already on her feet. Most days he’d have to help her off the couch but now, she leaned against the wooden archway between the kitchen and living room. Her pearly white sundress clung to her beachball-looking stomach. 

“If you can’t tell, we’ve been watching a lot of soap operas.” 

“At least it’s not Maury.” 

“Give it another week, and I might be that desperate,” she said with a weary sigh. Every day that passed she seemed increasingly antsy. She must be bored. After all, she’d been placed on early maternity leave in May since she could no longer move more than a few feet without making a little noise. Even now, as she waddled into the kitchen, she grunted and groaned. 

Javier followed her, trailing a few steps behind and setting the plastic bag on the table in front of the bay window – the sky orangish. He turned and saw her at the kitchen sink. She rubbed at her lower back and winced in pain. 

“Let me help you.” He came up behind her and grabbed her hips, sealing her back against his chest. 

She said nothing, but pushed herself against him, let his hands slide into position. Just like they had taught in Lamaze, he gently lifted up her stomach to ease the weight off her feet and pelvis. She moaned in relief, her head lolling against his shoulder. 

“Dinner smells good,” he said, and now, the floorboards creaked underneath their feet as they softly rocked back-and-forth. “Been a while since we had Red Lantern.” 

“I saw a commercial for it during the Price is Right.”

“I kept thinking, when I was waiting on the food, about the first time we went there. Do you remember?” 

She hummed. “It was Valentine’s Day and you refused to let me spend it alone.” 

“Isn’t that what friends are for?” 

“Pity dates?” 

“Wasn’t pity.” Javier kissed her temple, then behind her ear and he whispered,  “I still think about what you wore that night. Turtleneck, black boots, that little plaid skirt–” 

“That little plaid skirt wouldn’t make it past my knees anymore.” 

"Even better." Javier wanted, desperately, to hold her longer, but he could feel a heat growing in his gut and couldn’t get carried away. Carefully, he released her stomach and stepped away. God - he wanted her badly. It had been so long. Ever since April, sex had been off the table after a spike in hormones left her painfully sensitive down there. The last time he touched her intimately still haunted him, the way she shrieked and flinched, lurching back as if the tip of his finger wielded a weapon. 

“You do realize that you don’t have to do that anymore,” she said. 

Confused, Javier tilted his head. “Do what?” 

“Charm me. I’m already pregnant.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said and she rolled her eyes like she didn’t believe him. Her confidence seemed to ebb and flow based on the week, and he wondered if that also had something to do with the hormones. In silence, she grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled each with cold water from the tap. He waited until she turned off the faucet to say, “I should’ve told you when I got home how good you look in that dress.” 

She scoffed. “I feel like the Michelin man.” 

“You’re beautiful.” He kissed her forehead and guided her to the breakfast nook. Although the padded bench was her favorite spot, she couldn’t slide anymore. Now, she needed his help just to lower herself into the wooden chair. 

She sighed. “It’ll be worth it, once they’re here.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so too.” 

Afterwards, he unpacked the styrofoam boxes, the room smelling of spices. Pad Thai. Mongolian Beef. Way too many spring rolls for two people to eat. 

He made sure that she had everything she needed before taking a seat on the bench. In between the first couple bites, he told her about work. Usually, he’d provide a sentence, a few words – nothing interesting – but since she had such little human interaction, it felt like the least he could do was go into detail. 

He thumbed a little sauce off the corner of his lip and said, “Tell me about your day.” 

“Do you really wanna hear how much TV I watched?” 

“Gonna judge me if I do?” 

She playfully rolled her eyes. “One Life to Live or General Hospital?” 

“Which one’s better?” 

“Calling one better than the other is a stretch,” she said. “But on General Hospital, they were trying to figure out whether Lucky was under some type of mind–”  

All of a sudden she stopped. Sat up straight. For a moment, her mouth gaped as if she got distracted and lost her train of thought. 

When another second passed, Javier swallowed. The piece of meat lodged inside his windpipe. “Baby?” 

Her eyes bulged as if his strained voice snapped her from a trance. “Oh no.” She shoved at the table. Water sloshed around her glass, but the chair legs barely moved an inch. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oh Javi. Hurry. Hurry. Help me up.” The panic in her voice made his fork clatter against the table; he stood up so fast that he nearly slipped and fell on his ass. “Oh God. I can’t believe this is happening again.” 

“Again? What?” 

“It was just a little accident–” 

“Accident?” Despite shaky hands, he managed to help her stand. She attempted to wiggle free, but his heart was beating so wildly and he refused to let her go until he knew what was wrong. “What hu—”

“Let me - gonna pee!” 

It took him a second to realize what she said and finally release her. Fuck. He felt like an idiot. Who the hell panics over piss?

He felt a pang of guilt at the way she was breathing – hee-hee-who – as she waddled faster than he’d seen her move in weeks. If she had an accident, it would be his fault. 

As he opened his mouth to apologize, she abruptly stopped at the kitchen island and let out a strange whimpering sound. A gush of liquid splashed onto the ground. Then another spurt. A puddle formed around her feet, liquid flowing like a river towards the refrigerator. 

Javier froze. Was that…

“I think my water just broke.”

-----

Five minutes later, Javier was crawling on the kitchen floor. She was upstairs, changing into fresh clothes. Of course, she just had to be wearing white, her dress soaked and sheer enough to expose her pink panties. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” she’d said, stuffing a bottle of Pledge into his hand. 

She’d assured him everything would be fine, there was enough time, that her contractions were still weak, still irregular. However, the idea of waiting didn’t sit right in his stomach. He’d lived in a world where normal situations could go tits-up within seconds and all he wanted was her to throw on a robe, rush out the door, and already be en route by now. 

Instead, he was wiping the wood dry with paper towels. Slapping a few dish rags down would’ve been faster, but she’d given strict instructions: Dry, Pledge, then dry again. And he knew, unless done to her standards, she wouldn’t leave because God forbid the floors warped.

“These are original to the house, Javi,” she’d said. “They can’t be replaced.” 

She might’ve been right, but that was the least of his concerns. 

The fluid soaking through the towels was clear as fresh water and definitely didn’t smell like piss. In fact, it smelled almost sweet, like fresh-cut hay and warm vernal grass from the curing fields on his family ranch. 

Although he would never admit it out loud, the smell made him think of Dad. If there was more time he would have called home to let Dad know her water broke, but there should be time at the hospital. He would find a few minutes then. 

Javier finished the second dry-through and checked for any missing wet spots. Nothing. He tossed the half-roll of Bounty into the trash and hurried to the sink, careful not to touch anything. A runny mess of sweat, Pledge, and fluid residue trickled down his knuckles. He washed his hands with hot water and a generous clump of citrus soap, then boxed up the uneaten food. He’d barely taken more than a few bites, and by the looks of it, neither had she. 

The babies couldn’t wait until after dinner apparently. 

When Javier shut the refrigerator door, she was still upstairs. What was she doing up there? Javier cursed. If he didn’t keep busy he’d go crazy and watch the stairs or the oven clock — the electric green tick from 55 to 56. So, instead, he flicked on the porch lights. Shut the curtains. Snatched the cups off the table, dumped the water, and packed them into the dishwasher. 

Finally, a door squeaked above him. Footsteps creaked over the loose floorboards. Thank God. She started down the stairs in a similar dress, only black instead of white. Tucked under her arm was a pool towel and what appeared to be his clothes. 

“The floors look nice,” she said about halfway down. 

“Tried my best.” 

“Wanna change?” She patted the folded jeans and his gray t-shirt. “Or do you plan on wearing that to the hospital?” 

He glanced down at his work slacks. A white button up, sleeves rolled up, and his tie was still on. He shrugged. “It’ll be a good first impression.” 

“Javi,” she said, but he was already leading her through the house. 

Fifteen minutes. The hospital was only fifteen minutes away.

------

As soon as Javier stepped through the automatic doors, he could taste the isopropyl. A headache pulsed behind his eyes. Still, he followed the signs to the elevators, moving through the bleach white hallways that reeked of antiseptic, old mops, and thick, gritty dust. 

He was in such a rush to get here that, for a moment, he’d forgotten how the smell made his stomach roil. He felt a ripple of nausea. Ever since mom, his relationship with hospitals had been adversarial. The last time he’d visited one was in Colombia to see Helena. The beating she’d taken because of him had permanently cracked her nose to the left. Lip busted and purple black. Her face so swollen that it looked like a moldy, squishy peach. 

Ding. 

The elevator doors opened. A nurse and a young couple exited first. Adjusting the hospital bag on his shoulder, he followed in behind her. 

Inside, light jazz played through the speakers. She leaned against the wall, head thumping against the oak paneling as she said, “We really should’ve brought the leftovers.” 

“They’ll still be good when we get home.” 

“If we called Joe, do you think-” 

“There’s food here.” 

She huffed. “I want Spring Rolls, not sad mashed potatoes.” 

Javier didn’t have time to respond before the elevator stopped on the third floor. Women’s Services. His hand, still damp from his death grip on the steering wheel, held hers as they walked down another quiet and disturbingly white hallway to the Labor & Delivery entrance. The doors were closed, a sign taped to gray steel read: Press the button on the intercom for assistance. 

He did, and after answering some basic intake questions, the double doors buzzed, clicked, and opened.

Javier expected another sterile white unit. Instead, he walked into an open space with pink textured wallpaper and green-and-cream floor tiles arranged in geometric patterns. Even the smell was different, more like baby powder and rubber gloves than drugs and sickness. 

There was a hum of conversation coming from the waiting area on his left. He noticed a few bodies out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise didn’t pay much attention to that side of the room.  

Straight ahead, at the front desk, a woman with tight braids and dark purple scrubs greeted them. The badge clipped to her front pocket identified her as Winnie. 

Javier gave a tight nod before saying, “We just spoke - my wife’s water broke and we need to check in.” 

“Let me guess.” Winnie smiled — very white and straight teeth. “First baby?”

His wife giggled and handed Winnie her driver’s license. “How can you tell?” 

“First time dads are very easy to spot.” Winnie glanced between the ID and computer screen, her nails clicking against the keyboard. “It says here you’re 36 weeks, is that correct? And twins?” 

“Yeah,” his wife said. “That’s—oh.” 

Her hand around his bicep squeezed, her fingers biting down as though to rip through his shirt and reach his skin. Her face contorted, the way her nose wrinkled revealing her level of pain. He’d never seen her hurt quite like this. His instinct screamed to protect her, but he knew, deep down, he knew the only thing he could do was rub her lower back and say, “You’re doing great, baby.” 

“Worst. One. Yet,” she said through clenched teeth. 

“Mrs. Peña, when was your last contraction?” 

She shook her head, so he replied, “In the parking lot.” 

“And how long did it last?” 

Shit. “I don’t - I don’t remember.” Fucking idiot. He should’ve stopped and counted instead of focusing on finding the closest parking spot. 

Even though it felt like hours, it couldn’t have been long at all when her grip on his arm eased finally. She exhaled and said, “About thirty seconds,” as the tension slid off her shoulders, drained from her jaw. 

“Well, that was close to fifty,” Winnie said. “How about we get you two settled into a room before the next one hits?”

------

A nurse escorted them into a peach-colored room that was private and surprisingly spacious. There was a rather large garden window overlooking the darkening courtyard. He set their hospital bag on the sill, dragged a plastic chair over to her bedside and sat. 

She looked like a test subject, rigged up to various machines. He fully expected the sight to bother him more, but actually, he found comfort in the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She was here. So close to the end.

For the next hour and a half, her contractions grew more regular, with her having to stop and focus on breathing every five minutes or so. 

“You’ve got this. That’s it. You’re doing so well,” he would whisper in her ear while applying counter pressure to her ass, hips, and lower back. 

As she came down from another strong contraction, someone knocked and opened the door. Yaritzel, the nurse, who was tan and tall and wore teddy bear printed scrubs. 

“How’re we feeling, mama?”

“Hanging in there,” she said and even sounded a little winded. Javier brought her hand to his lips and kissed the spot where her wedding ring used to sit until her fingers became too swollen.

“Well, let’s see how everything’s looking.” 

He straightened, and like a reflex or more so a tick, he couldn’t help but carefully watch as Yaritzel checked her vitals, the monitors. Javier knew he shouldn’t, but he hated feeling blindsided, and for him, people were easier to read than medical jargon. All it would take was a minuscule shift in body language, and he would know if those screens indicated something wrong. 

“Everything looks good.” Yaritzel clasped her hands together and her smile appeared genuine. “The anesthesiologist should be here in the next thirty to forty minutes for the epidural.” 

She sighed. “Thank God for that.” 

“In the meantime, if you want to take a short ten to fifteen minute walk, now would be the time.” 

“Yes please,” she said. “The vending machine’s in the waiting room, right?” 

“It is, but we don’t recommend-”

“No. Not for me.” She looked straight at Javier. 

“When did I complain about being hungry?” 

“What’d you have for lunch?” She lifted her arms above her head, so Yaritzel could unplug the three monitors on her abdomen.

“A sandwich.”

“And how much of that sandwich did you actually eat?” She squinted at him as though she knew he only ate half. His split-second of silence seemed to be enough of an answer as she clicked her tongue. “Do you wanna pass out while I’m in labor?” 

“Like I’d let that happen.” 

“And here I thought hypoglycemia was something you can’t control.” 

Javier rolled his eyes at her ridiculousness. In Colombia, he’d survived on a diet of coffee, cigarettes, and meaningless sex. If he didn’t pass out from hunger then, he wouldn’t now. But, if this was what she wanted, then fine. 

Moments later, Yaritzel finished unhooking her from everything except her IV. “You still need to finish these fluids,” she said and wheeled the pole over to Javier. The liquid sloshed around the clear bag. 

“Want me to push it?” He helped her onto her feet, made sure she was steady before letting go. 

“I can handle it,” she said. “But you can hold my hand.” 

The metal pole’s wheels squeaked against the tile as they walked, hand-in-hand, outside their room and past a nurses station. When they reached the end of the hallway, another contraction seized her, forced her to lean against the nearest wall. 

As Javier encouraged her to keep breathing, he massaged the center of her spine at the exact spot where he felt his own tension fester. He would never get used to seeing her in pain. But if he had learned anything from his time at FLETC, it was how to push personal feelings aside and deal with high-pressure situations. This, he could handle. He could. As long as he focused on her and stayed useful. 

Fifty-one seconds later, she exhaled and said, “Let’s keep going.”

When they pushed through the double doors and entered the main lobby, he looked around the room. He didn’t have the chance earlier. Off to his right was the waiting area. The evening sky filled the fixed windows that lined one wall. A television was tucked into the corner with a plastic plant. Four rows of cream upholstered armchairs, a handful of people, who appeared elated to see them. The two elderly couples with rivaling pink and blue balloons each said congratulations. 

To the left of Winnie’s desk, next to the hallway with the bathrooms and payphones, were the vending machines. A buzzy white light shone from the display window. Snickers. Goldfish. Little Debbie Snack Cakes. 

“Swiss Rolls.” Javier tapped at the glass. “That was my mom’s go-to snack.” And he remembered those final weeks and how he could tell she was near the end because she stopped eating them. Stopped eating entirely. 

“Sounds like a smart wom—” Another contraction cut her off and she clutched onto the metal pole, rattling the clear bag of fluids. 

“Oh, darlin’, I promise it’ll all be worth it.” A woman, silver haired and holding a stuffed giraffe, nosed over to the neighboring vending machine. “Got five of my own. Ten grandkids, soon to be eleven. I’ll show ya.” 

Confused, Javier stared at the woman, who tucked the stuffed animal under her arm, opened her wallet and shoved a picture from inside the plastic inserts into the faces of him and his wife, who was still in the middle of catching her breath. Javier internally scoffed. He might not know this woman, but he knew the type. The kind of person who preached about manners, but couldn’t mind their own business.

His wife must’ve sensed his annoyance because she gave him a look: I know, but be nice. 

Javier clicked his jaw into place, glanced at the family photo and politely nodded.

“Four girls, and soon to be seven boys,” the woman said. “What’re you having?” 

“We’re actually having twins. Both girls.” 

The woman gasped and clutched her chest. “Isn’t that wonderful? Two little angels…” 

Javier tuned out whatever the woman said next and focused on the vending machine. He settled on two bags of Lays BBQ chips. 

When he picked up the two bags with one hand, he said, “Probably should get back to our room now.”

“But it was very nice talking to you,” his wife added. So much nicer than him. “Have a good night ma’am.” 

“You too, sweetheart. And don’t you worry, I’m gonna say a little somethin’ for your family.” The woman pulled out a rosary from underneath her collar; the wooden beads clicked together. “All four of you will be in my prayers.”

------

Back in the room, after she was plugged back into the machines, the anesthesiologist arrived with the biggest needle he’d ever seen. Maybe she did need that prayer. The damn needle had to be the size of a lighter, at least. Javier rubbed her arms, told her to focus on him, and when the needle pierced her spine, she didn’t even flinch. Whatever numbing agent was used, it must’ve worked. 

Luckily, it didn’t take long for the epidural to kick in, either. They had caught the ninth inning of the Rangers-Royals game on TV, and by the end, she was numb from her ribs to her feet. 

For the next three hours, he rarely left her bedside, determined not to leave her alone. The Lamaze instructor had said: the best thing a partner could do was be present, both mentally and physically. So, he sat in the same plastic chair, feeding her ice chips, fluffing her pillow, and watching reruns of sitcoms. Just in case she needed anything, he even pissed with the door cracked.

She never complained. Never said she was in pain, even when Yaritzel asked. “Pressure,” she’d call it, “A little tightness.” 

But she had to be progressing. An hour ago, Dr. Kelly had arrived and ever since then, check-ins had become more frequent. 

Now, fifteen minutes after the last visit, Yaritzel returned and stood at the foot of the bed. “How’re we feeling now?” 

“Sleepy.” 

“That’s cause your body’s working hard.” Yaritzel examined the recently changed IV bag. “I’ll check your progress at the end. Let’s hope you’re past seven centimeters now.” 

“Fingers crossed.” She flopped her head back against the pillow, blinked sluggishly at the ceiling tiles. 

“You’re doing amazing,” he said. The back of his knuckles brushed across her warm, damp forehead. Just in the last ten minutes alone, her hairline had grown increasingly wet. Her eyelids hung heavy and low. Every pregnancy book had warned that her body would be overwhelmed. Stretched to the limit. She could handle this, he knew that. She was tougher than she looked, tougher than him for sure, but fuck — he still wanted to absorb her stress like a sponge. 

She let out a primal grunt, her brow furrowing underneath his fingertips. He glanced at Yaritzel, who was scrutinizing the monitor where a green line steadily climbed. Another contraction, just like he thought. He began counting the seconds in his head. 

66 — give or take. Longest one yet. 

Her eyelids fluttered open like she had just been knocked down. She licked her dry, cracked lips, and he couldn’t help but notice her tongue looked pale. Did she need more ice chips? 

One of the machines blared. Three sharp beeps that sounded like an alarm. All night the machines had emitted different, strange noises, but these — these he didn’t recognize. 

The alarm stopped all of a sudden. Still, Yaritzel stood by the monitors, stared intently at a printout chart that resembled a polygraph with all its spikes and drops. What was Yaritzel squinting at? What was going on? Javier scratched at a nervous itch prickling under his chin. If there was anything wrong – no. He couldn’t think like that. 

“Baby.” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat. “Are you feeling alright?” 

For a moment, she stared at him with a dazed look in her eyes as though he was speaking to her through water. “I feel kind of dizzy all of a sudden.” 

Yaritzel spun around so fast that her shoes squeaked. Her tone switched into something more clinical. “Is it okay if I feel your stomach real quick?” 

But Yaritzel didn’t wait for a response, just wrenched the sheet off her body and pressed on a spot above her belly button. A sharp inhale whistled through her teeth. 

“Tender.” The sound of her voice made it seem like she’d been burned instead of palpated. 

“Any pain in your back?” 

“Oh God - I feel another one.” 

Now, Yaritzel felt around her abdomen as the green line shot upwards once again. Her contractions had never been this close together. He tried not to think about what that meant but found it challenging with his heartbeat throbbing in his hands. 

Still, years in the field had taught him panicking never helped. Only puts you and your partner in danger. Just like he’d been trained to do, he took a low and slow breath and began to count the seconds until the contraction passed.

77. 

