#ktstc

Manmade structures can only withstand the test of time for so long before nature swallows what was once hers. Arms growing, invading, reclaiming what was stolen. You’re very much aware that you are the problem as you stand in your bathroom, eyes glaring at your clogged shower drain, yet you only pity yourself. 

Tree roots, the plumber says. Common with these old houses, an old cottage just on the fringes of nowhere and somewhere, something that was bequeathed to you when your granny passed. Its charm is quaint, though far from opulent, you took it in a heartbeat, excited to start your life as a true adult. Yet, after all these years, you’ve yet to find a partner to settle down with, or a job that pays you well enough to travel the world, and now you’re footed with a bill that reminds you just what it means to be an adult. 

You pick up more hours at work—as many as you can from a remote position, anyway. Tapping away on your computer, trying not to shiver too much from your drafty windows, you chip away at the cost bit by bit. Eating away decay. Willing it away in an attempt to have your dream home. You tear down the floral wallpaper in your office and coat it with a shade of green that reminds you of old copper—a patina that lingers on your fingertips—all while pretending that the bathroom sink isn’t leaking half your wells worth of water. You pretend that your drops in the ocean make a difference; a ripple large enough to feel. 

Of course, something else shatters. 

Ancient windows crack. The gap between the front door and its frame is too big. Electricity and gas blows through your bank account worse than groceries. You’ve cut your hands on the logs you tried to chop for the fireplace. When winter bleeds into spring and summer, the heat is unbearable—stuck in a furnace that cooks you, tender flesh and all, you are dying in this home. Alone, working to fix every chip that cracks from the stones that build your house; you need something more. A breakthrough, a promotion, a favor. 

Salvation presents itself to you on your third hour of browsing online forums and social media for odd jobs. Mind rotten from pyramid schemes and near slave labor, you almost miss the post entirely. Her name is Kate Laswell, and she has—perhaps—the oddest job of them all; a need for a surrogate for her and her wife. 

Initially, your eyes gloss over the post. Pregnancy is exhausting, and with the state your home is in, the last thing you need to do is get pregnant—lumbering around, swollen like a balloon, attempting to make renovations on your dilapidating cottage. If you were at any other time in your life—more settled, steadier—maybe you’d seriously consider it. 

All your qualms dissipate the moment you read the foot of the post. 

Compensation starts at £100,000.

The zeros are almost more than you can count—more than you can comprehend. It burns into your eyes, urging your fingers to twitch. How anyone could afford to pay this much is beyond you, but you suppose children are expensive either way; certainly it’s nothing to this woman and her wife. 

With that type of money, you wouldn’t even have to do the renovations yourself. 

After an evening of deliberating, you blindly decide to shoot off a private message to Kate Laswell. Her profile is odd—void, and blank. No pictures, hardly any posts. You tell yourself it’s likely a scam, and you’ll receive some sketchy link back from her during some odd hour in the night, if you even get anything in response at all. Yet when you wake in the morning, that pictureless account has sent you a message in response: 

We would like to speak with you in person. When can you meet? 

Stupidly, you meet with Kate and Lottie Laswell the following weekend deep in the heart of London in the cozy embrace of a coffee shop that does nothing to settle your nerves. Caffeine is thick in the air, nestling in the weaving of your clothes, sticking to your hair and skin. Though you’ve never seen Kate before, you recognize her instantly. Her stern, straightforward gaze beams at you from beneath her mousy brown fringe the moment you walk through the door, prompting you to awkwardly wave in greeting before she motions you over to the table. 

If Kate Laswell is the moon, then her wife, Lottie, is the sun. Her bright blonde hair scintillates, and it only grows in intensity in the sunlight that seeps through the perforated curtains drawn over the window on her right. Pale blue eyes framed by florid cheeks crease as you take your seat across from them, and you note the way she buzzes in her seat, hands politely folded on the table, manicured nails tapping against the wood grain at her fingertips. She tilts her head to the side, soaking you in, and her smile only widens. 

“It’s so nice to meet you.” Her voice is pitchy—draws long and soft. She’s American, you realize. Southern, you think. Blinking in surprise, you return the gesture. 

Though Kate is kind and cordial, she is much more business oriented than her wife. Once curt introductions are out of the way, she gets on with her questions. Her low, even tone and keen eyes have you sweating—this feels more like an interrogation than an interview. She asks everything about you, prodding the deepest part of you, poking your skin just to see how far she can push before you wince. Her questions about your health history and sex life come blunt, and it pairs oddly with Lottie’s airy giggles, but as the questioning drones on and you see more nods of approval from Kate, you find your nerves slowly mending themselves back together again. 