And then, there was that blaring again. A pulsing white light. The monitor tracking the babies heart rates was flashing, and though the red line held steady at 140, the blue line plunged. 

135. 

115. 

103. 

Yaritzel smacked the button on the wall. It lit up: red. Danger. 

“Mrs. Peña, I’m gonna check your uterus now.” Yaritzel snapped on a pair of gloves and rushed to the foot of the bed. “Javier, I need you to help me move her legs. Bring them up.” 

With shaking hands, he lifted and gently bent her knee. As he helped to spread open her legs, his fingers dug into something warm and wet on her inner thigh. The smoothness made his tongue taste like lead. 

Dear God. Please fucking be sweat. 

His hand slid out from under her gown. Red globs, fresh and slick, leeched onto his fingertips. A little oozed down his thumb and when it splattered onto the white sheet, his stomach lurched at the vicious coppery scent. That smell had been familiar once. He might’ve witnessed a lifetime of carnage and gore, but the sight of his wife’s blood threatened to destabilize him. 

Her bedside monitor spouted an alert, her heart rate edging dangerously close to 110. He wanted, just for a moment to plug his ears, make everything stop, so he could figure out what the fuck was going on. But she needed him to be strong and present. 

She needed him. 

He ignored the violent beeps, the flashing screens, his own personal feelings, and crouched beside her so they could be at eye-level. “I’m right here. I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Something’s not right. I don’t feel right.”  

“What do you mean, baby? Be more specific. I can’t-” 

“Mrs. Peña, you’re bleeding quite a bit.” Yaritzel stuck some type of pad between her thighs. “Are you in pain?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Her tone was one he’d never heard from her before. It was high-pitched and brimmed with raw agony that made his chest feel tight. 

“We’re gonna figure this out, okay? We’re right here with you,” Yaritzel said, just as Dr. Kelly hurtled into the room. Four more nurses. A cart with vials and tubes and a strange metal device that looked like a hook. 

“Status?” Doctor Kelly’s gaze flickered from the monitors to where his wife’s legs were spread. 

“Javi,” she hiccuped, her chest hitching. 

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and it took every scrap of strength he possessed to say her name softly, calmly. He managed to keep his hands steady as he cupped her face, made her look at him. 

“You’re okay. Focus on me.” He caressed her cheeks, staining them with blood. Her blood. He swallowed and said, “You’ll be okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

She made a soft, whimpering sound and weakly grabbed onto his arm. She started violently shaking. 

Heart rate accelerating.

BP dropping.

Get her ready.

“I’m not leaving you.” He cradled her face tighter. Her skin felt clammy, her coloring ashen and worrisome. The scent of bleach and iron stung his nose. His teeth clicked when he thought about how much blood she’d lost. Was still losing. 

“Give her a top-up. She already has an epidural.” 

A tap on his shoulder, a male voice that he didn’t recognize said, “Mr. Peña, I need you to come with me.”

He heard her cry his name. Whimper: Javi. Javi. Don’t go. 

He instinctively shook his head. 

“Sir.” 

A figure approached the other side of the bed, holding a syringe. He gripped her limp hand. “I can’t—”

“Javier.” Dr. Kelly’s voice was deeper than he’d ever heard, rippling with urgency and forcing him to look away from his wife. Even with a mask on, the direness of Dr. Kelly’s face was unmistakable. “Please. For her sake. Leave.”

Despite every fiber of his being screaming to stay, he had to go. He had to leave. For her sake. There were so many things he wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “I’m sorry.” 

Now, the man took him by the arm to help guide him outside the room. Javier had felt out of control before, but never like this. Between his body and brain, there was a gap. It was as if the connection had suddenly been severed by an ice pick. 

At first, he stood outside the door, unable to recognize the hallway from earlier. He didn’t recall the overhead lights being so viciously bright and stinging his eyes. The walls seemed more narrow. The distance from here to the double doors looked like it stretched across miles. 

“Follow me,” the man said. 

It took a moment for Javier to realize that he had begun moving. The floor felt unsteady, his knees so weak that he thought he might collapse. 

Behind him, he could still hear the chaos. Alarms. Frantic voices. He flinched at the sound of wheels scraping against tile. Medics pushing a surgical stretcher raced by, and when Javier glanced over his shoulder, he saw the team enter their room. 

“Where are you taking her?” 

“To an operating room for an emergency c-section.” 

Emergency? “She would want me there. I need to be with her. I promised-”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” The man guided him into the waiting room. 

“Why?”

“In case she needs to be put under.” The man frowned. “If you’ll just take a seat. Somebody will update you as soon as they can.” 

And then, the man slid the mask over his nose and ran back down the hallway, leaving Javier alone.

-------

Complications. For months, he’d known there could be complications and for months he’d tried to plan and project and calculate and for what? Just to stand and watch?

The hollowness in his chest screamed and howled like a beast as he stared at the solid wood doors in front of him. No windows. No view inside. He should follow the man’s orders and take a seat, but his legs felt stuck, seemingly rooted to the spot. 

Javier closed his eyes for a moment, the back of his head pulsing with blurred pain. Everything went to shit so quick. How? It didn’t make sense. No less than thirty minutes ago she had hummed along to the Mary Tyler Moore theme song, talked about renting Gladiator when released on VHS, laughed at the ridiculousness of that stupid not-butter commercial with Fabio. 

Now, she’d been taken for emergency surgery. He should’ve realized something was wrong. There must be something he missed. He mentally weeded through tonight’s events for a sign, but came up empty-handed. 

Besides some drowsiness, she appeared perfectly fine until that one contraction. 

His hands began twitching. Buried underneath his fingernails was blood – her blood. The redness had dried and crusted into a rust color. He felt a wave of nausea, as though this was the first time he had someone else’s blood on his hands. 

An image barged in on him. A scrawny teenager in Mexico pointing a gun two-sizes too big, an initiation gift from the Guadalajara Cartel. His first kill, first true act of violence. A godawful shot. No matter how much Javier tried to forget, the memory of that kid’s wet gurgling sounds would never leave him.

When Javier tried to breathe in, his lungs felt raw and tender like a bruise. Not good. Why was he thinking about this? He shouldn’t be thinking about this. In the DEA, there were certain things he’d done. Things he wasn’t proud of. But he was supposed to forget. 

File it away. Burn it. Move on. 

He had done his job, and that’s what mattered. Wasn’t it? That kid would’ve killed him. Or Joe. Or one of the other me–

It didn’t matter. None of this justification should matter right now with her — everything in danger. But all he could see was the blood, reminding him of the past. It was as if something cracked inside him, the stitches breaking open. After years of pushing suppression to its limits, his mind finally collapsed, right when he needed the barrier most. 

Memories of Colombia swarmed around his skull, demanded he remember. Carillo. The gnarled bodies of Duque and his son stuffed in a car trunk. A bullet in between the eyes of Blackie’s girlfriend and her cold rounded belly, an unborn baby that couldn’t be saved.  

Javier shook his head. All his fault. It was all his fault whether he pulled the trigger or not. His hunger for control, for Escobar, snuffed out their futures. He was the one who trusted some random girl’s intel. The one who got desperate enough to call Don Berna and helped unleash Los Pepes onto the streets. 

What was it Martinez had said? Once you sell your soul to the devil, you can’t get it back. 

Bile hurled into his throat: what if Martinez was right? What if this was retribution? What if her life was the price to even the score? 

When he imagined himself as the arsenic that poisoned her womb, he stumbled back a step. A jolt surged from his knees into his chest, prying him from the fingers of a full-blown panic attack. 

What the fuck was wrong with him? He blinked up at the fiberglass ceiling. 

His focus should be on her, not battling old ghosts. He didn’t want to remember Colombia. Didn’t want to think about all his mistakes. Why couldn’t he just forget? Cali was meant to be his act of repentance, but still, he never fully shed the past. The guilt. The shame. It fused to him like an infected limb, rotting with gangrene. He wanted to chop the damn thing off. Only he didn’t know how. 

She deserved better. He desperately wanted to be better for her. 

In the distance, he heard something ring. Again – clearer. By the third ring, he realized that was the phone at the front desk. 

Winnie picked up and said, “Labor & Delivery.” 

Almost immediately her gaze flickered to Javier. Whatever was said on the other line made Winnie’s lips purse; nod three times. 

“I’ll let him know.” Winnie hung up the phone, stood from her chair. “Mr. Peña.” 

He scrambled over to the desk. Winnie offered him a tight-lip smile. 

“Mr. Peña,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Your wife has just been taken into surgery. They believe her bleeding is due to a placenta abruption.” 

“I don’t-”

“It’s when the placenta prematurely starts to separate from the wall of the uterus.” 

“But…” That didn’t make sense. He had gone to every single appointment and nobody ever mentioned a damn thing wrong about her placenta. And she had two of them. “She was fine-”

“Abruptions can happen suddenly and most of the time, we never figure out the root cause, though pregnancies involving multiples does increase the risk.” 

Javier swallowed. “Is it serious?” 

“It can be.” Winnie gently touched his arm. “Dr. Kelly is a fantastic doctor. She’s dealt with this before. Please know, she will do everything she can to save your wife and the twins.” 

The twins. Something was also wrong with them. Baby B’s heart rate has been critical enough to set off an alarm and she didn’t even have a name yet. He needed his wife’s help to pick a name.

Not for the first time, the guilt, the powerlessness of everything going on punctured his gut. He couldn’t find his direction. If it was out of sheer desperation or an old childhood habit, Javier didn’t know, but he felt compelled to pray. He wasn’t religious. Despite being raised by strong Catholic parents, his faith in God was practically non-existent, but he closed his eyes anyway and hoped somebody above was listening. 

Save her. Save them. Please don’t do this. She doesn’t deserve this. If you have to take somebody, let it be me.

“Mr. Peña. We’ll let you know if we have any updates.” She gave one final reassuring squeeze to his arm, then clasped her hands in front of her. “I know this is incredibly difficult, but remember, she’s where she needs to be.” 

“And do I…where do I go?” 

Winnie gestured behind him and said, “If you’ll just take a seat.” 

It took an act of will to simply turn towards the waiting area. Now, visitors from earlier stared at him again. No smiles. No more congratulations. Only pity. Their grave expressions sickened him, reminded him of how people used to look at Dad when Mom was sick and everyone knew she was dying.

--------

Javier didn’t remember walking to the phone booth. Or what number he just dialed. He’d blacked out apparently.  

“Please insert two dollars and fifty cents,” the mechanical voice said. His hands trembled so violently that each coin landing into the slot was a miracle. “Thank you, your call will now be connected.” 

The phone rang twice. “Hello?”

“Dad?” 

“Javi?” The sleep in dad’s voice disappeared.   “How’s she doing? The girls? Tell me weight and time born, I’ll write it down.” 

Dad’s excitement struck him harder than a bullet. He had to pull the phone away, press the plastic receiver between his eyebrows. Whatever compelled him to reach out, he couldn’t remember now. 

Part of him was tempted to hang up, but the pressure in his chest felt as volatile as a dusty ether bottle and if he didn’t get relief soon – 

Javier brought the phone back to his ear and said, “Something’s wrong.” 

“What do you—”

“She was bleeding and…didn’t stop. Just took her in for a c-section.” 

The words felt unreal in his mouth. Reality fully settling in. She was somewhere in this hospital on a surgical table with her belly split open and he was here – in this dead-end hallway with bathrooms and water fountains. Was she asking for him? Was she even awake? Husbands should know these things. 

Javier heard Dad let out a shaky breath, flick on a lamp, move around in the bed, the mattress springs squeaking through the line. “It’s a good thing you were already at the hospital.” 

“That’s it?” Javier’s fingers twisted around the handset. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“Something. I need-” But Javier stopped at that, the walls of his throat closing in like an allergic reaction. He could feel it, every word that he couldn’t bring himself to say burning in esophageal acid: I need help. I need her. I can’t do this without her. I can’t be alone again. I can’t. 

“If you called for answers, I wished I had them, but I don’t.” 

Javier scoffed. “Nobody does.” 

“So tell me,” Dad said. “Are you going to drive yourself crazy searching for something that might not exist?” 

“I- I don’t know. What if I missed something?” 

“That’s not your job.” 

“I’m supposed to be with her. I promised.” The taste of sea water flooded his mouth as he relived it. Her ashen face. What her voice sounded like when she begged him to stay. Guilt saturated him. Intentional or not, it didn’t matter because he broke a promise and left at her most vulnerable. If this was their final mem—

His vision went mottled, specks of black and blue sprouted like mold on the white walls. He clutched onto the wooden booth to stay upright. It couldn’t be. No. This couldn’t be the way things ended.

“Does she trust Dr. Kelly?” Dad asked.

“I think so.”

“Do you?” 

Despite the voice in his head reminding him all the times he’d been wrong before, Javier cleared his throat and answered, “Yeah. I do.”

“But that’s not what you’re thinking about?” 

“I’m trying.”

“Do you think imaging the worst will make it easier if it comes?” 

Javier said nothing. Dad meant it as a reality check, but Javier didn’t know how to explain the inner workings of his brain. Where would he even start? Not for the first time, he wished optimism came easily to him, but it must’ve been a recessive trait. 

“Son, let me tell you that girl… I love that girl like she’s my own,” Dad said. The cracking sound in his voice made Javier’s eyelids burn. “For her sake and my own, I gotta have hope and believe everything will be alright.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s a choice, Javi,” Dad said. “You can choose to do the same.”

--------

Javier felt like an intruder the moment he stepped into the waiting area. Surrounded by balloons and bright flowers and eagerly awaiting families, he didn’t belong here. His presence instantly soured the mood. He could feel the unease, a concentrated heat at the crown of his skull, as he slumped down in a chair near the windows in the otherwise empty first row. 

Although he was trying to stay as optimistic as Dad, he found it difficult with everyone here acting like he needed a miracle. 

God — what he would do for a cigarette, a whole carton to smoke himself calm.

Instead, Javier sucked the stale hospital air into his lungs. His nostrils stung. He could still taste salt on his teeth, and while the threat of tears continued to oscillate, nothing had come out. It was as if his tear ducts had decayed, a muscle having atrophied from decade-long neglect. He should have been worried, or a little bothered, but he wasn’t. Screw it. He had enough problems already without crying in front of strangers.

What was the point of crying anyway? It never brought relief, just made him feel pathetic and inflamed his throat. 

A high-pitch chime that sounded like a doorbell came from the front desk. It must be the intercom system.

He was right. Winnie answered and he could tell by the questions asked that someone was checking in. Hours ago that had been him, outside the doors, stumbling over his words as she squeezed his hand. 

The front doors buzzed open. He heard footsteps and voices, a girlish laugh. 

“If you could just give me a second,” Winnie said politely, almost mechanically. “We’re a little short staffed right now as one of our teams is currently dealing with an emergency.” 

“Oh dear! I hope everything’s okay.” 

The rows behind him erupted in furtive whispers and what sounded like wooden beads ticked together. Uncomfortable, he stirred in his seat; the chair legs creaked and popped, likely drawing more attention. He didn’t look behind him to see. 

Instead, Javier stared straight ahead at the wall. Pink. Same as the bows, blankets, stuffed animals, and tiny flowery dresses that his Tía’s had bought the girls. 

The girls. His chest felt like it was caving in. He’d spent the last seven months watching these blobs develop fingers and toes, morph into full-blown human beings. They were real. Just the other night he saw the imprint of feet bulge her belly, felt them kick and kick and kick until midnight. 

“Someday soon they’ll be right here with us, in this very bed,” she’d said, her fingers running through his hair, her leg draped over his like a body pillow. “Can you picture it, Javi?” 

“I can,” he’d said before kissing her forehead, her cheeks, forgetting a world could exist outside of these sheets, these walls. 

Without her, without them, how could he ever step foot in that house again?

The idea struck him with a physical shock like a sucker punch, making his jaw pulse and heart beat frantically.

He didn’t want to contemplate that. He didn’t even mean to. The thought came without his permission. How did that happen? Why did his mind go to such dark places? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he had to get a grip and quit with these twisted hypotheticals. Forecasting the worst might’ve served him in Colombia, but not here. 

Not anymore. 

He’d promised himself — he’d promised his dad — he would have hope because she deserved that. She deserves so much more. 

And Javier desperately wanted to do right by her.

-------

Javier was still trying his best, but he experienced lapses. Moments. Out of nowhere his anxiety would surge and knock him off his axis. 

You’ve lost. 

It’s all over. 

Did you forget, everyone pays in the end? 

Like hungry, screaming infants, those dark thoughts demanded to be heard. The idea of failing her inflicted him with a light-headed nausea. 

But he had started to figure out ways to make it easier to breathe. Lists helped. Dr. Kelly had dealt with this before; these people were professionals; this was the safest place possible. Focusing on facts, learning to reinstate logic, gave him a sense of control that he desperately needed right now.

Especially since there was still no update. He should ask and wanted to, but Winnie had spent more time running between corridors than at the front desk; two more couples had been admitted, another sent home with Braxton-Hicks. 

He had no idea how long he’d been here, waiting. He’d avoided his watch and the clocks, knowing it would likely spiral into an obsession. It could’ve been anywhere between two and four hours. No more than five as, outside the window, the sky was still black and starless. The TV was silently cycling through a third infomercial. Bowflex. The Rotisserie Oven. And now, Oxiclean. He read the redundant subtitles to keep his brain preoccupied. 

As Billy Mays cleaned a wine stain out of carpet, the door he’d been avoiding opened. Dr. Kelly stood in the entryway, her scrubs green instead of blue. Her gaze flickered around the waiting room before landing on him. 

“Mr. Peña,” she spoke now in that same clinical tone. 

It took his brain a moment to catch up with him and stand. Part of him had thought — or hoped — he would know if his wife wasn’t on this earth anymore. He would have felt it, in some part of his body. How could he not? He imagined the loss would split him in half, a sinkhole gaping his sternum. But now, as he staggered towards the person who could deliver life-shattering news, he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

Dr. Kelly, with her curveless mouth and neutral stance, gave nothing away. “Come with me,” she said and led him into the hallway. A few feet inside, she abruptly stopped. The door creaked, clicked shut. 

“Well, I’ll first start by saying congratulations,” Dr. Kelly said. “The girls were born around 12:30, only minutes apart. Baby A weighed five pounds, seven ounces. Baby B, five pounds, four ounces. They’ve been in the NICU under observation, but both are doing great.”

Javier did feel an ounce of relief, but, “My wife?”

“Yes. She did experience a significant amount of blood loss, which required a transfusion—”

“Is she…is she…” He found himself saying, but the rest of the words wouldn’t come. Dr. Kelly’s brows creased in what appeared to be concern.

“Has anyone come and spoken with you?” 

No. Oh God. All of a sudden, Javier’s mouth felt too dry to respond, so he shook his head. 

“Oh. I…” Dr. Kelly clicked her tongue and offered an awkward smile. “Yes. Mr. Peña. She’s perfectly fine.”

She was alive. All along, she was perfectly fine and the realization made him sputter backwards and his body thumped against the wall. He was shaken by the relief. And then, he realized, no matter how many times he’d told himself she would be alright, he’d still braced himself for the worst. He cursed. 

“Her transfusion should be done within the next half hour, but given that her vital signs have stabilized, she’s been moved from the PACU into a postpartum room.” 

“And that’s…where?” 

Dr. Kelly tipped her head to the left. “How about I show you?”

------

Javier’s fingers twitched, hands thrumming with his own heartbeat as Dr. Kelly stopped in front of a wooden door. Room 342. 

“I’ll check on the girls,” Dr. Kelly patted him on the shoulder, moved out of the way. “In the meantime, I think you’ve both been waiting long enough. Why don’t you head on in?” 

In case she was asleep, he opened the door gently. The metal handle felt cold against his palm. He must be sweatier than he thought. He wiped his hands on his pants and shut the door behind him. 

Inside the beige room with its white trim, he could hear the beep of her heartbeat again, strong and steady. Just like it should be. He rushed forward, rounded the corner. And there she was: wide awake, propped up by pillows in a patient bed that looked built for two. 

She smiled at him, and though her lips were dry and cracked, her coloring only slightly recovered, he didn’t think she’d ever looked more beautiful. 

The desire to kiss her, touch her, crawl into the bed and hold her was a physical ache. But dark red pumped through a tube and into her arm and even though the blood bag was nearly empty, no one had told him if he could get close. Just to be safe, he hovered near the foot of the bed with hands balled into fists. 

She must’ve read his mind because she patted the empty side of the bed. “I saved this spot just for you.” 

When she spoke, the taste of salt welled up in his throat. For a moment, as he eased himself onto the mattress, all he could think about was how scared he’d been to never hear her voice again. 

And now, she was touching him, cupping his cheek. Her thumb brushed the edge of his lips. If it was her glassy eyes or the softness of her skin, he didn’t know, but he let out a godawful choking noise. 

His teeth chattered, jaw trembled violently. He felt a tearing sensation in his chest. And shit — he was crying, wasn’t he? 

He’d forgotten what tears felt like until his eyelids burned, his vision blurred. Wetness ran down the sides of his nose. 

“Oh Javi.”  Her voice cracked as she guided his face into the crook of her neck. He cradled the back of her skull and inhaled the hints of her shampoo underneath the hospital smell. She kissed his hair, his ear, her own tears smearing against his wet stubble. They sat locked together, her limited movement and the IV in her arm creating an awkward position, but at first, he couldn’t find it in him to care. 

But it didn’t take long for the quiet sobs to stop feeling cathartic. As his snot dribbled onto her skin and thin hospital gown — pathetic — he swelled with guilt.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t - shit.” Javier sniffled and rested his forehead against her shoulder. “This is the last thing you need to be dealing with.” 

She shook her head. “Tonight didn’t go like either of us planned.” 

It’s not the same, Javier almost said but didn’t want to argue with her. Instead, he kissed her lips deeply and pulled away. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks were streaked with wetness. 

He found a Kleenex box on the side table, grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped her cheeks. Next, he cleaned his own face. Blew his nose. She pointed out where she’d slobbered on his shirt. He’d been wearing this button-up far too long anyway and took it off, leaving just the plain white undershirt. 

“Have you seen the girls yet?” she asked. 

Javier shook his head. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d been left in the dark until recently. 

“They have a lot of hair, supposedly. I couldn’t tell. A nurse held them up for me, but they were all covered in gunk and with everything happening-”

“You were awake?” 

She hummed and kissed the bald patch in his stubble. “The whole time.”

“Fuck.” Javier grimaced. “Was it painful?” 

“With the amount of drugs in my system, not at all.” 

Before he could respond, the door opened and Yaritzel and a blonde nurse each wheeled a plastic bassinet into the center of the room. 

“We have two little girls here ready to meet their parents.” 

The nurses scooped up the babies into their arms. From here, they looked like lumps in striped blankets. The blonde headed over to his wife. 

“Come on Baby B, let’s go see Daddy,” Yaritzel said, causing his heart to beat a little faster. He couldn’t remember the last time he held a newborn, if ever. Neither Joe or Steve’s kids had been this fresh when he first met them. They did have some practice with a doll at Lamaze, except a piece of plastic didn’t compare to a living, breathing entity. 

Oh God he felt unprepared, but Yaritzel, already in front of him, eased the baby into his cradled arms. She felt like she weighed nothing, so much lighter than the swaddle made her look. She was asleep or, at least, appeared to be. 

Despite how often he’d studied the flat and grainy outlines on the sonograms, he didn’t recognize her face at all. It was strange. Who knew Baby B had pouty lips? A nose smaller than his thumbnail. Her head would easily fit in the palm of his hand. 

He touched her like she was the fragilest piece of their wedding china. His fingertips brushed over her cheek, the skin soft and warm. How was it possible that her heart rate had been critical only hours ago? Shit had been so bleak. Everything felt dire then. But now, as he snuggled her closer, she looked completely relaxed. She had no idea how much she’d worried him. 

“Are you sleepy, little one?” His wife spoke in low, soft tones. “You’re so perfect. So, so perfect.” 

At last Javier turned towards his wife. Seeing her hold his baby – their baby – made his chest hitch. The way she smiled reminded him of their wedding day, and not for the first time, he thought about how willing she’d been to give this up, all for him. 

Javier stared down at Baby A. Lola. Also asleep. Careful not to disturb her, he peeked underneath her stupidly tiny hat, and just like they said, a full head of dark hair. So far, the girls looked nearly identical. Maybe Lola’s cheeks were a little chubbier. And her mouth —

Somebody cleared their throat, startled him. Yaritzel and the blonde nurse stood in front of the TV. In all honesty, he’d forgotten they were still here. 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Yaritzel smiled awkwardly. “The transfusion should be done shortly, and a nurse will come by to unhook you and at that time, you can fill out the birth certificates as well.”

With that, the nurses left, the door shutting behind them with a soft click.

She exhaled, sounding exhausted. Her head flopped against his shoulder, and he felt the intimacy of the moment acutely. It was just them. Their little family. Not for the first time, she’d given him something he didn’t realize how badly he wanted. 

He tried to find the perfect words to say. It was one of those times where he wished he could wax some poetic shit to her. But, sadly, the only thing that came out of his mouth was, “You did so good.” 

Although he said nothing profound, she softly hummed and nuzzled her cheek against his shirt. He could feel her smiling. 

They stayed huddled close together for a long moment, admiring their babies. Then, she said, “We can’t keep calling her Baby B,” and sat up straight. 

When Javier tried to recall their list, not a single name came to mind. He’d been awake for what - 19? 20 hours straight? And she just had surgery, a transfusion in progress, and now they had to pick a name? Something permanent. How people ended up with names like Larry and Helga was starting to make more sense. 

But no. No. He would not fuck this up for his kid. These were his kids. 

Javier focused even harder, visualizing the yellow scrap paper on his nightstand. Oh. “Didn’t you like Amelia?” 

Her lips twisted to one side in a way that told him she’d changed her mind. “It is a nice name and all, but. Well, I’ve been doing some thinking.” 

“Go on.” 

“We can’t give Lola such a meaningful name, and then her one from a secondhand baby name book. That’s not fair.” 

“So - who do we name her after then? Joe?”

She scoffed. “Joe already has a big enough head.” 

“True.” Javier’s gaze fell to Baby B, who smacked her lips, her eyelids fluttering as if she knew they were talking about her. “You must have something in mind already.” 

“Well, your mom was named María Dolores.” 

“So, María?” 

“I was leaning more towards Marisol.” 

Marisol. He tested the name a few times. “Marisol Peña.”

“Oh my - look! I think she likes it!” 

And then, the baby in his arms blinked and for the first time looked at him. Brown. Her eyes were brown.

-------

Some half hour later, Marisol was fast asleep again, except this time in his wife’s arms instead. The nurse who unhooked the blood bag and helped fill out the birth certificates had helped them switch. 

Not long afterwards, Dr. Kelly came into the room. “Do you have a camera? You need a family photo,” was the first thing she said. 

After getting permission to grab the camera from their bag, she snapped a photo. Javier knew he was smiling like an idiot, holding Lola, her little hand wrapped around his finger. Dr. Kelly packed the camera back into their bag and told them to print a copy for their cork board in the office hallway. 

“Just so you know, I didn’t come by just for that photo.” Dr. Kelly stood near the foot of the bed, hands stuffed inside her pockets, looking at Javier. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Peña. I wanted to apologize-”

“Don’t,” Javier said meaningfully. “You promised to keep them safe and that’s what you did. Thank you.” 

“I do appreciate that, but still. Tonight didn’t go like any of us planned and while you’re relieved now. Later, it might be more challenging to deal with, especially in the midst of postpartum.” 

His wife tilted her head. “What’re you saying?” 

“Whenever a patient experiences a traumatic birth, I want to make sure they have the proper resources.” 

“Which is?” 

“Marilyn Bryant.” Dr. Kelly pulled out a stark white business card from her pocket. Black font. “Truly a wonderful therapist.”

“Therapy?” Javier’s voice shot up an octave. “That’s what you’re recommending?” 

“It’s just a resource I give to all patients in these situations. Some couples go once, some don’t go at all, and others go for weeks or months. Everyone has different needs.” 

“Would you be willing to go, Javi?” his wife asked. 

Lola stirred in his arms as if she could sense his apprehension. The idea of going to therapy, talking about feelings, paying to be analyzed by some stranger sounded like a sick form of torture, and he wanted to say no. Think about her. 

And he shivered, imagining how terrified she must’ve been tonight. He was unable to be with her then, but now, he could be there now. He could do this. He would do this for her. 

In the middle of the night, Javier stood in the bright refrigerator light staring at the bottles she had pumped and stored before bed. The milk white as sugar. Basically fresh. He licked his lips, suddenly feeling wide-awake. He’d never tried her milk or anything. He wondered about it often, more often than he cared to admit, and though he tried to stop, he could not help it. But that wasn’t why he was here. No. Sneaking a drink behind her back hadn’t crossed his mind when he came downstairs.

But for a split-second Javier swore something possessed him. 

Whether it was desperation or sleep deprivation, he didn’t know, but he stuck the nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue around in that way she always liked. The last few weeks, he’d spent an ungodly amount of time thinking about this: her sensitivity, the taste, if the milk would be sweet or soft and buttery like rich cream. 

And now here was his chance, only this nipple was chilly and nothing like hers. The artificial rubber scraping his front teeth both disturbed and sobered him. Everything felt wrong. Really fucking wrong. This bottle was meant for Lola, not his gluttonous tongue. 

“What’re you doing awake?” 

Javier ripped the plastic bottle out of his mouth so fast that a spurt of milk landed on his chin. He wiped it away before he turned to find her rubbing her eyes; and now heading this way, her bare feet thump thump thumping against the wooden floorboards until she stood right beside him. The white light reflected off her silky blue nightgown like still water. 

His eyes must’ve looked wild because she tilted her head and said, “Did I scare you?” 

Javier was so stunned he could only nod. How did he not hear her coming? And had she seen him? Or was it too dark? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he might’ve been caught. 

“Well, that’s what you get for not waking me up.” 

Or maybe not. He thumbed at the residual sticky spot on his chin. “You looked too peace—” 

“While it’s sweet, really, how much you care about my sleep, I’m not the one who has work in the morning.” She yawned into her hand. “Besides, I can already feel myself getting full again.” 

His cock twitched, disarming him just long enough that she plucked the bottle right out of his hand. The rubber tip all wet with his spit, really shining like a spotlight. Any hope he had for getting off scott-free was instantly gone. He had no clue how she wouldn’t notice, always too perceptive for her own good. 

Javier swallowed hard, mentally toiling over what to say, how to explain. Yes, I’m a freak. I’ve been imagining drinking your breast milk for weeks. But I swear, I didn’t even take a sip.

Something twisted in his gut, only for her to say…nothing? Huh? She placed the bottle on the center shelf and shut the refrigerator door, snuffing out the bright light. 

Now, in the shadows, there was no way she could see the hot shame on his cheeks, not even as her hand found his and guided him upstairs. 

—--

Javier didn’t know which option was worse. Either she genuinely didn’t see the bottle in his mouth or perhaps trusted him too much to even consider it; or she did notice and chose not to say anything to spare him the humiliation. 

Or was it rejection?

It didn’t matter. Whatever the case, he decided to take it as a sign. Not gonna happen. The next two days, Javier tried to forget about this fantasy, starve the beast, so to say. 

But when he came home from work on Wednesday, he found her on the couch – shirtless and holding clear domes against her chest, the outer edges of her areolas spilling over the silicone rim. 

His tongue grew thicker than a brick in his mouth. Watching her nurse the girls never turned him on, the act seeming too…precious. Sacred. But pumping – Jesus – even when she did it in the soft-lit nursery, it elicited a Pavlovian response. 

She never pumped in the living room. At least not around him, not in broad daylight with the August sun pouring through the windows, allowing him to see the subtle suction, the faint outline of her nipples, the rhythmic pull that elongated her breasts. Chug-chuk-chug. Fresh milk foamed into the bottles. 

“Thought you might wanna feed the girls when they wake up from their nap,” she said, apparently unaware that he was seconds away from drooling like a basset hound. 

It was a miracle that he managed to nod. All the blood in his brain was rushing down, down, and he had to excuse himself, “Gonna shower real quick.” 

He didn’t even kiss her before fleeing upstairs, into their bathroom. His entire body burned despite shedding his clothes, socks, all scattered on the spongy navy rug. After nearly tripping face-first into the porcelain tub, he cranked the squeaky brass handle to the left and a rush of water drenched his scalp, sluiced down his back. Not even the sudden coldness could scare away his erection. It didn’t make sense. He’d touched himself just days ago. 

Maybe his body was still trying to make up for lost time. Those initial newborn weeks, Javier couldn’t recall having a single sexual thought. Too damn exhausted, both physically and mentally. Buried under spit up and laundry and cartoon-printed diapers. 

It didn’t last that long, though. Within a month or so, Javier felt that distinct familiar ache in his groin. And just like he had done since her third trimester, he took care of it – alone. No hesitation. And no clue what he would awaken either. 

It had never occurred to him, until that day, that her breast milk could be an erotic thing. But it was; oh, it was. He had found that out in this very shower, hadn’t he? Yeah, he’d been stroking himself while thinking about her tits when all of a sudden he imagined her saying, really pleading: please please drink from me. 

Javier shuddered as he remembered the mess he made on the porcelain basin. He’d come so hard that it startled him, too, somewhat confused him. It wasn’t like he wanted to call her mommy or wear a diaper or some shit like that – not that he was judging or had any right to anyway. 

For God sake, he couldn’t stop picturing her on the couch. She was still down there, the machine whirling and whirling. It was unnerving how bad he wanted to be that pump. 

Was this weird? Or normal? How should he know? Drinking your wife’s breast milk didn’t exactly come up in everyday conversation. And he sure as shit wasn’t going to ask Doctor Kelly or his dad or Steve. 

Fuck no. 

Before the girls were born, he likely would have confided in her. Or, at least, found some roundabout way to gauge her interest: Do you ever wonder? What’s it taste like? Have you ever tried it before? 

Sex, both talking and the act itself, used to be easy between them. But now? Things felt so different now. 

Neither of them had brought up sex in a little over a month, not since her six-week follow up. She physically had healed, so Doctor Kelly gave the all clear, but the way she tensed and bit the inside of her lip told him another story. She wasn’t there mentally. In the car, he’d taken her hand, kissed her knuckles and said: 

“There isn’t a rush, you know that right? Whenever you’re ready, just let me know.” 

It would happen again someday, he knew, and so he would patiently wait, keeping his mouth shut just as promised. He missed sex – no shit – but more than that he missed her eagerness, her willingness, her desperation to have sex with him. So often he would tease her to the point where she begged. The back of his ears burned as memories of her moaning his name overwhelmed him. 

And now, underneath the rapidly warming water, it was becoming harder to deny himself. He even thought about work and laundry and what to cook for dinner but nothing helped. And he really didn’t have time to wait this erection out. The girls would be awake soon. 

He had to just do it. His hand snaked over his chest, following the stream that ran down his torso before wrapping around his cock. He groaned like it’d been decades, the tight grip of his fist making him buck helplessly into the air. 

Javier intended to make this quick, not bothering to be soft or gentle. He tried not to think about her breasts, but that lasted all of two seconds. They just looked so engorged, so overwhelmingly full. He couldn’t help but imagine being downstairs, his mouth replacing the plastic cones on her nipples. His jaw went slack. Every drop of water landing on his bottom lip made him whine and wish it was her milk instead. 

He stroked himself faster, thrusting into his hand. Fuck it. In real life he might never taste her, so why not fantasize? This could be just for him and the solitude of their shower.

—-

Javier hadn’t masturbated back-to-back days in years. The release brought on by his own hand would never compare to the real thing, but it was as if he was a hormone-crazed teenager again – his hand had worked up and down so fast that it might’ve chafed his skin if not for the water. 

He had no intentions to keep up the streak, though, as he arrived home from work on Friday. Fucking his hand once or twice a week, fine, but every day was not healthy. Not to mention what he had been imagining, too, what he’d pictured happening on the couch. He was already somewhat regretting allowing himself to fantasize in the first place. 

He was both ashamed and not. But it was much too late; he’d already done it, had already glimpsed the dark rip in the fabric of his mind. The memory of her heavy breasts, the foamy look of her milk, had lingered long out of the shower. 

Why did he want this so badly? 

With three-month old twins, he really didn’t have time to psychoanalyze. 

The girls were already waking from their nap, so his shower only lasted long enough to wash his body and hair. 

Once downstairs, he found her on the living room floor at the safari-theme play mat where the girls wiggled and kicked their feet when she spoke in that bright-motherly tone. “Here comes daddy. Yes there he is. There he is.” 

Just as easily as she slipped into her role as wife, she became a mother. She had learned the differences in their cries, too, could decipher their needs and wants as if she had done this for years instead of weeks. For her, it just clicked. 

But for him? 

Javier wouldn’t say taking on his fatherly role came as naturally. Most of the time he felt like he was sprinting just to try and catch up with her. Sometimes he would feel a prickling near his ear when he imagined what might’ve happened…if he had to do this alone. How could he? Only because of her, he’d started to find his footing. 

“Hi girls. Did you have a good day?” he said and they babbled back in vowel sounds. 

He picked up a sunflower-shaped rattle and shook it, wondering if he was doing this right. The rhythm seemed off, but the girls only smiled and watched him intently. Marisol gripped his thumb and pulled it towards her mouth. He leaned forward, unable to resist giving her stupidly-small nose a kiss. They were still so tiny, a little over ten pounds each. 

“They missed you.” 

And what about you? He almost said back, but didn’t. It sounded too pathetic. “Is that what they told you?” 

“In their own way.” She smoothed down Lola’s full head of dark hair. “So how was work?”

They fell into an easy conversation, their usual routine. Feedings. Tummy Time. A thirty-minute nap, so Javier and her could eat dinner uninterrupted, followed by more play time and feedings and finally, their bedtime routine. 

It was insane how much life could change within a year. On a Friday they would sometimes grab a bite to eat or rent a movie at Blockbuster down the street and she would huddle against him on the couch, her head resting against his chest or in his lap. But lately, they were in bed by nine. 

With the girls asleep, she went and took a bath – alone – and he cleaned around the house. He put away odd-textured toys, unloaded and loaded dishes, threw an obscene amount of pastel onesies into the dryer, then headed into their bedroom. The bathroom door was still closed, the frame glowing like a golden-orange halo. The loud glug-glug-glug of draining water meant she wouldn’t be much longer. 

Now, in boxers and a white t-shirt, he laid atop their floral comforter, a few throw pillows propped against the wooden headboard to cushion his back. He was about to grab his book and reading glasses from the bedside drawer when the door opened, wafting in the smell of lavender soap.

She stood in the door frame, wearing a black satin robe with the sash tied in a perfect bow. The short length exposed her dewy legs and most of her thighs. 

“I might need your help,” she said with a wide vulnerable look in her eyes that made him sit up straight. “My breasts are really sore and achy. I’m worried they might be getting clogged.” 

Javier stared at her, not blinking, unsure if this was a dream. Maybe he’d dozed off while rocking Marisol to sleep. It seemed possible, but also Doctor Kelly had warned this could happen. That she was an oversupplier. 

Was that when his desire took root? 

He cleared his throat, along with his head, and finally said, “What’d you need from me?” 

Wordlessly, she climbed onto the bed, into his lap, and her bare, damp thighs felt cool against his rapidly heating skin. And now he was seriously regretting not getting a hand on himself earlier. Silk or something equally soft rubbed against his quad, so at least she was wearing panties. Thank God. No doubt he would’ve combusted on the spot at the feeling of her bare cunt. 

“I tried massaging them myself, but it didn’t help.” 

She undid the bow, but the robe stuck to her clean skin, only revealing a sliver of cleavage. The sash dangled at her sides, tickling his knees. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and the way she toyed with the lapels for a moment made her appear hesitant but also…not. This must've been his imagination, but, at the same time it almost seemed like she was performing a strip tease, purposely moving slow and luring the robe open to expose her breasts. 

And there they were, right in front of him, more engorged than he’d ever seen them before. The skin stretched, smooth and tight. Nipples hard, too. His mouth flooded with saliva and he had to avert his gaze, only her panties were black and shiny, just as tempting and sexy as her robe. He should’ve looked up instead of down. 

He stared directly at her belly button when he said, “So… massage ‘em?” 

“Do you want me to show you?” 

“No.” His voice was tighter than he intended, but the thought of her touching her tits while sitting on him was enough to make his balls painfully ache. “Just tell me if it’s wrong.” 

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Her ass cheeks jiggled back and forth as she shifted just enough to clutch his shoulders. Her arms formed a sort of makeshift cage, practically forcing him to look at her milk-filled tits. 