Eventually the questions fade into something softer—easier to spit out. Tastier to swallow. They ask you about your life; the hobbies you partake in and the work you do. How your family is, and if you’ve been well. You tell them about the garden you attempt to keep in the flowerbeds lining the cottage, and the administrative tasks you do and the office you just painted. You try to avoid the topic of your home—the isolation, the exhaustion, the yearning—so you slap your life with buttercream frosting and pray it doesn’t melt under the heat of the conversation.

They indulge you when you ask questions about themselves, too. Lottie stays at home—has been dreaming of a child to dote after for ages—but she bakes for shelters and spends time volunteering at their local retirement home. It fits her, you think. Her bubbly attitude, the bright sheen in her pale eyes; a literal princess among mongrels. The patience of a saint, but with a wit sharper than most tongues you’ve seen.

“I work for an intelligence agency,” is all Kate says when the conversation points towards her. It’s stiff—firm enough for you to not question any further. 

“So, what made you interested in being our surrogate?” Lottie cuts in, saving you the grief of backpedaling. 

“Oh,” you chirp. Your explanation gets caught in your throat as a rosy heat settles at the base of your neck. Embarrassment. Evil, vile—you hate begging. Crawling, groveling. “If I’m being honest, really, it was… well, the payment…”

Kate nods in agreement, hands curling around her coffee mug, though the liquid has long since gone cold. “There’s no shame in that. It’s a big favor that we’re asking for, and we have the means to compensate accordingly.” 

She reads you like a book, and despite all your flaws, welcomes you. It comforts you knowing how strictly professional this is—you have no skin in the game. Nothing to hold on to. You’re simply being a good person. Doing a good deed. Helping their dreams come to fruition. In turn, they help you with yours—an equal exchange. 

“So, what made the two of you come to England?” you prompt, leaning back in your seat. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve noticed the accents. Did you two move here recently?” 

“What, oh no,” Lottie giggles, hand floating in the air, waving as if pushing away the very notion. “Oh no, I don’t think I could ever leave Georgia.” 

“The donor lives here,” Kate explains simply. “Figured it would be easier to coordinate with a surrogate who lived nearby.” 

You nod, but it’s not enough to knock the confusion free from your brain. It’s visible on your face—your question. How you place two and two together; why would you need to be close to the donor? 

Before your mind can wander too far into that hole, Kate interjects. “We like meeting everyone in person. To ensure that it’s done right.” Then, her hands release her mug. “But he’s an individual I’ve worked with several times before. He’s a good man. Someone I trust.” 

“I imagine trust doesn’t come easy for someone in your line of work,” you quip. 

Kate cracks the first real smile you think you’ve seen from her this entire interview. “You’d be right.” 

“Oh, John’s such a great man. He’s been nothin’ short of sweet to us,” Lottie chimes in. As if suddenly remembering something, she begins to rustle through her purse until she successfully fishes out her phone. “We’ve been staying in a rental while we’re here—a beautiful thing—but we had some issues with the sink and cupboards and look! Fixed them right up for us, good as new!” 

She turns the phone towards you, revealing the kitchen and attached dining room that lies in their rental. Scrolling through a few pictures, you spot the before and after of their mini house project, and you try not to turn green with envy. Unhinged cupboards quickly screwed back into place, water damage mopped clean and patched up, good as new—almost every issue that’s been plaguing you in your cottage has come and gone within a blink of an eye for them, all while you’ve struggled to gather the means and the skills to bestow such a fortune like that upon yourself. 

Then, you see it—

—him. 

There, in the back, leaning against the granite countertops, blue jeans sitting on his hips, this donor—this John—wipes his hands off on a tea towel with a tight lipped smile. Thick patches of dark, coarse hair line his arms in hatch marks, thickening towards the swell of his forearms as he dries his thick fingers off with cotton. His head is lowered as if in prayer, crows feet on display, obscuring the color of his eyes, but you see the way his trimmed beard lines his jaw and upper lip, how it blends into the inky locks of his hair. 

He’s a large man—you note the way his iliac crest rests on top of the counter rather than beside or below it, a towering creature with a soft smile that stands out against his broad frame. Swelling biceps, flexing fingers—

“Such a beautiful rental,” you comment before your mind can wander any further. 

The sharp corners of Lottie’s cupid’s bow flattens as she clicks her phone off, lips curling into a near-smirk. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night at our place with John. Just a little get together is all, but we’d love it if you joined. Might be easier to flesh out all the details with everyone together. I promise I’ll cook you up the best chicken pot pie you’ve ever tasted.” 

Something tickles the back of your mind. It unsettles, wiggles, writhes where it shouldn’t. You feel how it crawls around on the inside of your cranium, slices through your brain and prods at the back of your tongue—it’s incessant. It urges you to speak before you can even think of the words. Meeting with donors—having the donors meet together... 