Javier already felt his cock betraying him, of course, already twitchy and rising with humiliating speed. She was bound to notice eventually. He imagined, at some point, it would poke her in the stomach or thigh and he’d give a tomato-faced apology for his goddamn baser instincts. If only his body could be on the same page as his brain and realize this was strictly medical. Essential. Based on the Mastitis pamphlet he’d read, that shit sounded brutal. 

Sexual or not, he always wanted, really needed to make her feel good. 

He rubbed his hands together to warm them first; except he must’ve done a piss-poor job because she shivered when he touched her waist. He mumbled an apology but did not pull away or stray from this ten-and-two position, which seemed a more neutral zone. 

Not enough to fully compose him, however. 

His hands still trembled a little as he climbed up her torso, lingering on the crest of her ribcage a moment. A distinct, concentrated heat was radiating from her chest. It was as if only that part of her body ran a low-grade fever. 

Javier cupped her tits, his fingers shaping around the outer swells. His chest hitched at the weight, their new fullness. He liked to think himself an expert on her breasts, having touched them hundreds, thousands of times. Hell – he’d even massaged them in ways similar to how he was now, but he had never felt them like this. So dense, like a rich flourless cake. A firmness that made him wonder why she insisted he feed Marisol tonight and with a bottle pumped this afternoon, no less. But he didn’t trust his voice enough to ask.  

Instead, he kept applying gentle pressure with his thumbs, sticking to the perimeter at first. There were no visible signs of a knot, neither a lump or a discolored patch to direct him. Not feeling anything hard either, he pressed deeper and slowly worked his way towards the center. 

His diligent efforts weren’t entirely selfless, though. As much as he wished he could say they were, the longer he searched, the less secure he became. Every knead and touch stripped off yet another layer of his resolve until he felt lost and dizzy. 

The only sounds in the room soon became her moans and these ugly, harsh nostril tones that he couldn’t stop making. Not that he tried. Too consumed in the act, the inward path of his hands, the way she panted yeah yeah yeah keep going. 

And with nowhere else to explore he let his fingers encircle her nipple, felt it bunch and stiffen as she gasped beautifully. 

Milk dribbled onto his thumbnail like vanilla-smelling paint. His tongue peeked out from his lips and it was taking everything in him to keep his cool, to not lean down and lick. 

“Did you like the taste?” 

It took him a second to realize what she said before his gaze snapped to her face. “What?” 

“The other night.” She tilted her head coolly. “Did you like the taste?” 

His pulse spiked, making him very aware of his clammy hands on her breasts, the warm milk sliding down his fingertip. “I. I didn’t–” 

“You didn’t like it?” 

“I didn’t try it.” The words catapulted out of his mouth. “Shit. I almost did, but couldn’t do it.” 

She raised her eyebrows, as though he’d said something wildly intriguing. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist and, without breaking eye contact, she brought his milky thumb to her lips and licked. It was shocking, the wet slip of her tongue. He didn’t know which of them moaned louder. 

“You wanna try it, I know you do.” She gave another kitten lick, apparently enjoying the taste. “So what stopped you?” 

Javier did not know what to say. Words had never come easy to him. And especially not right now, not in this state, for how could he think with her milk and spit drying on his finger? He had to physically shake his head a little to focus on that night, remember the cold bottle in his hand. It was true, the rubber taste in his mouth hadn’t felt right, but it was more than that. So much more. At the end of the day, no matter how many times he’d feasted on her cunt and eaten her ass, he would always want – 

“Tell me,” he murmured and she leaned closer, almost instinctively. “Need you to tell me I can use my mouth. 

He had spoken too stupidly. It did not come out as he wanted, but she still said, “Yes. Yes, I want you to.” 

Her permission nearly made him lose control – all he wanted to do was bury his face in her tits, slurp and suck and be greedy with it – but this also felt like a gift. Something he thought would only exist in his dreams. And he’d be an idiot not to treat it like such. 

He placed tender kisses along her collarbone, her sternum, each one making her whimper and God – he really missed hearing her whimper. He murmured her name reverently as he mouthed at her breast, unable to believe she was letting him have this. She shivered – out of desire or nervousness, he couldn’t tell but her skin felt more feverish than before. 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, but she cradled the back of his skull as though to encourage more. 

More. 

And he obeyed. His mouth captured her nipple, only sucking long enough for a splash of milk to hit his tongue. Creamy and sweet – better than he imagined – like a warm slice of Tres Leches Cake. Heat bloomed in his gut and before he could stop and think, he stole another drink. Then another. Another. 

An ungodly noise escaped his throat, a trickle of milk spilling out the side of his mouth. He couldn’t seem to get enough, though. There was still a small part of him that felt like he was doing something wrong. He wondered if he was enjoying this too much, if she found his desire disturbing. She was always so goddamn generous that he would hate to take more than she was willing to give. 

He did, finally, pull away; his mouth made a wet popping sound, but without wiping his lips, he leaned back just far enough to study her face. The glazy look in her eyes, her bite-swollen lips, and he couldn’t believe it – she was enjoying this. 

Still, he found himself asking, “This feel good?” before his head dipped to her other breast. His tongue circled and circled her recently-ignored nipple. 

“Ohhhhh yes. Javi!” 

The way she said his name, that desire-soaked voice, made something snap deep inside him. He grabbed a handful of her ass and tugged her impossibly close, smashing his nose against her plump breast. 

It was frantic. His lips alternated between kisses, strokes, and devouring her whole. Foreplay with her tits had always aroused her to a certain extent, though, more so in a soft sigh and breathy kind of way. Definitely never like this. He imagined she would be sensitive but fuck – she was pulling his hair and crying his name like he’d been edging her for hours. 

And now, the room smelled distinctly like sex, only he had no idea what direction this was headed. Did she want more? He really didn’t want to ask, didn’t want her to feel pressured. But she was rolling her hips, her clothed slit pinned against the raging tent in his boxers, and he was getting close to a shamefully quick orgasm. 

“Want me to come like this?” His voice was low, milk-thick. “Fuck. Just tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

She rocked backwards, relieving the pressure off his cock which also made it painfully throb. He clamped down on his jaw in order to keep from whimpering like a wounded dog. 

Her gaze flickered to her nightstand, back to his face. “I bought condoms at the store yesterday.” 

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Javi–” 

“Whatever you want, I need to hear you say it.” He brushed across the sensitive spot on her neck, then nipped at her chin. Underneath his palm, goosebumps rose over her skin. 

“You,” she whispered. “Make me feel good.” 

Her fingers snagged into his hair and she drew him into a bruising kiss. It felt good – wet and noisy. She licked the seam of his sticky lips, slid her tongue between his teeth and moaned. 

Fuck – he’d missed kissing her desperately, breathlessly, in the sanctity of their bedroom. 

She toyed with the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He ripped it off and tossed it on the floor as soon as she crawled over to her bedside drawer. She rummaged out a condom along with a tiny purple bottle. 

“I also got some lube,” she said. “Just in case–” 

“We’re fucking using that.” He beckoned her to hand it over with a crook of his finger. “Now, switch me spots and get comfortable.” 

She moved the pillows more towards the middle, laid back and spread her legs until there was enough space for him. Nestled between her thighs now, he dropped the bottle of lube onto the comforter to pet her hips. In the warm lamp light, the wet marks of his greedy mouth all shiny on her nipples. His gaze dipped to her cunt, her panties molding against her seam and lips. He swallowed the urge to tear away the satin and fuck her senseless. 

The doctor had warned sex, especially the first time after a c-section, could be painful. Dry and stingy and uncomfortable. If he wanted to make her feel good, which he did, he needed to ignore his own desire and stretch her open with fingers first. 

“So pretty.” He stroked her thighs until he reached the elastic stitching of her panties. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. “Just relax. I’ll go slow.” 

“I trust you.” 

He hummed his approval, one hand caressing her hip as his fingers swept across her clothed slit. Soaked. She was so wet that when he teased her folds her panties made a splish-splosh noise. And oh – he could smell her, even through the satin, he could smell the seawater spice of her that always drove him insane. 

When he touched her clit, she let out a moan that was barely human. He’d never heard her make such a noise. He would’ve assumed she also touched herself when nobody was around, but maybe not. Maybe this was the first time in months that her clit had any real attention. 

“More?” he asked and in response, she bucked her hips. He clicked his tongue. “Use your words, baby.” 

She groaned, cried, “Please, God please more!” 

“There you go.” He hooked his fingers around her panties, shoved them down her legs before tossing them on the floor. She spread herself wider and he stared without shame. Her cunt was such a pretty thing: glossy and swollen and even better than his memories. The sight made his cock viciously jerk, a gush of pre-come no doubt staining his boxers. 

Javier had to clench every muscle in his body just to keep from fucking the mattress or his hand, and most of all her. He took a breath, retrieved the bottle of K & Y Jelly – near the foot of the bed – and popped open the lid. A drugstore lube, so it smelled a little like plastic. Not that he cared with how utterly desperate she looked, all exposed and whimpering for him. 

Once his fingers were nice and coated, he reached between her legs and spread the slick over her lips and fever-hot slit until everything was drenched. He focused on her clit first. Tight circles before he flicked it with just enough pressure to make her thighs twitch. One finger slid down to tease her entrance. “Can I?” 

She furiously nodded, an urgent chant of yes yes yes spilling from her lips. 

Most of the time he would watch her cunt eagerly swallow him: cock, fingers, tongue, or whatever she was taking from him. All very erotic. But now, easing into her, Javier intently studied her face for any signs of pain. Her eyebrows pinched together at first, but inch by slow inch, pleasure burst from her lips, releasing sounds that were like gasps but higher pitched. 

“Good girl. Took it all. Took it so well,” he said, making her eyes roll into the back of her head. 

He drew back, before pushing forward. Over and over and over again. Slow but deep. Expertly finding the spongy spot that she ached toward, curling and bending and pressing just right, and she was so aroused, so open and eager and moaning for him and him alone. 

Javier realized, not for the first time, the intensity of his desire. Of course he had always enjoyed sex, ever since that first fumbling in the backseat of a mustard brown Buick at sixteen. Except between him and past women, there had always been a gap. Sex had been a means to an end. Just fucking. Just two detached rocks bluntly striking together for friction, seeking some type of release – either biological or psychological, sometimes both. Good at the time. Even great and helped keep him sane. But nothing – nothing could compare. He didn’t know something like this could exist until she let him into her bed. 

She, curious and passionate and loving, had shown him a world of intimacy from which he’d restricted himself for too long. It was intoxicating. Addictive. He could never live without it again. Now, his gaze flickered from her mouth to her chest to her torso rising and falling with every audible breath, and soon Javier thought he’d go wild if he couldn’t touch more of her. 

“Let me add another one.” The words came out in a rush, sounded more like a demand than a question, but she didn’t seem to care and immediately told him: I need it. I need it. 

With two fingers stretching her open and thumb circling her clit, Javier shifted and leaned forward to kiss her stomach — a place he wanted to worship. 

“Most perfect fucking thing. Swear you get prettier everyday baby,” he mumbled into her softened flesh and felt her clench. 

“Oh that’s – Shit. I’m close.” 

His lips, the sharp tip of his nose caressed every new mark that formed from bringing their daughters into this world. He lifted his head to admire her incision line. He remembered cleaning that freshly pissed-off wound when her abdomen was too sore and she was too weak to move. It had healed nicely since then, the skin only a bit risen, a shade or two different. 

He kissed the scar tenderly, delicately, as though the incision could possibly split open and he would be transported back to the hospital again, back in the room among strangers and balloons where he had waited and waited and waited, scared out of his mind that she would leave him behind in this world and with no clue how to be alone anymore. 

But she was here. She was in their bed, with his fingers buried in her white-hot flesh, her body humming with life as she climaxed. 

“Yeah. Good. C’mon that’s it,” he whispered encouragement until she looped her fingers through his hair and tugged hard enough to make him grunt. 

When she finally released him and he withdrew his hand, he could see her all over him. If not for the waxy resin of lube, he would’ve tasted her. Instead he curved his fingers back inside her. She must not have expected it because her walls squeezed like a fist. 

“Javi!”

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Come on. I need…” she trailed off when he added a third without warning. Her mouth stuck open mid-word as he massaged the inner lining of her walls. 

“Need what, huh?” He plugged her full and wiggled his fingers, only making it harder for her to speak. “Tell me.” 

Now her thighs were quivering, same as her voice. “Wanna…fuck. Fuck me. Please.” 

It took every scrap of strength he possessed to not fuck her right then and there, completely bare. But that was how she got pregnant, wasn’t it?

This time, rather than think with his dick, he carefully slipped from her body and grabbed the aluminum packet. After rolling on the condom and lathering it with lube, he asked, “How do you want me?” 

She instructed him to sit back. They were both fully undressed, matching frantic expressions with her climbing in his lap and fisting his cock for the first time tonight. He seized her hips and curled his toes, unable to stop himself from moaning. She responded similarly as she smeared his flush-red tip through the swollen lips of her pussy. 

Notched at her entrance, he said, “Take it nice and slow.” 

“I will.” 

She braced one hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped firmly around his base. His jaw clenched at the initial stretch, the blossoming of her cunt. She sank down and down and God – she felt so good. Wet and tight, her walls convulsing wildly. Only the condom kept him from prematurely finishing. 

“So much. Forgot how… it’s a lot,” she panted and he almost smirked. No matter how shameful it felt, he couldn’t help but swell with pride every damn time she needed a moment to adjust to his size; it was encoded into him. Some barbaric instinct that made him want to believe she’d never taken bigger. Nobody had ever claimed her so wholly.

His hand caressed her face, feeling the soft bulb of her cheek. “Always take it so well though, don’t you baby?” 

“Uh-huh,” she whimpered when she angled her hips, pinning him in the best way possible. She began to rock, a fluid back and forth. Back and forth. She didn’t rush. He didn’t want her to either. This was worth savoring. 

“That’s it,” he said in a low baritone that made her lashes flutter. Her neck arched towards the ceiling like a flower seeking the sun. Even though she had a beautiful throat, he gripped the back of her neck possessively. “Keep your eyes on me. Keep ‘em here. There you go.” 

In the honey light of the room, his thumb tucked behind her ear, he admired her focused brow, arouse-stricken mouth, the slight expansion of her pupils. His breath caught at the thought of never seeing her like this again. What the hell was wrong with him? Even while inside her, he could not forget almost losing her. That possibility had left him sick and stricken then; but only afterwards, in moments such as this, had he come to understand the terrifying scope of what life without her would truly mean. No more potpourri or warm sheets, no more uncapped tubes of mint toothpaste or half-full water glasses cluttering side tables. 

Relief and unrealized grief thrummed through his veins. Unable to speak, he tilted his head and demanded her mouth. It wasn’t a kiss, more a desperate smack of lips. A declaration of teeth, tongue, and spit. He was eclipsed under her frame, with her hips rolling faster. Faster. The wooden headboard bump…bump…bumping against the wall like a crashing wave. 

“God. I need you. I need you,” he murmured, the words coming out frantic and lacking, but how could he think straight?

“I know. I know.” She stroked the crown of his hair while guiding him to her breast, encouraging him to suck. When he encircled her nipple and began to drink, he swore being inside her made her taste more sweet. 

He groaned. “Taste good. How do you taste this fucking good?” 

Rather than wait for her to speak, he went back to suckling and lapping and soon, he noticed that she was desperately moaning. Javi Javi oooh just like that. 

The room vibrated with the pitch of their sex – all sloppy desire and heat-hump skin rising and perspiring together. She was making a mess on his lap, pussy drooling all over him. Slickness like a warm tongue licked past his balls and he hoped it would dribble onto the comforter, form darkened blots like souvenirs on the red and navy floral pattern. 

His cock pulsed, really throbbed this time. He was no stranger to the heated feeling building in his gut, but never in his life, not even as an early teen, could he recall coming like this. From just grinding and sucking on tits. Usually took more movement, a little bounce or thrust, some basic up-and-down stuff. But – 

Oh God. A climax propelled in his belly, heaving and screaming like an untamed bull, and she pushed down even further. Deeper. Until she couldn’t take another inch. 

“Not gonna last,” he was forced to admit; the words punched from his lungs the moment her ass grazed the scant hairs on his thighs. 

“It’s okay. I got you.” 

“No. Want you to come too.” His hand on her hip slid between them to find her clit. He could tell when he made contact by the way her cunt squeezed and constricted like a knot. “Use me. Come on, use me. Take what you need.” 

She didn’t hesitate, her fingers curling through his hair and sealing him against her pretty tits. He devoured her, inhaled her without a hint of shame. She let out a ragged cry, began to ride him with wild, tall-saddle strokes, her pelvis grounding against him in a way that made his wrist temporarily numb. His fingers were trapped, shooting static. Fuck. He had to just press against her clit, hope it would be enough pressure. 

It must’ve been because she quickly spasmed around him, making those noises she made when she was close, those deep throaty moans. So fucking hot. Did she know what her noises did to him? The way she said his name? It was too much. A pitiful sound of his own vibrated his throat right before he finally broke. 

The orgasm that overtook him was different than anything he had experienced before, with her or women he’d gone to bed with in the past. Shockingly intense. It was almost as if the warm vanilla taste made him lose all sense of control in his mind and limbs. Lost in this, he couldn’t help thrusting upward. His hips pistoned off the bed again and again. A clumsy rhythm, but she still gushed. Milk on his chin. Pussy clamping around him. Her climax amplified his own, making him come so hard and long that his eyes watered shut. 

Afterwards he had to release her nipple in order to catch his breath. He glued his forehead to her sternum, inhaling the scent of her fresh sweat while listening to the hearty blur-blur-blur in her chest. Their skin was damp now, both of them syrupy, but his hands worked to pet her hips, trace the column of her spine. Orgasms always left him desperate for touch. He was still buried inside her, going soft, and yet… 

His body craved more. More. At times, especially like now, he wished he could sprout extra arms. Wanted to wrap around her like an octopus, attach himself to her. Maybe it was strange but fuck – he wanted to be completely enveloped with her. 

Finally, after a long moment of panting, Javier had a clear enough mind to say, “I didn’t mean to get that rough at the end.” 

“Who was complaining?” Her head swiveled from left to right. “Because it definitely wasn’t me.” 

“Like being smug, huh?” He gave her left ass cheek a light swat. 

She let out a girlish squeak, gripped him by the back of the neck, then kissed him sweetly. A happy humming sound came from her closed lips before she said, “Tastes good, doesn’t it?” 

In the middle of the night, Javier stood in the bright refrigerator light staring at the bottles she had pumped and stored before bed. The milk white as sugar. Basically fresh. He licked his lips, suddenly feeling wide-awake. He’d never tried her milk or anything. He wondered about it often, more often than he cared to admit, and though he tried to stop, he could not help it. But that wasn’t why he was here. No. Sneaking a drink behind her back hadn’t crossed his mind when he came downstairs.

But for a split-second Javier swore something possessed him. 

Whether it was desperation or sleep deprivation, he didn’t know, but he stuck the nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue around in that way she always liked. The last few weeks, he’d spent an ungodly amount of time thinking about this: her sensitivity, the taste, if the milk would be sweet or soft and buttery like rich cream. 

And now here was his chance, only this nipple was chilly and nothing like hers. The artificial rubber scraping his front teeth both disturbed and sobered him. Everything felt wrong. Really fucking wrong. This bottle was meant for Lola, not his gluttonous tongue. 

“What’re you doing awake?” 

Javier ripped the plastic bottle out of his mouth so fast that a spurt of milk landed on his chin. He wiped it away before he turned to find her rubbing her eyes; and now heading this way, her bare feet thump thump thumping against the wooden floorboards until she stood right beside him. The white light reflected off her silky blue nightgown like still water. 

His eyes must’ve looked wild because she tilted her head and said, “Did I scare you?” 

Javier was so stunned he could only nod. How did he not hear her coming? And had she seen him? Or was it too dark? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he might’ve been caught. 

“Well, that’s what you get for not waking me up.” 

Or maybe not. He thumbed at the residual sticky spot on his chin. “You looked too peace—” 

“While it’s sweet, really, how much you care about my sleep, I’m not the one who has work in the morning.” She yawned into her hand. “Besides, I can already feel myself getting full again.” 

His cock twitched, disarming him just long enough that she plucked the bottle right out of his hand. The rubber tip all wet with his spit, really shining like a spotlight. Any hope he had for getting off scott-free was instantly gone. He had no clue how she wouldn’t notice, always too perceptive for her own good. 

Javier swallowed hard, mentally toiling over what to say, how to explain. Yes, I’m a freak. I’ve been imagining drinking your breast milk for weeks. But I swear, I didn’t even take a sip.

Something twisted in his gut, only for her to say…nothing? Huh? She placed the bottle on the center shelf and shut the refrigerator door, snuffing out the bright light. 

Now, in the shadows, there was no way she could see the hot shame on his cheeks, not even as her hand found his and guided him upstairs. 

—--

Javier didn’t know which option was worse. Either she genuinely didn’t see the bottle in his mouth or perhaps trusted him too much to even consider it; or she did notice and chose not to say anything to spare him the humiliation. 

Or was it rejection?

It didn’t matter. Whatever the case, he decided to take it as a sign. Not gonna happen. The next two days, Javier tried to forget about this fantasy, starve the beast, so to say. 

But when he came home from work on Wednesday, he found her on the couch – shirtless and holding clear domes against her chest, the outer edges of her areolas spilling over the silicone rim. 

His tongue grew thicker than a brick in his mouth. Watching her nurse the girls never turned him on, the act seeming too…precious. Sacred. But pumping – Jesus – even when she did it in the soft-lit nursery, it elicited a Pavlovian response. 

She never pumped in the living room. At least not around him, not in broad daylight with the August sun pouring through the windows, allowing him to see the subtle suction, the faint outline of her nipples, the rhythmic pull that elongated her breasts. Chug-chuk-chug. Fresh milk foamed into the bottles. 

“Thought you might wanna feed the girls when they wake up from their nap,” she said, apparently unaware that he was seconds away from drooling like a basset hound. 

It was a miracle that he managed to nod. All the blood in his brain was rushing down, down, and he had to excuse himself, “Gonna shower real quick.” 

He didn’t even kiss her before fleeing upstairs, into their bathroom. His entire body burned despite shedding his clothes, socks, all scattered on the spongy navy rug. After nearly tripping face-first into the porcelain tub, he cranked the squeaky brass handle to the left and a rush of water drenched his scalp, sluiced down his back. Not even the sudden coldness could scare away his erection. It didn’t make sense. He’d touched himself just days ago. 

Maybe his body was still trying to make up for lost time. Those initial newborn weeks, Javier couldn’t recall having a single sexual thought. Too damn exhausted, both physically and mentally. Buried under spit up and laundry and cartoon-printed diapers. 

It didn’t last that long, though. Within a month or so, Javier felt that distinct familiar ache in his groin. And just like he had done since her third trimester, he took care of it – alone. No hesitation. And no clue what he would awaken either. 

It had never occurred to him, until that day, that her breast milk could be an erotic thing. But it was; oh, it was. He had found that out in this very shower, hadn’t he? Yeah, he’d been stroking himself while thinking about her tits when all of a sudden he imagined her saying, really pleading: please please drink from me. 

Javier shuddered as he remembered the mess he made on the porcelain basin. He’d come so hard that it startled him, too, somewhat confused him. It wasn’t like he wanted to call her mommy or wear a diaper or some shit like that – not that he was judging or had any right to anyway. 

For God sake, he couldn’t stop picturing her on the couch. She was still down there, the machine whirling and whirling. It was unnerving how bad he wanted to be that pump. 

Was this weird? Or normal? How should he know? Drinking your wife’s breast milk didn’t exactly come up in everyday conversation. And he sure as shit wasn’t going to ask Doctor Kelly or his dad or Steve. 

Fuck no. 

Before the girls were born, he likely would have confided in her. Or, at least, found some roundabout way to gauge her interest: Do you ever wonder? What’s it taste like? Have you ever tried it before? 

Sex, both talking and the act itself, used to be easy between them. But now? Things felt so different now. 

Neither of them had brought up sex in a little over a month, not since her six-week follow up. She physically had healed, so Doctor Kelly gave the all clear, but the way she tensed and bit the inside of her lip told him another story. She wasn’t there mentally. In the car, he’d taken her hand, kissed her knuckles and said: 

“There isn’t a rush, you know that right? Whenever you’re ready, just let me know.” 

It would happen again someday, he knew, and so he would patiently wait, keeping his mouth shut just as promised. He missed sex – no shit – but more than that he missed her eagerness, her willingness, her desperation to have sex with him. So often he would tease her to the point where she begged. The back of his ears burned as memories of her moaning his name overwhelmed him. 

And now, underneath the rapidly warming water, it was becoming harder to deny himself. He even thought about work and laundry and what to cook for dinner but nothing helped. And he really didn’t have time to wait this erection out. The girls would be awake soon. 

He had to just do it. His hand snaked over his chest, following the stream that ran down his torso before wrapping around his cock. He groaned like it’d been decades, the tight grip of his fist making him buck helplessly into the air. 

Javier intended to make this quick, not bothering to be soft or gentle. He tried not to think about her breasts, but that lasted all of two seconds. They just looked so engorged, so overwhelmingly full. He couldn’t help but imagine being downstairs, his mouth replacing the plastic cones on her nipples. His jaw went slack. Every drop of water landing on his bottom lip made him whine and wish it was her milk instead. 

He stroked himself faster, thrusting into his hand. Fuck it. In real life he might never taste her, so why not fantasize? This could be just for him and the solitude of their shower.

—-

Javier hadn’t masturbated back-to-back days in years. The release brought on by his own hand would never compare to the real thing, but it was as if he was a hormone-crazed teenager again – his hand had worked up and down so fast that it might’ve chafed his skin if not for the water. 

He had no intentions to keep up the streak, though, as he arrived home from work on Friday. Fucking his hand once or twice a week, fine, but every day was not healthy. Not to mention what he had been imagining, too, what he’d pictured happening on the couch. He was already somewhat regretting allowing himself to fantasize in the first place. 

He was both ashamed and not. But it was much too late; he’d already done it, had already glimpsed the dark rip in the fabric of his mind. The memory of her heavy breasts, the foamy look of her milk, had lingered long out of the shower. 

Why did he want this so badly? 

With three-month old twins, he really didn’t have time to psychoanalyze. 

The girls were already waking from their nap, so his shower only lasted long enough to wash his body and hair. 

Once downstairs, he found her on the living room floor at the safari-theme play mat where the girls wiggled and kicked their feet when she spoke in that bright-motherly tone. “Here comes daddy. Yes there he is. There he is.” 

Just as easily as she slipped into her role as wife, she became a mother. She had learned the differences in their cries, too, could decipher their needs and wants as if she had done this for years instead of weeks. For her, it just clicked. 

But for him? 

Javier wouldn’t say taking on his fatherly role came as naturally. Most of the time he felt like he was sprinting just to try and catch up with her. Sometimes he would feel a prickling near his ear when he imagined what might’ve happened…if he had to do this alone. How could he? Only because of her, he’d started to find his footing. 

“Hi girls. Did you have a good day?” he said and they babbled back in vowel sounds. 

He picked up a sunflower-shaped rattle and shook it, wondering if he was doing this right. The rhythm seemed off, but the girls only smiled and watched him intently. Marisol gripped his thumb and pulled it towards her mouth. He leaned forward, unable to resist giving her stupidly-small nose a kiss. They were still so tiny, a little over ten pounds each. 

“They missed you.” 

And what about you? He almost said back, but didn’t. It sounded too pathetic. “Is that what they told you?” 

“In their own way.” She smoothed down Lola’s full head of dark hair. “So how was work?”

They fell into an easy conversation, their usual routine. Feedings. Tummy Time. A thirty-minute nap, so Javier and her could eat dinner uninterrupted, followed by more play time and feedings and finally, their bedtime routine. 

It was insane how much life could change within a year. On a Friday they would sometimes grab a bite to eat or rent a movie at Blockbuster down the street and she would huddle against him on the couch, her head resting against his chest or in his lap. But lately, they were in bed by nine. 

With the girls asleep, she went and took a bath – alone – and he cleaned around the house. He put away odd-textured toys, unloaded and loaded dishes, threw an obscene amount of pastel onesies into the dryer, then headed into their bedroom. The bathroom door was still closed, the frame glowing like a golden-orange halo. The loud glug-glug-glug of draining water meant she wouldn’t be much longer. 

Now, in boxers and a white t-shirt, he laid atop their floral comforter, a few throw pillows propped against the wooden headboard to cushion his back. He was about to grab his book and reading glasses from the bedside drawer when the door opened, wafting in the smell of lavender soap.

She stood in the door frame, wearing a black satin robe with the sash tied in a perfect bow. The short length exposed her dewy legs and most of her thighs. 

“I might need your help,” she said with a wide vulnerable look in her eyes that made him sit up straight. “My breasts are really sore and achy. I’m worried they might be getting clogged.” 

Javier stared at her, not blinking, unsure if this was a dream. Maybe he’d dozed off while rocking Marisol to sleep. It seemed possible, but also Doctor Kelly had warned this could happen. That she was an oversupplier. 

Was that when his desire took root? 

He cleared his throat, along with his head, and finally said, “What’d you need from me?” 

Wordlessly, she climbed onto the bed, into his lap, and her bare, damp thighs felt cool against his rapidly heating skin. And now he was seriously regretting not getting a hand on himself earlier. Silk or something equally soft rubbed against his quad, so at least she was wearing panties. Thank God. No doubt he would’ve combusted on the spot at the feeling of her bare cunt. 

“I tried massaging them myself, but it didn’t help.” 

She undid the bow, but the robe stuck to her clean skin, only revealing a sliver of cleavage. The sash dangled at her sides, tickling his knees. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and the way she toyed with the lapels for a moment made her appear hesitant but also…not. This must've been his imagination, but, at the same time it almost seemed like she was performing a strip tease, purposely moving slow and luring the robe open to expose her breasts. 

And there they were, right in front of him, more engorged than he’d ever seen them before. The skin stretched, smooth and tight. Nipples hard, too. His mouth flooded with saliva and he had to avert his gaze, only her panties were black and shiny, just as tempting and sexy as her robe. He should’ve looked up instead of down. 

He stared directly at her belly button when he said, “So… massage ‘em?” 

“Do you want me to show you?” 

“No.” His voice was tighter than he intended, but the thought of her touching her tits while sitting on him was enough to make his balls painfully ache. “Just tell me if it’s wrong.” 

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Her ass cheeks jiggled back and forth as she shifted just enough to clutch his shoulders. Her arms formed a sort of makeshift cage, practically forcing him to look at her milk-filled tits. 

Javier already felt his cock betraying him, of course, already twitchy and rising with humiliating speed. She was bound to notice eventually. He imagined, at some point, it would poke her in the stomach or thigh and he’d give a tomato-faced apology for his goddamn baser instincts. If only his body could be on the same page as his brain and realize this was strictly medical. Essential. Based on the Mastitis pamphlet he’d read, that shit sounded brutal. 

Sexual or not, he always wanted, really needed to make her feel good. 

He rubbed his hands together to warm them first; except he must’ve done a piss-poor job because she shivered when he touched her waist. He mumbled an apology but did not pull away or stray from this ten-and-two position, which seemed a more neutral zone. 

Not enough to fully compose him, however. 

His hands still trembled a little as he climbed up her torso, lingering on the crest of her ribcage a moment. A distinct, concentrated heat was radiating from her chest. It was as if only that part of her body ran a low-grade fever. 

Javier cupped her tits, his fingers shaping around the outer swells. His chest hitched at the weight, their new fullness. He liked to think himself an expert on her breasts, having touched them hundreds, thousands of times. Hell – he’d even massaged them in ways similar to how he was now, but he had never felt them like this. So dense, like a rich flourless cake. A firmness that made him wonder why she insisted he feed Marisol tonight and with a bottle pumped this afternoon, no less. But he didn’t trust his voice enough to ask.  

Instead, he kept applying gentle pressure with his thumbs, sticking to the perimeter at first. There were no visible signs of a knot, neither a lump or a discolored patch to direct him. Not feeling anything hard either, he pressed deeper and slowly worked his way towards the center. 

His diligent efforts weren’t entirely selfless, though. As much as he wished he could say they were, the longer he searched, the less secure he became. Every knead and touch stripped off yet another layer of his resolve until he felt lost and dizzy. 

The only sounds in the room soon became her moans and these ugly, harsh nostril tones that he couldn’t stop making. Not that he tried. Too consumed in the act, the inward path of his hands, the way she panted yeah yeah yeah keep going. 

And with nowhere else to explore he let his fingers encircle her nipple, felt it bunch and stiffen as she gasped beautifully. 

Milk dribbled onto his thumbnail like vanilla-smelling paint. His tongue peeked out from his lips and it was taking everything in him to keep his cool, to not lean down and lick. 

“Did you like the taste?” 

It took him a second to realize what she said before his gaze snapped to her face. “What?” 

“The other night.” She tilted her head coolly. “Did you like the taste?” 

His pulse spiked, making him very aware of his clammy hands on her breasts, the warm milk sliding down his fingertip. “I. I didn’t–” 

“You didn’t like it?” 

“I didn’t try it.” The words catapulted out of his mouth. “Shit. I almost did, but couldn’t do it.” 

She raised her eyebrows, as though he’d said something wildly intriguing. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist and, without breaking eye contact, she brought his milky thumb to her lips and licked. It was shocking, the wet slip of her tongue. He didn’t know which of them moaned louder. 

“You wanna try it, I know you do.” She gave another kitten lick, apparently enjoying the taste. “So what stopped you?” 

Javier did not know what to say. Words had never come easy to him. And especially not right now, not in this state, for how could he think with her milk and spit drying on his finger? He had to physically shake his head a little to focus on that night, remember the cold bottle in his hand. It was true, the rubber taste in his mouth hadn’t felt right, but it was more than that. So much more. At the end of the day, no matter how many times he’d feasted on her cunt and eaten her ass, he would always want – 

“Tell me,” he murmured and she leaned closer, almost instinctively. “Need you to tell me I can use my mouth. 

He had spoken too stupidly. It did not come out as he wanted, but she still said, “Yes. Yes, I want you to.” 

Her permission nearly made him lose control – all he wanted to do was bury his face in her tits, slurp and suck and be greedy with it – but this also felt like a gift. Something he thought would only exist in his dreams. And he’d be an idiot not to treat it like such. 

He placed tender kisses along her collarbone, her sternum, each one making her whimper and God – he really missed hearing her whimper. He murmured her name reverently as he mouthed at her breast, unable to believe she was letting him have this. She shivered – out of desire or nervousness, he couldn’t tell but her skin felt more feverish than before. 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, but she cradled the back of his skull as though to encourage more. 

More. 

And he obeyed. His mouth captured her nipple, only sucking long enough for a splash of milk to hit his tongue. Creamy and sweet – better than he imagined – like a warm slice of Tres Leches Cake. Heat bloomed in his gut and before he could stop and think, he stole another drink. Then another. Another. 

An ungodly noise escaped his throat, a trickle of milk spilling out the side of his mouth. He couldn’t seem to get enough, though. There was still a small part of him that felt like he was doing something wrong. He wondered if he was enjoying this too much, if she found his desire disturbing. She was always so goddamn generous that he would hate to take more than she was willing to give. 

He did, finally, pull away; his mouth made a wet popping sound, but without wiping his lips, he leaned back just far enough to study her face. The glazy look in her eyes, her bite-swollen lips, and he couldn’t believe it – she was enjoying this. 

Still, he found himself asking, “This feel good?” before his head dipped to her other breast. His tongue circled and circled her recently-ignored nipple. 

“Ohhhhh yes. Javi!” 

The way she said his name, that desire-soaked voice, made something snap deep inside him. He grabbed a handful of her ass and tugged her impossibly close, smashing his nose against her plump breast. 

It was frantic. His lips alternated between kisses, strokes, and devouring her whole. Foreplay with her tits had always aroused her to a certain extent, though, more so in a soft sigh and breathy kind of way. Definitely never like this. He imagined she would be sensitive but fuck – she was pulling his hair and crying his name like he’d been edging her for hours. 

And now, the room smelled distinctly like sex, only he had no idea what direction this was headed. Did she want more? He really didn’t want to ask, didn’t want her to feel pressured. But she was rolling her hips, her clothed slit pinned against the raging tent in his boxers, and he was getting close to a shamefully quick orgasm. 

“Want me to come like this?” His voice was low, milk-thick. “Fuck. Just tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

She rocked backwards, relieving the pressure off his cock which also made it painfully throb. He clamped down on his jaw in order to keep from whimpering like a wounded dog. 

Her gaze flickered to her nightstand, back to his face. “I bought condoms at the store yesterday.” 

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Javi–” 

“Whatever you want, I need to hear you say it.” He brushed across the sensitive spot on her neck, then nipped at her chin. Underneath his palm, goosebumps rose over her skin. 

“You,” she whispered. “Make me feel good.” 

Her fingers snagged into his hair and she drew him into a bruising kiss. It felt good – wet and noisy. She licked the seam of his sticky lips, slid her tongue between his teeth and moaned. 

Fuck – he’d missed kissing her desperately, breathlessly, in the sanctity of their bedroom. 

She toyed with the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He ripped it off and tossed it on the floor as soon as she crawled over to her bedside drawer. She rummaged out a condom along with a tiny purple bottle. 

“I also got some lube,” she said. “Just in case–” 

“We’re fucking using that.” He beckoned her to hand it over with a crook of his finger. “Now, switch me spots and get comfortable.” 

She moved the pillows more towards the middle, laid back and spread her legs until there was enough space for him. Nestled between her thighs now, he dropped the bottle of lube onto the comforter to pet her hips. In the warm lamp light, the wet marks of his greedy mouth all shiny on her nipples. His gaze dipped to her cunt, her panties molding against her seam and lips. He swallowed the urge to tear away the satin and fuck her senseless. 

The doctor had warned sex, especially the first time after a c-section, could be painful. Dry and stingy and uncomfortable. If he wanted to make her feel good, which he did, he needed to ignore his own desire and stretch her open with fingers first. 

“So pretty.” He stroked her thighs until he reached the elastic stitching of her panties. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. “Just relax. I’ll go slow.” 

“I trust you.” 

He hummed his approval, one hand caressing her hip as his fingers swept across her clothed slit. Soaked. She was so wet that when he teased her folds her panties made a splish-splosh noise. And oh – he could smell her, even through the satin, he could smell the seawater spice of her that always drove him insane. 

When he touched her clit, she let out a moan that was barely human. He’d never heard her make such a noise. He would’ve assumed she also touched herself when nobody was around, but maybe not. Maybe this was the first time in months that her clit had any real attention. 

“More?” he asked and in response, she bucked her hips. He clicked his tongue. “Use your words, baby.” 

She groaned, cried, “Please, God please more!” 

“There you go.” He hooked his fingers around her panties, shoved them down her legs before tossing them on the floor. She spread herself wider and he stared without shame. Her cunt was such a pretty thing: glossy and swollen and even better than his memories. The sight made his cock viciously jerk, a gush of pre-come no doubt staining his boxers. 

Javier had to clench every muscle in his body just to keep from fucking the mattress or his hand, and most of all her. He took a breath, retrieved the bottle of K & Y Jelly – near the foot of the bed – and popped open the lid. A drugstore lube, so it smelled a little like plastic. Not that he cared with how utterly desperate she looked, all exposed and whimpering for him. 

Once his fingers were nice and coated, he reached between her legs and spread the slick over her lips and fever-hot slit until everything was drenched. He focused on her clit first. Tight circles before he flicked it with just enough pressure to make her thighs twitch. One finger slid down to tease her entrance. “Can I?” 

She furiously nodded, an urgent chant of yes yes yes spilling from her lips. 

Most of the time he would watch her cunt eagerly swallow him: cock, fingers, tongue, or whatever she was taking from him. All very erotic. But now, easing into her, Javier intently studied her face for any signs of pain. Her eyebrows pinched together at first, but inch by slow inch, pleasure burst from her lips, releasing sounds that were like gasps but higher pitched. 

“Good girl. Took it all. Took it so well,” he said, making her eyes roll into the back of her head. 

He drew back, before pushing forward. Over and over and over again. Slow but deep. Expertly finding the spongy spot that she ached toward, curling and bending and pressing just right, and she was so aroused, so open and eager and moaning for him and him alone. 

Javier realized, not for the first time, the intensity of his desire. Of course he had always enjoyed sex, ever since that first fumbling in the backseat of a mustard brown Buick at sixteen. Except between him and past women, there had always been a gap. Sex had been a means to an end. Just fucking. Just two detached rocks bluntly striking together for friction, seeking some type of release – either biological or psychological, sometimes both. Good at the time. Even great and helped keep him sane. But nothing – nothing could compare. He didn’t know something like this could exist until she let him into her bed. 

She, curious and passionate and loving, had shown him a world of intimacy from which he’d restricted himself for too long. It was intoxicating. Addictive. He could never live without it again. Now, his gaze flickered from her mouth to her chest to her torso rising and falling with every audible breath, and soon Javier thought he’d go wild if he couldn’t touch more of her. 

“Let me add another one.” The words came out in a rush, sounded more like a demand than a question, but she didn’t seem to care and immediately told him: I need it. I need it. 

With two fingers stretching her open and thumb circling her clit, Javier shifted and leaned forward to kiss her stomach — a place he wanted to worship. 

“Most perfect fucking thing. Swear you get prettier everyday baby,” he mumbled into her softened flesh and felt her clench. 

“Oh that’s – Shit. I’m close.” 

His lips, the sharp tip of his nose caressed every new mark that formed from bringing their daughters into this world. He lifted his head to admire her incision line. He remembered cleaning that freshly pissed-off wound when her abdomen was too sore and she was too weak to move. It had healed nicely since then, the skin only a bit risen, a shade or two different. 

He kissed the scar tenderly, delicately, as though the incision could possibly split open and he would be transported back to the hospital again, back in the room among strangers and balloons where he had waited and waited and waited, scared out of his mind that she would leave him behind in this world and with no clue how to be alone anymore. 

But she was here. She was in their bed, with his fingers buried in her white-hot flesh, her body humming with life as she climaxed. 

“Yeah. Good. C’mon that’s it,” he whispered encouragement until she looped her fingers through his hair and tugged hard enough to make him grunt. 

When she finally released him and he withdrew his hand, he could see her all over him. If not for the waxy resin of lube, he would’ve tasted her. Instead he curved his fingers back inside her. She must not have expected it because her walls squeezed like a fist. 

“Javi!”

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Come on. I need…” she trailed off when he added a third without warning. Her mouth stuck open mid-word as he massaged the inner lining of her walls. 

“Need what, huh?” He plugged her full and wiggled his fingers, only making it harder for her to speak. “Tell me.” 

Now her thighs were quivering, same as her voice. “Wanna…fuck. Fuck me. Please.” 

It took every scrap of strength he possessed to not fuck her right then and there, completely bare. But that was how she got pregnant, wasn’t it?

This time, rather than think with his dick, he carefully slipped from her body and grabbed the aluminum packet. After rolling on the condom and lathering it with lube, he asked, “How do you want me?” 

She instructed him to sit back. They were both fully undressed, matching frantic expressions with her climbing in his lap and fisting his cock for the first time tonight. He seized her hips and curled his toes, unable to stop himself from moaning. She responded similarly as she smeared his flush-red tip through the swollen lips of her pussy. 

Notched at her entrance, he said, “Take it nice and slow.” 

“I will.” 

She braced one hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped firmly around his base. His jaw clenched at the initial stretch, the blossoming of her cunt. She sank down and down and God – she felt so good. Wet and tight, her walls convulsing wildly. Only the condom kept him from prematurely finishing. 

“So much. Forgot how… it’s a lot,” she panted and he almost smirked. No matter how shameful it felt, he couldn’t help but swell with pride every damn time she needed a moment to adjust to his size; it was encoded into him. Some barbaric instinct that made him want to believe she’d never taken bigger. Nobody had ever claimed her so wholly.

His hand caressed her face, feeling the soft bulb of her cheek. “Always take it so well though, don’t you baby?” 

“Uh-huh,” she whimpered when she angled her hips, pinning him in the best way possible. She began to rock, a fluid back and forth. Back and forth. She didn’t rush. He didn’t want her to either. This was worth savoring. 

“That’s it,” he said in a low baritone that made her lashes flutter. Her neck arched towards the ceiling like a flower seeking the sun. Even though she had a beautiful throat, he gripped the back of her neck possessively. “Keep your eyes on me. Keep ‘em here. There you go.” 

In the honey light of the room, his thumb tucked behind her ear, he admired her focused brow, arouse-stricken mouth, the slight expansion of her pupils. His breath caught at the thought of never seeing her like this again. What the hell was wrong with him? Even while inside her, he could not forget almost losing her. That possibility had left him sick and stricken then; but only afterwards, in moments such as this, had he come to understand the terrifying scope of what life without her would truly mean. No more potpourri or warm sheets, no more uncapped tubes of mint toothpaste or half-full water glasses cluttering side tables. 

Relief and unrealized grief thrummed through his veins. Unable to speak, he tilted his head and demanded her mouth. It wasn’t a kiss, more a desperate smack of lips. A declaration of teeth, tongue, and spit. He was eclipsed under her frame, with her hips rolling faster. Faster. The wooden headboard bump…bump…bumping against the wall like a crashing wave. 

“God. I need you. I need you,” he murmured, the words coming out frantic and lacking, but how could he think straight?

“I know. I know.” She stroked the crown of his hair while guiding him to her breast, encouraging him to suck. When he encircled her nipple and began to drink, he swore being inside her made her taste more sweet. 

He groaned. “Taste good. How do you taste this fucking good?” 

Rather than wait for her to speak, he went back to suckling and lapping and soon, he noticed that she was desperately moaning. Javi Javi oooh just like that. 

The room vibrated with the pitch of their sex – all sloppy desire and heat-hump skin rising and perspiring together. She was making a mess on his lap, pussy drooling all over him. Slickness like a warm tongue licked past his balls and he hoped it would dribble onto the comforter, form darkened blots like souvenirs on the red and navy floral pattern. 

His cock pulsed, really throbbed this time. He was no stranger to the heated feeling building in his gut, but never in his life, not even as an early teen, could he recall coming like this. From just grinding and sucking on tits. Usually took more movement, a little bounce or thrust, some basic up-and-down stuff. But – 

Oh God. A climax propelled in his belly, heaving and screaming like an untamed bull, and she pushed down even further. Deeper. Until she couldn’t take another inch. 

“Not gonna last,” he was forced to admit; the words punched from his lungs the moment her ass grazed the scant hairs on his thighs. 

“It’s okay. I got you.” 

“No. Want you to come too.” His hand on her hip slid between them to find her clit. He could tell when he made contact by the way her cunt squeezed and constricted like a knot. “Use me. Come on, use me. Take what you need.” 

She didn’t hesitate, her fingers curling through his hair and sealing him against her pretty tits. He devoured her, inhaled her without a hint of shame. She let out a ragged cry, began to ride him with wild, tall-saddle strokes, her pelvis grounding against him in a way that made his wrist temporarily numb. His fingers were trapped, shooting static. Fuck. He had to just press against her clit, hope it would be enough pressure. 

It must’ve been because she quickly spasmed around him, making those noises she made when she was close, those deep throaty moans. So fucking hot. Did she know what her noises did to him? The way she said his name? It was too much. A pitiful sound of his own vibrated his throat right before he finally broke. 

The orgasm that overtook him was different than anything he had experienced before, with her or women he’d gone to bed with in the past. Shockingly intense. It was almost as if the warm vanilla taste made him lose all sense of control in his mind and limbs. Lost in this, he couldn’t help thrusting upward. His hips pistoned off the bed again and again. A clumsy rhythm, but she still gushed. Milk on his chin. Pussy clamping around him. Her climax amplified his own, making him come so hard and long that his eyes watered shut. 

Afterwards he had to release her nipple in order to catch his breath. He glued his forehead to her sternum, inhaling the scent of her fresh sweat while listening to the hearty blur-blur-blur in her chest. Their skin was damp now, both of them syrupy, but his hands worked to pet her hips, trace the column of her spine. Orgasms always left him desperate for touch. He was still buried inside her, going soft, and yet… 

His body craved more. More. At times, especially like now, he wished he could sprout extra arms. Wanted to wrap around her like an octopus, attach himself to her. Maybe it was strange but fuck – he wanted to be completely enveloped with her. 

Finally, after a long moment of panting, Javier had a clear enough mind to say, “I didn’t mean to get that rough at the end.” 

“Who was complaining?” Her head swiveled from left to right. “Because it definitely wasn’t me.” 

“Like being smug, huh?” He gave her left ass cheek a light swat. 

She let out a girlish squeak, gripped him by the back of the neck, then kissed him sweetly. A happy humming sound came from her closed lips before she said, “Tastes good, doesn’t it?” 

Still, he had sleepless nights and bad dreams where he was running through their dark, empty house screaming. She never answered. He could never find her. It disturbed him, wrenched him out of sleep and sent him scrambling to her side of the bed. 

He knew that anxiety around impending parenthood was normal. After all, he’d read the books, gone to Lamaze, and everyone said: Who wouldn’t be nervous? This is a monumental transition in your lives. And yes, in the beginning, the idea of fatherhood terrified him — and still did — but that quit being his chief anxiety once her pregnancy classified as high-risk. 

Although Javier hated to admit it, the violence he’d witnessed daily in Colombia had irreversibly altered him. He could never forget what he had done. What he had seen. Watching the gravest what-ifs splatter across commune streets like bloody flea markets had made him painfully aware how even a slim possibility could become a reality. 

Of course, he never spoke about his struggles. Tried not to add to her stress levels. She needed him strong, and so whenever a disturbing thought popped into his head, he simply stuffed it down his throat and behind his ribs. He’d learned from an early age that avoidance was easiest. 

And now, on this hellishly hot day in May, Javier was seven hours into grading final exams and had no plans to stop. Coffee cup drained. Eyes drier than yesterday. The muscles in his hand screaming from his determined grip on the pen. 

When his office phone rang, he didn’t bother to check the caller ID before answering, “Javier Peña.” 

“Well hello there sir, what’s with the formal greeting?”

Her voice was the last thing he expected. He might have worried something was wrong if she wasn’t overtly teasing him. But instead, he paused from slashing out another wrong answer. “Don’t you like when I use my professor voice?” 

“Only when you don’t sound overworked.” 

“Hearing me say two words made you think I’m overworked?”

“Did you forget I live with you?”

“It’s just grades, baby,” he said. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Listen here tough guy, I didn’t call to pick a fight. Just wanted to know whether you’d make it home in time for dinner.” 

God – he hoped so. Over the last three days, he’d consumed an ungodly amount of fast food and was sick of eating alone in this cinderblock room. He wanted to be home. With her. But he was putting in these long grueling hours so he could finalize everything and be done, just in case the babies decided to come. 

Any day, Dr. Kelly said at their last appointment. Any day now. 

“Depends how long it takes to enter final grades.” Javier sifted through the stack of exams, which he’d cut in half since this morning. “But I’ll do everything in my power.”

-----

Five hours later, Javier dropped all necessary paperwork off at the registrar’s office just in time for dinner – carry-out from an Asian restaurant, not too far out of his way. 

As expected, this time of day, the sky was on the verge of sunset when he pulled into his driveway and parked. The living room curtains were drawn, lamp light spilling through the fabric, and though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was in there, waiting. 

His heart beat a little faster as he unbuckled the takeout bag next to him. In the back seat, he retrieved his suit jacket and briefcase from in between the matching pair of plaid Graco’s that Joe helped him install last week. Sometimes, in the rear view mirror, he’d catch a glimpse of the car seats and feel a pang of disbelief. He had been so sure this would never be his life. 

But now, he lived on a street with mainly young families. Neighbor kids rode their bikes on the sidewalk, shrieking and ringing their bells, as he made his way to the front door. He was actually thinking about how he had to mow this weekend. If he didn’t, the old man next door who was a freak about keeping the grass below a certain would swing by — Just checking you're alive. Dear God. He could never understand people’s obsession with yards. 

Still, by the time he stepped inside the foyer, he mentally cleared an hour on Saturday to mow, and dumped his suit jacket onto the console table. His briefcase thumped onto the wood floor, flopping beside their packed hospital bag that was ready to go whenever. 

“Is that daddy?” she asked in that slightly higher pitch she reserved for the twins. “Or maybe it’s a burglar?” 

“Are you trying to scare them?”

“No. Just trying to add a little excitement in their lives.” 

“And you chose to do that with burglary?” He asked. He walked into the room and surprisingly, she was already on her feet. Most days he’d have to help her off the couch but now, she leaned against the wooden archway between the kitchen and living room. Her pearly white sundress clung to her beachball-looking stomach. 

“If you can’t tell, we’ve been watching a lot of soap operas.” 

“At least it’s not Maury.” 

“Give it another week, and I might be that desperate,” she said with a weary sigh. Every day that passed she seemed increasingly antsy. She must be bored. After all, she’d been placed on early maternity leave in May since she could no longer move more than a few feet without making a little noise. Even now, as she waddled into the kitchen, she grunted and groaned. 

Javier followed her, trailing a few steps behind and setting the plastic bag on the table in front of the bay window – the sky orangish. He turned and saw her at the kitchen sink. She rubbed at her lower back and winced in pain. 

“Let me help you.” He came up behind her and grabbed her hips, sealing her back against his chest. 

She said nothing, but pushed herself against him, let his hands slide into position. Just like they had taught in Lamaze, he gently lifted up her stomach to ease the weight off her feet and pelvis. She moaned in relief, her head lolling against his shoulder. 

“Dinner smells good,” he said, and now, the floorboards creaked underneath their feet as they softly rocked back-and-forth. “Been a while since we had Red Lantern.” 

“I saw a commercial for it during the Price is Right.”

“I kept thinking, when I was waiting on the food, about the first time we went there. Do you remember?” 

She hummed. “It was Valentine’s Day and you refused to let me spend it alone.” 

“Isn’t that what friends are for?” 

“Pity dates?” 

“Wasn’t pity.” Javier kissed her temple, then behind her ear and he whispered,  “I still think about what you wore that night. Turtleneck, black boots, that little plaid skirt–” 

“That little plaid skirt wouldn’t make it past my knees anymore.” 

"Even better." Javier wanted, desperately, to hold her longer, but he could feel a heat growing in his gut and couldn’t get carried away. Carefully, he released her stomach and stepped away. God - he wanted her badly. It had been so long. Ever since April, sex had been off the table after a spike in hormones left her painfully sensitive down there. The last time he touched her intimately still haunted him, the way she shrieked and flinched, lurching back as if the tip of his finger wielded a weapon. 

“You do realize that you don’t have to do that anymore,” she said. 

Confused, Javier tilted his head. “Do what?” 

“Charm me. I’m already pregnant.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said and she rolled her eyes like she didn’t believe him. Her confidence seemed to ebb and flow based on the week, and he wondered if that also had something to do with the hormones. In silence, she grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled each with cold water from the tap. He waited until she turned off the faucet to say, “I should’ve told you when I got home how good you look in that dress.” 

She scoffed. “I feel like the Michelin man.” 

“You’re beautiful.” He kissed her forehead and guided her to the breakfast nook. Although the padded bench was her favorite spot, she couldn’t slide anymore. Now, she needed his help just to lower herself into the wooden chair. 

She sighed. “It’ll be worth it, once they’re here.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so too.” 

Afterwards, he unpacked the styrofoam boxes, the room smelling of spices. Pad Thai. Mongolian Beef. Way too many spring rolls for two people to eat. 

He made sure that she had everything she needed before taking a seat on the bench. In between the first couple bites, he told her about work. Usually, he’d provide a sentence, a few words – nothing interesting – but since she had such little human interaction, it felt like the least he could do was go into detail. 

He thumbed a little sauce off the corner of his lip and said, “Tell me about your day.” 

“Do you really wanna hear how much TV I watched?” 

“Gonna judge me if I do?” 

She playfully rolled her eyes. “One Life to Live or General Hospital?” 

“Which one’s better?” 

“Calling one better than the other is a stretch,” she said. “But on General Hospital, they were trying to figure out whether Lucky was under some type of mind–”  

All of a sudden she stopped. Sat up straight. For a moment, her mouth gaped as if she got distracted and lost her train of thought. 

When another second passed, Javier swallowed. The piece of meat lodged inside his windpipe. “Baby?” 

Her eyes bulged as if his strained voice snapped her from a trance. “Oh no.” She shoved at the table. Water sloshed around her glass, but the chair legs barely moved an inch. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oh Javi. Hurry. Hurry. Help me up.” The panic in her voice made his fork clatter against the table; he stood up so fast that he nearly slipped and fell on his ass. “Oh God. I can’t believe this is happening again.” 

“Again? What?” 

“It was just a little accident–” 

“Accident?” Despite shaky hands, he managed to help her stand. She attempted to wiggle free, but his heart was beating so wildly and he refused to let her go until he knew what was wrong. “What hu—”

“Let me - gonna pee!” 

It took him a second to realize what she said and finally release her. Fuck. He felt like an idiot. Who the hell panics over piss?

He felt a pang of guilt at the way she was breathing – hee-hee-who – as she waddled faster than he’d seen her move in weeks. If she had an accident, it would be his fault. 

As he opened his mouth to apologize, she abruptly stopped at the kitchen island and let out a strange whimpering sound. A gush of liquid splashed onto the ground. Then another spurt. A puddle formed around her feet, liquid flowing like a river towards the refrigerator. 

Javier froze. Was that…

“I think my water just broke.”

-----

Five minutes later, Javier was crawling on the kitchen floor. She was upstairs, changing into fresh clothes. Of course, she just had to be wearing white, her dress soaked and sheer enough to expose her pink panties. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” she’d said, stuffing a bottle of Pledge into his hand. 

She’d assured him everything would be fine, there was enough time, that her contractions were still weak, still irregular. However, the idea of waiting didn’t sit right in his stomach. He’d lived in a world where normal situations could go tits-up within seconds and all he wanted was her to throw on a robe, rush out the door, and already be en route by now. 

Instead, he was wiping the wood dry with paper towels. Slapping a few dish rags down would’ve been faster, but she’d given strict instructions: Dry, Pledge, then dry again. And he knew, unless done to her standards, she wouldn’t leave because God forbid the floors warped.

“These are original to the house, Javi,” she’d said. “They can’t be replaced.” 

She might’ve been right, but that was the least of his concerns. 

The fluid soaking through the towels was clear as fresh water and definitely didn’t smell like piss. In fact, it smelled almost sweet, like fresh-cut hay and warm vernal grass from the curing fields on his family ranch. 

Although he would never admit it out loud, the smell made him think of Dad. If there was more time he would have called home to let Dad know her water broke, but there should be time at the hospital. He would find a few minutes then. 

Javier finished the second dry-through and checked for any missing wet spots. Nothing. He tossed the half-roll of Bounty into the trash and hurried to the sink, careful not to touch anything. A runny mess of sweat, Pledge, and fluid residue trickled down his knuckles. He washed his hands with hot water and a generous clump of citrus soap, then boxed up the uneaten food. He’d barely taken more than a few bites, and by the looks of it, neither had she. 

The babies couldn’t wait until after dinner apparently. 

When Javier shut the refrigerator door, she was still upstairs. What was she doing up there? Javier cursed. If he didn’t keep busy he’d go crazy and watch the stairs or the oven clock — the electric green tick from 55 to 56. So, instead, he flicked on the porch lights. Shut the curtains. Snatched the cups off the table, dumped the water, and packed them into the dishwasher. 

Finally, a door squeaked above him. Footsteps creaked over the loose floorboards. Thank God. She started down the stairs in a similar dress, only black instead of white. Tucked under her arm was a pool towel and what appeared to be his clothes. 

“The floors look nice,” she said about halfway down. 

“Tried my best.” 

“Wanna change?” She patted the folded jeans and his gray t-shirt. “Or do you plan on wearing that to the hospital?” 

He glanced down at his work slacks. A white button up, sleeves rolled up, and his tie was still on. He shrugged. “It’ll be a good first impression.” 

“Javi,” she said, but he was already leading her through the house. 

Fifteen minutes. The hospital was only fifteen minutes away.

------

As soon as Javier stepped through the automatic doors, he could taste the isopropyl. A headache pulsed behind his eyes. Still, he followed the signs to the elevators, moving through the bleach white hallways that reeked of antiseptic, old mops, and thick, gritty dust. 

He was in such a rush to get here that, for a moment, he’d forgotten how the smell made his stomach roil. He felt a ripple of nausea. Ever since mom, his relationship with hospitals had been adversarial. The last time he’d visited one was in Colombia to see Helena. The beating she’d taken because of him had permanently cracked her nose to the left. Lip busted and purple black. Her face so swollen that it looked like a moldy, squishy peach. 

Ding. 

The elevator doors opened. A nurse and a young couple exited first. Adjusting the hospital bag on his shoulder, he followed in behind her. 

Inside, light jazz played through the speakers. She leaned against the wall, head thumping against the oak paneling as she said, “We really should’ve brought the leftovers.” 

“They’ll still be good when we get home.” 

“If we called Joe, do you think-” 

“There’s food here.” 

She huffed. “I want Spring Rolls, not sad mashed potatoes.” 

Javier didn’t have time to respond before the elevator stopped on the third floor. Women’s Services. His hand, still damp from his death grip on the steering wheel, held hers as they walked down another quiet and disturbingly white hallway to the Labor & Delivery entrance. The doors were closed, a sign taped to gray steel read: Press the button on the intercom for assistance. 

He did, and after answering some basic intake questions, the double doors buzzed, clicked, and opened.

Javier expected another sterile white unit. Instead, he walked into an open space with pink textured wallpaper and green-and-cream floor tiles arranged in geometric patterns. Even the smell was different, more like baby powder and rubber gloves than drugs and sickness. 

There was a hum of conversation coming from the waiting area on his left. He noticed a few bodies out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise didn’t pay much attention to that side of the room.  

Straight ahead, at the front desk, a woman with tight braids and dark purple scrubs greeted them. The badge clipped to her front pocket identified her as Winnie. 

Javier gave a tight nod before saying, “We just spoke - my wife’s water broke and we need to check in.” 

“Let me guess.” Winnie smiled — very white and straight teeth. “First baby?”

His wife giggled and handed Winnie her driver’s license. “How can you tell?” 

“First time dads are very easy to spot.” Winnie glanced between the ID and computer screen, her nails clicking against the keyboard. “It says here you’re 36 weeks, is that correct? And twins?” 

“Yeah,” his wife said. “That’s—oh.” 

Her hand around his bicep squeezed, her fingers biting down as though to rip through his shirt and reach his skin. Her face contorted, the way her nose wrinkled revealing her level of pain. He’d never seen her hurt quite like this. His instinct screamed to protect her, but he knew, deep down, he knew the only thing he could do was rub her lower back and say, “You’re doing great, baby.” 

“Worst. One. Yet,” she said through clenched teeth. 

“Mrs. Peña, when was your last contraction?” 

She shook her head, so he replied, “In the parking lot.” 

“And how long did it last?” 

Shit. “I don’t - I don’t remember.” Fucking idiot. He should’ve stopped and counted instead of focusing on finding the closest parking spot. 

Even though it felt like hours, it couldn’t have been long at all when her grip on his arm eased finally. She exhaled and said, “About thirty seconds,” as the tension slid off her shoulders, drained from her jaw. 

“Well, that was close to fifty,” Winnie said. “How about we get you two settled into a room before the next one hits?”

------

A nurse escorted them into a peach-colored room that was private and surprisingly spacious. There was a rather large garden window overlooking the darkening courtyard. He set their hospital bag on the sill, dragged a plastic chair over to her bedside and sat. 

She looked like a test subject, rigged up to various machines. He fully expected the sight to bother him more, but actually, he found comfort in the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She was here. So close to the end.

For the next hour and a half, her contractions grew more regular, with her having to stop and focus on breathing every five minutes or so. 

“You’ve got this. That’s it. You’re doing so well,” he would whisper in her ear while applying counter pressure to her ass, hips, and lower back. 

As she came down from another strong contraction, someone knocked and opened the door. Yaritzel, the nurse, who was tan and tall and wore teddy bear printed scrubs. 

“How’re we feeling, mama?”

“Hanging in there,” she said and even sounded a little winded. Javier brought her hand to his lips and kissed the spot where her wedding ring used to sit until her fingers became too swollen.

“Well, let’s see how everything’s looking.” 

He straightened, and like a reflex or more so a tick, he couldn’t help but carefully watch as Yaritzel checked her vitals, the monitors. Javier knew he shouldn’t, but he hated feeling blindsided, and for him, people were easier to read than medical jargon. All it would take was a minuscule shift in body language, and he would know if those screens indicated something wrong. 

“Everything looks good.” Yaritzel clasped her hands together and her smile appeared genuine. “The anesthesiologist should be here in the next thirty to forty minutes for the epidural.” 

She sighed. “Thank God for that.” 

“In the meantime, if you want to take a short ten to fifteen minute walk, now would be the time.” 

“Yes please,” she said. “The vending machine’s in the waiting room, right?” 

“It is, but we don’t recommend-”

“No. Not for me.” She looked straight at Javier. 

“When did I complain about being hungry?” 

“What’d you have for lunch?” She lifted her arms above her head, so Yaritzel could unplug the three monitors on her abdomen.

“A sandwich.”

“And how much of that sandwich did you actually eat?” She squinted at him as though she knew he only ate half. His split-second of silence seemed to be enough of an answer as she clicked her tongue. “Do you wanna pass out while I’m in labor?” 

“Like I’d let that happen.” 

“And here I thought hypoglycemia was something you can’t control.” 

Javier rolled his eyes at her ridiculousness. In Colombia, he’d survived on a diet of coffee, cigarettes, and meaningless sex. If he didn’t pass out from hunger then, he wouldn’t now. But, if this was what she wanted, then fine. 

Moments later, Yaritzel finished unhooking her from everything except her IV. “You still need to finish these fluids,” she said and wheeled the pole over to Javier. The liquid sloshed around the clear bag. 

“Want me to push it?” He helped her onto her feet, made sure she was steady before letting go. 

“I can handle it,” she said. “But you can hold my hand.” 

The metal pole’s wheels squeaked against the tile as they walked, hand-in-hand, outside their room and past a nurses station. When they reached the end of the hallway, another contraction seized her, forced her to lean against the nearest wall. 

As Javier encouraged her to keep breathing, he massaged the center of her spine at the exact spot where he felt his own tension fester. He would never get used to seeing her in pain. But if he had learned anything from his time at FLETC, it was how to push personal feelings aside and deal with high-pressure situations. This, he could handle. He could. As long as he focused on her and stayed useful. 

Fifty-one seconds later, she exhaled and said, “Let’s keep going.”

When they pushed through the double doors and entered the main lobby, he looked around the room. He didn’t have the chance earlier. Off to his right was the waiting area. The evening sky filled the fixed windows that lined one wall. A television was tucked into the corner with a plastic plant. Four rows of cream upholstered armchairs, a handful of people, who appeared elated to see them. The two elderly couples with rivaling pink and blue balloons each said congratulations. 

To the left of Winnie’s desk, next to the hallway with the bathrooms and payphones, were the vending machines. A buzzy white light shone from the display window. Snickers. Goldfish. Little Debbie Snack Cakes. 

“Swiss Rolls.” Javier tapped at the glass. “That was my mom’s go-to snack.” And he remembered those final weeks and how he could tell she was near the end because she stopped eating them. Stopped eating entirely. 

“Sounds like a smart wom—” Another contraction cut her off and she clutched onto the metal pole, rattling the clear bag of fluids. 

“Oh, darlin’, I promise it’ll all be worth it.” A woman, silver haired and holding a stuffed giraffe, nosed over to the neighboring vending machine. “Got five of my own. Ten grandkids, soon to be eleven. I’ll show ya.” 

Confused, Javier stared at the woman, who tucked the stuffed animal under her arm, opened her wallet and shoved a picture from inside the plastic inserts into the faces of him and his wife, who was still in the middle of catching her breath. Javier internally scoffed. He might not know this woman, but he knew the type. The kind of person who preached about manners, but couldn’t mind their own business.

His wife must’ve sensed his annoyance because she gave him a look: I know, but be nice. 

Javier clicked his jaw into place, glanced at the family photo and politely nodded.

“Four girls, and soon to be seven boys,” the woman said. “What’re you having?” 

“We’re actually having twins. Both girls.” 

The woman gasped and clutched her chest. “Isn’t that wonderful? Two little angels…” 

Javier tuned out whatever the woman said next and focused on the vending machine. He settled on two bags of Lays BBQ chips. 

When he picked up the two bags with one hand, he said, “Probably should get back to our room now.”

“But it was very nice talking to you,” his wife added. So much nicer than him. “Have a good night ma’am.” 

“You too, sweetheart. And don’t you worry, I’m gonna say a little somethin’ for your family.” The woman pulled out a rosary from underneath her collar; the wooden beads clicked together. “All four of you will be in my prayers.”

------

Back in the room, after she was plugged back into the machines, the anesthesiologist arrived with the biggest needle he’d ever seen. Maybe she did need that prayer. The damn needle had to be the size of a lighter, at least. Javier rubbed her arms, told her to focus on him, and when the needle pierced her spine, she didn’t even flinch. Whatever numbing agent was used, it must’ve worked. 

Luckily, it didn’t take long for the epidural to kick in, either. They had caught the ninth inning of the Rangers-Royals game on TV, and by the end, she was numb from her ribs to her feet. 

For the next three hours, he rarely left her bedside, determined not to leave her alone. The Lamaze instructor had said: the best thing a partner could do was be present, both mentally and physically. So, he sat in the same plastic chair, feeding her ice chips, fluffing her pillow, and watching reruns of sitcoms. Just in case she needed anything, he even pissed with the door cracked.

She never complained. Never said she was in pain, even when Yaritzel asked. “Pressure,” she’d call it, “A little tightness.” 

But she had to be progressing. An hour ago, Dr. Kelly had arrived and ever since then, check-ins had become more frequent. 

Now, fifteen minutes after the last visit, Yaritzel returned and stood at the foot of the bed. “How’re we feeling now?” 

“Sleepy.” 

“That’s cause your body’s working hard.” Yaritzel examined the recently changed IV bag. “I’ll check your progress at the end. Let’s hope you’re past seven centimeters now.” 

“Fingers crossed.” She flopped her head back against the pillow, blinked sluggishly at the ceiling tiles. 

“You’re doing amazing,” he said. The back of his knuckles brushed across her warm, damp forehead. Just in the last ten minutes alone, her hairline had grown increasingly wet. Her eyelids hung heavy and low. Every pregnancy book had warned that her body would be overwhelmed. Stretched to the limit. She could handle this, he knew that. She was tougher than she looked, tougher than him for sure, but fuck — he still wanted to absorb her stress like a sponge. 

She let out a primal grunt, her brow furrowing underneath his fingertips. He glanced at Yaritzel, who was scrutinizing the monitor where a green line steadily climbed. Another contraction, just like he thought. He began counting the seconds in his head. 

66 — give or take. Longest one yet. 

Her eyelids fluttered open like she had just been knocked down. She licked her dry, cracked lips, and he couldn’t help but notice her tongue looked pale. Did she need more ice chips? 

One of the machines blared. Three sharp beeps that sounded like an alarm. All night the machines had emitted different, strange noises, but these — these he didn’t recognize. 

The alarm stopped all of a sudden. Still, Yaritzel stood by the monitors, stared intently at a printout chart that resembled a polygraph with all its spikes and drops. What was Yaritzel squinting at? What was going on? Javier scratched at a nervous itch prickling under his chin. If there was anything wrong – no. He couldn’t think like that. 

“Baby.” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat. “Are you feeling alright?” 

For a moment, she stared at him with a dazed look in her eyes as though he was speaking to her through water. “I feel kind of dizzy all of a sudden.” 

Yaritzel spun around so fast that her shoes squeaked. Her tone switched into something more clinical. “Is it okay if I feel your stomach real quick?” 

But Yaritzel didn’t wait for a response, just wrenched the sheet off her body and pressed on a spot above her belly button. A sharp inhale whistled through her teeth. 

“Tender.” The sound of her voice made it seem like she’d been burned instead of palpated. 

“Any pain in your back?” 

“Oh God - I feel another one.” 

Now, Yaritzel felt around her abdomen as the green line shot upwards once again. Her contractions had never been this close together. He tried not to think about what that meant but found it challenging with his heartbeat throbbing in his hands. 

Still, years in the field had taught him panicking never helped. Only puts you and your partner in danger. Just like he’d been trained to do, he took a low and slow breath and began to count the seconds until the contraction passed.

77. 

And then, there was that blaring again. A pulsing white light. The monitor tracking the babies heart rates was flashing, and though the red line held steady at 140, the blue line plunged. 

135. 

115. 

103. 

Yaritzel smacked the button on the wall. It lit up: red. Danger. 

“Mrs. Peña, I’m gonna check your uterus now.” Yaritzel snapped on a pair of gloves and rushed to the foot of the bed. “Javier, I need you to help me move her legs. Bring them up.” 

With shaking hands, he lifted and gently bent her knee. As he helped to spread open her legs, his fingers dug into something warm and wet on her inner thigh. The smoothness made his tongue taste like lead. 

Dear God. Please fucking be sweat. 

His hand slid out from under her gown. Red globs, fresh and slick, leeched onto his fingertips. A little oozed down his thumb and when it splattered onto the white sheet, his stomach lurched at the vicious coppery scent. That smell had been familiar once. He might’ve witnessed a lifetime of carnage and gore, but the sight of his wife’s blood threatened to destabilize him. 

Her bedside monitor spouted an alert, her heart rate edging dangerously close to 110. He wanted, just for a moment to plug his ears, make everything stop, so he could figure out what the fuck was going on. But she needed him to be strong and present. 

She needed him. 

He ignored the violent beeps, the flashing screens, his own personal feelings, and crouched beside her so they could be at eye-level. “I’m right here. I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Something’s not right. I don’t feel right.”  

“What do you mean, baby? Be more specific. I can’t-” 

“Mrs. Peña, you’re bleeding quite a bit.” Yaritzel stuck some type of pad between her thighs. “Are you in pain?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Her tone was one he’d never heard from her before. It was high-pitched and brimmed with raw agony that made his chest feel tight. 

“We’re gonna figure this out, okay? We’re right here with you,” Yaritzel said, just as Dr. Kelly hurtled into the room. Four more nurses. A cart with vials and tubes and a strange metal device that looked like a hook. 

“Status?” Doctor Kelly’s gaze flickered from the monitors to where his wife’s legs were spread. 

“Javi,” she hiccuped, her chest hitching. 

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and it took every scrap of strength he possessed to say her name softly, calmly. He managed to keep his hands steady as he cupped her face, made her look at him. 

“You’re okay. Focus on me.” He caressed her cheeks, staining them with blood. Her blood. He swallowed and said, “You’ll be okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

She made a soft, whimpering sound and weakly grabbed onto his arm. She started violently shaking. 

Heart rate accelerating.

BP dropping.

Get her ready.

“I’m not leaving you.” He cradled her face tighter. Her skin felt clammy, her coloring ashen and worrisome. The scent of bleach and iron stung his nose. His teeth clicked when he thought about how much blood she’d lost. Was still losing. 

“Give her a top-up. She already has an epidural.” 

A tap on his shoulder, a male voice that he didn’t recognize said, “Mr. Peña, I need you to come with me.”

He heard her cry his name. Whimper: Javi. Javi. Don’t go. 

He instinctively shook his head. 

“Sir.” 

A figure approached the other side of the bed, holding a syringe. He gripped her limp hand. “I can’t—”

“Javier.” Dr. Kelly’s voice was deeper than he’d ever heard, rippling with urgency and forcing him to look away from his wife. Even with a mask on, the direness of Dr. Kelly’s face was unmistakable. “Please. For her sake. Leave.”

Despite every fiber of his being screaming to stay, he had to go. He had to leave. For her sake. There were so many things he wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “I’m sorry.” 

Now, the man took him by the arm to help guide him outside the room. Javier had felt out of control before, but never like this. Between his body and brain, there was a gap. It was as if the connection had suddenly been severed by an ice pick. 

At first, he stood outside the door, unable to recognize the hallway from earlier. He didn’t recall the overhead lights being so viciously bright and stinging his eyes. The walls seemed more narrow. The distance from here to the double doors looked like it stretched across miles. 

“Follow me,” the man said. 

It took a moment for Javier to realize that he had begun moving. The floor felt unsteady, his knees so weak that he thought he might collapse. 

Behind him, he could still hear the chaos. Alarms. Frantic voices. He flinched at the sound of wheels scraping against tile. Medics pushing a surgical stretcher raced by, and when Javier glanced over his shoulder, he saw the team enter their room. 

“Where are you taking her?” 

“To an operating room for an emergency c-section.” 

Emergency? “She would want me there. I need to be with her. I promised-”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” The man guided him into the waiting room. 

“Why?”

“In case she needs to be put under.” The man frowned. “If you’ll just take a seat. Somebody will update you as soon as they can.” 

And then, the man slid the mask over his nose and ran back down the hallway, leaving Javier alone.

-------

Complications. For months, he’d known there could be complications and for months he’d tried to plan and project and calculate and for what? Just to stand and watch?

The hollowness in his chest screamed and howled like a beast as he stared at the solid wood doors in front of him. No windows. No view inside. He should follow the man’s orders and take a seat, but his legs felt stuck, seemingly rooted to the spot. 

Javier closed his eyes for a moment, the back of his head pulsing with blurred pain. Everything went to shit so quick. How? It didn’t make sense. No less than thirty minutes ago she had hummed along to the Mary Tyler Moore theme song, talked about renting Gladiator when released on VHS, laughed at the ridiculousness of that stupid not-butter commercial with Fabio. 

Now, she’d been taken for emergency surgery. He should’ve realized something was wrong. There must be something he missed. He mentally weeded through tonight’s events for a sign, but came up empty-handed. 

Besides some drowsiness, she appeared perfectly fine until that one contraction. 

His hands began twitching. Buried underneath his fingernails was blood – her blood. The redness had dried and crusted into a rust color. He felt a wave of nausea, as though this was the first time he had someone else’s blood on his hands. 

An image barged in on him. A scrawny teenager in Mexico pointing a gun two-sizes too big, an initiation gift from the Guadalajara Cartel. His first kill, first true act of violence. A godawful shot. No matter how much Javier tried to forget, the memory of that kid’s wet gurgling sounds would never leave him.

When Javier tried to breathe in, his lungs felt raw and tender like a bruise. Not good. Why was he thinking about this? He shouldn’t be thinking about this. In the DEA, there were certain things he’d done. Things he wasn’t proud of. But he was supposed to forget. 

File it away. Burn it. Move on. 

He had done his job, and that’s what mattered. Wasn’t it? That kid would’ve killed him. Or Joe. Or one of the other me–

It didn’t matter. None of this justification should matter right now with her — everything in danger. But all he could see was the blood, reminding him of the past. It was as if something cracked inside him, the stitches breaking open. After years of pushing suppression to its limits, his mind finally collapsed, right when he needed the barrier most. 

Memories of Colombia swarmed around his skull, demanded he remember. Carillo. The gnarled bodies of Duque and his son stuffed in a car trunk. A bullet in between the eyes of Blackie’s girlfriend and her cold rounded belly, an unborn baby that couldn’t be saved.  

Javier shook his head. All his fault. It was all his fault whether he pulled the trigger or not. His hunger for control, for Escobar, snuffed out their futures. He was the one who trusted some random girl’s intel. The one who got desperate enough to call Don Berna and helped unleash Los Pepes onto the streets. 

What was it Martinez had said? Once you sell your soul to the devil, you can’t get it back. 

Bile hurled into his throat: what if Martinez was right? What if this was retribution? What if her life was the price to even the score? 

When he imagined himself as the arsenic that poisoned her womb, he stumbled back a step. A jolt surged from his knees into his chest, prying him from the fingers of a full-blown panic attack. 

What the fuck was wrong with him? He blinked up at the fiberglass ceiling. 

His focus should be on her, not battling old ghosts. He didn’t want to remember Colombia. Didn’t want to think about all his mistakes. Why couldn’t he just forget? Cali was meant to be his act of repentance, but still, he never fully shed the past. The guilt. The shame. It fused to him like an infected limb, rotting with gangrene. He wanted to chop the damn thing off. Only he didn’t know how. 

She deserved better. He desperately wanted to be better for her. 

In the distance, he heard something ring. Again – clearer. By the third ring, he realized that was the phone at the front desk. 

Winnie picked up and said, “Labor & Delivery.” 

Almost immediately her gaze flickered to Javier. Whatever was said on the other line made Winnie’s lips purse; nod three times. 

“I’ll let him know.” Winnie hung up the phone, stood from her chair. “Mr. Peña.” 

He scrambled over to the desk. Winnie offered him a tight-lip smile. 

“Mr. Peña,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Your wife has just been taken into surgery. They believe her bleeding is due to a placenta abruption.” 

“I don’t-”

“It’s when the placenta prematurely starts to separate from the wall of the uterus.” 

“But…” That didn’t make sense. He had gone to every single appointment and nobody ever mentioned a damn thing wrong about her placenta. And she had two of them. “She was fine-”

“Abruptions can happen suddenly and most of the time, we never figure out the root cause, though pregnancies involving multiples does increase the risk.” 

Javier swallowed. “Is it serious?” 

“It can be.” Winnie gently touched his arm. “Dr. Kelly is a fantastic doctor. She’s dealt with this before. Please know, she will do everything she can to save your wife and the twins.” 

The twins. Something was also wrong with them. Baby B’s heart rate has been critical enough to set off an alarm and she didn’t even have a name yet. He needed his wife’s help to pick a name.

Not for the first time, the guilt, the powerlessness of everything going on punctured his gut. He couldn’t find his direction. If it was out of sheer desperation or an old childhood habit, Javier didn’t know, but he felt compelled to pray. He wasn’t religious. Despite being raised by strong Catholic parents, his faith in God was practically non-existent, but he closed his eyes anyway and hoped somebody above was listening. 

Save her. Save them. Please don’t do this. She doesn’t deserve this. If you have to take somebody, let it be me.

“Mr. Peña. We’ll let you know if we have any updates.” She gave one final reassuring squeeze to his arm, then clasped her hands in front of her. “I know this is incredibly difficult, but remember, she’s where she needs to be.” 

“And do I…where do I go?” 

Winnie gestured behind him and said, “If you’ll just take a seat.” 

It took an act of will to simply turn towards the waiting area. Now, visitors from earlier stared at him again. No smiles. No more congratulations. Only pity. Their grave expressions sickened him, reminded him of how people used to look at Dad when Mom was sick and everyone knew she was dying.

--------

Javier didn’t remember walking to the phone booth. Or what number he just dialed. He’d blacked out apparently.  

“Please insert two dollars and fifty cents,” the mechanical voice said. His hands trembled so violently that each coin landing into the slot was a miracle. “Thank you, your call will now be connected.” 

The phone rang twice. “Hello?”

“Dad?” 

“Javi?” The sleep in dad’s voice disappeared.   “How’s she doing? The girls? Tell me weight and time born, I’ll write it down.” 

Dad’s excitement struck him harder than a bullet. He had to pull the phone away, press the plastic receiver between his eyebrows. Whatever compelled him to reach out, he couldn’t remember now. 

Part of him was tempted to hang up, but the pressure in his chest felt as volatile as a dusty ether bottle and if he didn’t get relief soon – 

Javier brought the phone back to his ear and said, “Something’s wrong.” 

“What do you—”

“She was bleeding and…didn’t stop. Just took her in for a c-section.” 

The words felt unreal in his mouth. Reality fully settling in. She was somewhere in this hospital on a surgical table with her belly split open and he was here – in this dead-end hallway with bathrooms and water fountains. Was she asking for him? Was she even awake? Husbands should know these things. 

Javier heard Dad let out a shaky breath, flick on a lamp, move around in the bed, the mattress springs squeaking through the line. “It’s a good thing you were already at the hospital.” 

“That’s it?” Javier’s fingers twisted around the handset. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“Something. I need-” But Javier stopped at that, the walls of his throat closing in like an allergic reaction. He could feel it, every word that he couldn’t bring himself to say burning in esophageal acid: I need help. I need her. I can’t do this without her. I can’t be alone again. I can’t. 

“If you called for answers, I wished I had them, but I don’t.” 

Javier scoffed. “Nobody does.” 

“So tell me,” Dad said. “Are you going to drive yourself crazy searching for something that might not exist?” 

“I- I don’t know. What if I missed something?” 

“That’s not your job.” 

“I’m supposed to be with her. I promised.” The taste of sea water flooded his mouth as he relived it. Her ashen face. What her voice sounded like when she begged him to stay. Guilt saturated him. Intentional or not, it didn’t matter because he broke a promise and left at her most vulnerable. If this was their final mem—

His vision went mottled, specks of black and blue sprouted like mold on the white walls. He clutched onto the wooden booth to stay upright. It couldn’t be. No. This couldn’t be the way things ended.

“Does she trust Dr. Kelly?” Dad asked.

“I think so.”

“Do you?” 

Despite the voice in his head reminding him all the times he’d been wrong before, Javier cleared his throat and answered, “Yeah. I do.”

“But that’s not what you’re thinking about?” 

“I’m trying.”

“Do you think imaging the worst will make it easier if it comes?” 

Javier said nothing. Dad meant it as a reality check, but Javier didn’t know how to explain the inner workings of his brain. Where would he even start? Not for the first time, he wished optimism came easily to him, but it must’ve been a recessive trait. 

“Son, let me tell you that girl… I love that girl like she’s my own,” Dad said. The cracking sound in his voice made Javier’s eyelids burn. “For her sake and my own, I gotta have hope and believe everything will be alright.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s a choice, Javi,” Dad said. “You can choose to do the same.”

--------

Javier felt like an intruder the moment he stepped into the waiting area. Surrounded by balloons and bright flowers and eagerly awaiting families, he didn’t belong here. His presence instantly soured the mood. He could feel the unease, a concentrated heat at the crown of his skull, as he slumped down in a chair near the windows in the otherwise empty first row. 

Although he was trying to stay as optimistic as Dad, he found it difficult with everyone here acting like he needed a miracle. 

God — what he would do for a cigarette, a whole carton to smoke himself calm.

Instead, Javier sucked the stale hospital air into his lungs. His nostrils stung. He could still taste salt on his teeth, and while the threat of tears continued to oscillate, nothing had come out. It was as if his tear ducts had decayed, a muscle having atrophied from decade-long neglect. He should have been worried, or a little bothered, but he wasn’t. Screw it. He had enough problems already without crying in front of strangers.

What was the point of crying anyway? It never brought relief, just made him feel pathetic and inflamed his throat. 

A high-pitch chime that sounded like a doorbell came from the front desk. It must be the intercom system.

He was right. Winnie answered and he could tell by the questions asked that someone was checking in. Hours ago that had been him, outside the doors, stumbling over his words as she squeezed his hand. 

The front doors buzzed open. He heard footsteps and voices, a girlish laugh. 

“If you could just give me a second,” Winnie said politely, almost mechanically. “We’re a little short staffed right now as one of our teams is currently dealing with an emergency.” 

“Oh dear! I hope everything’s okay.” 

The rows behind him erupted in furtive whispers and what sounded like wooden beads ticked together. Uncomfortable, he stirred in his seat; the chair legs creaked and popped, likely drawing more attention. He didn’t look behind him to see. 

Instead, Javier stared straight ahead at the wall. Pink. Same as the bows, blankets, stuffed animals, and tiny flowery dresses that his Tía’s had bought the girls. 

The girls. His chest felt like it was caving in. He’d spent the last seven months watching these blobs develop fingers and toes, morph into full-blown human beings. They were real. Just the other night he saw the imprint of feet bulge her belly, felt them kick and kick and kick until midnight. 

“Someday soon they’ll be right here with us, in this very bed,” she’d said, her fingers running through his hair, her leg draped over his like a body pillow. “Can you picture it, Javi?” 

“I can,” he’d said before kissing her forehead, her cheeks, forgetting a world could exist outside of these sheets, these walls. 

Without her, without them, how could he ever step foot in that house again?

The idea struck him with a physical shock like a sucker punch, making his jaw pulse and heart beat frantically.

He didn’t want to contemplate that. He didn’t even mean to. The thought came without his permission. How did that happen? Why did his mind go to such dark places? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he had to get a grip and quit with these twisted hypotheticals. Forecasting the worst might’ve served him in Colombia, but not here. 

Not anymore. 

He’d promised himself — he’d promised his dad — he would have hope because she deserved that. She deserves so much more. 

And Javier desperately wanted to do right by her.

-------

Javier was still trying his best, but he experienced lapses. Moments. Out of nowhere his anxiety would surge and knock him off his axis. 

You’ve lost. 

It’s all over. 

Did you forget, everyone pays in the end? 

Like hungry, screaming infants, those dark thoughts demanded to be heard. The idea of failing her inflicted him with a light-headed nausea. 

But he had started to figure out ways to make it easier to breathe. Lists helped. Dr. Kelly had dealt with this before; these people were professionals; this was the safest place possible. Focusing on facts, learning to reinstate logic, gave him a sense of control that he desperately needed right now.

Especially since there was still no update. He should ask and wanted to, but Winnie had spent more time running between corridors than at the front desk; two more couples had been admitted, another sent home with Braxton-Hicks. 

He had no idea how long he’d been here, waiting. He’d avoided his watch and the clocks, knowing it would likely spiral into an obsession. It could’ve been anywhere between two and four hours. No more than five as, outside the window, the sky was still black and starless. The TV was silently cycling through a third infomercial. Bowflex. The Rotisserie Oven. And now, Oxiclean. He read the redundant subtitles to keep his brain preoccupied. 

As Billy Mays cleaned a wine stain out of carpet, the door he’d been avoiding opened. Dr. Kelly stood in the entryway, her scrubs green instead of blue. Her gaze flickered around the waiting room before landing on him. 

“Mr. Peña,” she spoke now in that same clinical tone. 

It took his brain a moment to catch up with him and stand. Part of him had thought — or hoped — he would know if his wife wasn’t on this earth anymore. He would have felt it, in some part of his body. How could he not? He imagined the loss would split him in half, a sinkhole gaping his sternum. But now, as he staggered towards the person who could deliver life-shattering news, he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

Dr. Kelly, with her curveless mouth and neutral stance, gave nothing away. “Come with me,” she said and led him into the hallway. A few feet inside, she abruptly stopped. The door creaked, clicked shut. 

“Well, I’ll first start by saying congratulations,” Dr. Kelly said. “The girls were born around 12:30, only minutes apart. Baby A weighed five pounds, seven ounces. Baby B, five pounds, four ounces. They’ve been in the NICU under observation, but both are doing great.”

Javier did feel an ounce of relief, but, “My wife?”

“Yes. She did experience a significant amount of blood loss, which required a transfusion—”

“Is she…is she…” He found himself saying, but the rest of the words wouldn’t come. Dr. Kelly’s brows creased in what appeared to be concern.

“Has anyone come and spoken with you?” 

No. Oh God. All of a sudden, Javier’s mouth felt too dry to respond, so he shook his head. 

“Oh. I…” Dr. Kelly clicked her tongue and offered an awkward smile. “Yes. Mr. Peña. She’s perfectly fine.”

She was alive. All along, she was perfectly fine and the realization made him sputter backwards and his body thumped against the wall. He was shaken by the relief. And then, he realized, no matter how many times he’d told himself she would be alright, he’d still braced himself for the worst. He cursed. 

“Her transfusion should be done within the next half hour, but given that her vital signs have stabilized, she’s been moved from the PACU into a postpartum room.” 

“And that’s…where?” 

Dr. Kelly tipped her head to the left. “How about I show you?”

------

Javier’s fingers twitched, hands thrumming with his own heartbeat as Dr. Kelly stopped in front of a wooden door. Room 342. 

“I’ll check on the girls,” Dr. Kelly patted him on the shoulder, moved out of the way. “In the meantime, I think you’ve both been waiting long enough. Why don’t you head on in?” 

In case she was asleep, he opened the door gently. The metal handle felt cold against his palm. He must be sweatier than he thought. He wiped his hands on his pants and shut the door behind him. 

Inside the beige room with its white trim, he could hear the beep of her heartbeat again, strong and steady. Just like it should be. He rushed forward, rounded the corner. And there she was: wide awake, propped up by pillows in a patient bed that looked built for two. 

She smiled at him, and though her lips were dry and cracked, her coloring only slightly recovered, he didn’t think she’d ever looked more beautiful. 

The desire to kiss her, touch her, crawl into the bed and hold her was a physical ache. But dark red pumped through a tube and into her arm and even though the blood bag was nearly empty, no one had told him if he could get close. Just to be safe, he hovered near the foot of the bed with hands balled into fists. 

She must’ve read his mind because she patted the empty side of the bed. “I saved this spot just for you.” 

When she spoke, the taste of salt welled up in his throat. For a moment, as he eased himself onto the mattress, all he could think about was how scared he’d been to never hear her voice again. 

And now, she was touching him, cupping his cheek. Her thumb brushed the edge of his lips. If it was her glassy eyes or the softness of her skin, he didn’t know, but he let out a godawful choking noise. 

His teeth chattered, jaw trembled violently. He felt a tearing sensation in his chest. And shit — he was crying, wasn’t he? 

He’d forgotten what tears felt like until his eyelids burned, his vision blurred. Wetness ran down the sides of his nose. 

“Oh Javi.”  Her voice cracked as she guided his face into the crook of her neck. He cradled the back of her skull and inhaled the hints of her shampoo underneath the hospital smell. She kissed his hair, his ear, her own tears smearing against his wet stubble. They sat locked together, her limited movement and the IV in her arm creating an awkward position, but at first, he couldn’t find it in him to care. 

But it didn’t take long for the quiet sobs to stop feeling cathartic. As his snot dribbled onto her skin and thin hospital gown — pathetic — he swelled with guilt.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t - shit.” Javier sniffled and rested his forehead against her shoulder. “This is the last thing you need to be dealing with.” 

She shook her head. “Tonight didn’t go like either of us planned.” 

It’s not the same, Javier almost said but didn’t want to argue with her. Instead, he kissed her lips deeply and pulled away. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks were streaked with wetness. 

He found a Kleenex box on the side table, grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped her cheeks. Next, he cleaned his own face. Blew his nose. She pointed out where she’d slobbered on his shirt. He’d been wearing this button-up far too long anyway and took it off, leaving just the plain white undershirt. 

“Have you seen the girls yet?” she asked. 

Javier shook his head. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d been left in the dark until recently. 

“They have a lot of hair, supposedly. I couldn’t tell. A nurse held them up for me, but they were all covered in gunk and with everything happening-”

“You were awake?” 

She hummed and kissed the bald patch in his stubble. “The whole time.”

“Fuck.” Javier grimaced. “Was it painful?” 

“With the amount of drugs in my system, not at all.” 

Before he could respond, the door opened and Yaritzel and a blonde nurse each wheeled a plastic bassinet into the center of the room. 

“We have two little girls here ready to meet their parents.” 

The nurses scooped up the babies into their arms. From here, they looked like lumps in striped blankets. The blonde headed over to his wife. 

“Come on Baby B, let’s go see Daddy,” Yaritzel said, causing his heart to beat a little faster. He couldn’t remember the last time he held a newborn, if ever. Neither Joe or Steve’s kids had been this fresh when he first met them. They did have some practice with a doll at Lamaze, except a piece of plastic didn’t compare to a living, breathing entity. 

Oh God he felt unprepared, but Yaritzel, already in front of him, eased the baby into his cradled arms. She felt like she weighed nothing, so much lighter than the swaddle made her look. She was asleep or, at least, appeared to be. 

Despite how often he’d studied the flat and grainy outlines on the sonograms, he didn’t recognize her face at all. It was strange. Who knew Baby B had pouty lips? A nose smaller than his thumbnail. Her head would easily fit in the palm of his hand. 

He touched her like she was the fragilest piece of their wedding china. His fingertips brushed over her cheek, the skin soft and warm. How was it possible that her heart rate had been critical only hours ago? Shit had been so bleak. Everything felt dire then. But now, as he snuggled her closer, she looked completely relaxed. She had no idea how much she’d worried him. 

“Are you sleepy, little one?” His wife spoke in low, soft tones. “You’re so perfect. So, so perfect.” 

At last Javier turned towards his wife. Seeing her hold his baby – their baby – made his chest hitch. The way she smiled reminded him of their wedding day, and not for the first time, he thought about how willing she’d been to give this up, all for him. 

Javier stared down at Baby A. Lola. Also asleep. Careful not to disturb her, he peeked underneath her stupidly tiny hat, and just like they said, a full head of dark hair. So far, the girls looked nearly identical. Maybe Lola’s cheeks were a little chubbier. And her mouth —

Somebody cleared their throat, startled him. Yaritzel and the blonde nurse stood in front of the TV. In all honesty, he’d forgotten they were still here. 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Yaritzel smiled awkwardly. “The transfusion should be done shortly, and a nurse will come by to unhook you and at that time, you can fill out the birth certificates as well.”

With that, the nurses left, the door shutting behind them with a soft click.

She exhaled, sounding exhausted. Her head flopped against his shoulder, and he felt the intimacy of the moment acutely. It was just them. Their little family. Not for the first time, she’d given him something he didn’t realize how badly he wanted. 

He tried to find the perfect words to say. It was one of those times where he wished he could wax some poetic shit to her. But, sadly, the only thing that came out of his mouth was, “You did so good.” 

Although he said nothing profound, she softly hummed and nuzzled her cheek against his shirt. He could feel her smiling. 

They stayed huddled close together for a long moment, admiring their babies. Then, she said, “We can’t keep calling her Baby B,” and sat up straight. 

When Javier tried to recall their list, not a single name came to mind. He’d been awake for what - 19? 20 hours straight? And she just had surgery, a transfusion in progress, and now they had to pick a name? Something permanent. How people ended up with names like Larry and Helga was starting to make more sense. 

But no. No. He would not fuck this up for his kid. These were his kids. 

Javier focused even harder, visualizing the yellow scrap paper on his nightstand. Oh. “Didn’t you like Amelia?” 

Her lips twisted to one side in a way that told him she’d changed her mind. “It is a nice name and all, but. Well, I’ve been doing some thinking.” 

“Go on.” 

“We can’t give Lola such a meaningful name, and then her one from a secondhand baby name book. That’s not fair.” 

“So - who do we name her after then? Joe?”

She scoffed. “Joe already has a big enough head.” 

“True.” Javier’s gaze fell to Baby B, who smacked her lips, her eyelids fluttering as if she knew they were talking about her. “You must have something in mind already.” 

“Well, your mom was named María Dolores.” 

“So, María?” 

“I was leaning more towards Marisol.” 

Marisol. He tested the name a few times. “Marisol Peña.”

“Oh my - look! I think she likes it!” 

And then, the baby in his arms blinked and for the first time looked at him. Brown. Her eyes were brown.

-------

Some half hour later, Marisol was fast asleep again, except this time in his wife’s arms instead. The nurse who unhooked the blood bag and helped fill out the birth certificates had helped them switch. 

Not long afterwards, Dr. Kelly came into the room. “Do you have a camera? You need a family photo,” was the first thing she said. 

After getting permission to grab the camera from their bag, she snapped a photo. Javier knew he was smiling like an idiot, holding Lola, her little hand wrapped around his finger. Dr. Kelly packed the camera back into their bag and told them to print a copy for their cork board in the office hallway. 

“Just so you know, I didn’t come by just for that photo.” Dr. Kelly stood near the foot of the bed, hands stuffed inside her pockets, looking at Javier. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Peña. I wanted to apologize-”

“Don’t,” Javier said meaningfully. “You promised to keep them safe and that’s what you did. Thank you.” 

“I do appreciate that, but still. Tonight didn’t go like any of us planned and while you’re relieved now. Later, it might be more challenging to deal with, especially in the midst of postpartum.” 

His wife tilted her head. “What’re you saying?” 

“Whenever a patient experiences a traumatic birth, I want to make sure they have the proper resources.” 

“Which is?” 

“Marilyn Bryant.” Dr. Kelly pulled out a stark white business card from her pocket. Black font. “Truly a wonderful therapist.”

“Therapy?” Javier’s voice shot up an octave. “That’s what you’re recommending?” 

“It’s just a resource I give to all patients in these situations. Some couples go once, some don’t go at all, and others go for weeks or months. Everyone has different needs.” 

“Would you be willing to go, Javi?” his wife asked. 

Lola stirred in his arms as if she could sense his apprehension. The idea of going to therapy, talking about feelings, paying to be analyzed by some stranger sounded like a sick form of torture, and he wanted to say no. Think about her. 

And he shivered, imagining how terrified she must’ve been tonight. He was unable to be with her then, but now, he could be there now. He could do this. He would do this for her.