Then your mind thinks of that number. The zeros make your head spin, jumbles it up enough that you don’t even bother to question the circumstance or terms and conditions before you’re nodding. 

“Dinner sounds perfect.”

You’re still in your nightgown, pale blue silk flowing around your bent knees like water spilling along the floor, spine curled forward as your elbows rest on the toilet bowl to prop up your head in your hands. Your sniffling reverberates against the ceramic. It’s too loud in your ears, yet muffled as if everything in your body is clogged, too drowned in your sickness to feel the sharpness of reality. 

The groceries John had bought as a gift for you land on the floor the moment his brain makes sense of the scene playing out before him. Falling to his knees, he places his hand between your shoulder blades as if to prevent you from falling through the floor. You’re warm. He can’t tell if it’s due to a fever or the unrelenting summer heat—either way, you’re shivering despite it. 

“Oh, darling,” he breathes. 

“I’m fine,” you assure with a hiccup. “Just really… really bad morning sickness.” 

As if your body can’t even handle the thought of your ailment, your muscles tense all along your abdomen, preparing to retch once more. John doesn’t flinch as your jaw opens, filth spilling from your mouth and into the toilet water. Throughout it all, he rubs your back, trying to lure the muscles into a false sense of security so that they’ll relax and stop contracting, making your body go rigid beyond comfort. 

When you’re finished, you groan. Your head leans so far forward he fears that you might dive in after your vomit, so he pulls you back until you’re sitting on your haunches. Embarrassment burns bright in your core where it wiggles through your intestines, making your stomach gurgle. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. You can bear the most sensitive parts of yourself to him, but any step further leaves you reeling. 

“You didn’t tell me it was this bad,” John says as he wipes his palm along your forehead. He doesn’t sound upset, but he doesn’t exactly sound happy, either. There’s a sternness in his tone, something that leaves your heart palpitating. 

“Usually it’s not this bad,” you explain. When your knees begin to scream at the pressure of the tile floor, you find yourself falling to the side. John pulls on your shoulder, ensuring that you fall into him instead of against the tub. “I can wake up and do my morning chores before I even start feeling sick. Usually I just- just dry heave or maybe just spew a little but…” Groaning, you rub your hand over your stomach. “Oh, the little one just doesn’t like me today.” 

Placing his hand over yours, John rubs his thumb along your knuckles. The cold sweat coating your body is impossibly thick. It seeps out of you and into the fabric of his own shirt, but he doesn’t grimace at it—at any of it. Not the sordid state of you, nor your childish babbling. “Well, you won’t feel any better if you stay on the floor.” 

“I’ve been trying to stand but it’s just so… hard. I’m so dizzy, John. I’m stuck with the spins like I’ve had too much wine,” you attempt to joke, but even the mention of the alcohol as your throat burning with more acid. 

“I’ve got you, love,” John murmurs. “Come on, now, I’ve got you.” 

It takes a decent amount of coaxing to transport you into the living room. Lots of wobbly legs and hands slapping against walls—eventually, John sits you on the sofa where you’re quick to collapse on your side, head colliding with the arm rest with a louder thunk! than he’d prefer. 

Once you’ve stopped wiggling, he crouches so that he’s eye level with you and takes your hands into his own. He’s always touching you in some capacity. Lips on your neck, hands on your skin, body pressed against yours as if nothing he does can satiate the desire to be close to you. 

“Better?” he asks with raised brows. 

“Dunno,” you whimper. Closing your eyes, he watches as you take a deep breath, something that expands your chest then plummets back down on your ribs. “Still so dizzy… and everything is really sore. God, John, when they said your breasts would start hurting for no reason, they really meant it.” 

Humoring you, John chuckles at your frustrated joke before pushing himself to his feet. “Well, let me get you something to help with the nausea, then I’ll see what I can do about the rest, hm?” 

He leaves you to your own devices after you nod your head in agreement, and you don’t bother to make small talk as he rummages through your home. Groceries are shoved away into cupboards, fresh fruit is set out in the hand carved bowl you bought at the Sunday market—it isn’t long before the kettle begins to scream. High pitched, you grimace at the sound before John takes it off the stove and begins to steep the new tea he bought for you. 

The mug is warm in your hands like a hug. Mint wafts off the surface and melts on your face, and you swear it must be magic with the way it steadies your head within an instant. Gingerly, you press the cup to your lips before taking the tiniest of sips. It settles heavy in your stomach, then spreads until it’s as light as air. 

“Easy now, go slow,” John reminds you. You work your way up until you’re ready for larger gulps, and suddenly the cramping in your stomach vanishes. You close your eyes with a heavy sigh before holding the mug out for him to take back. “Good. Do you want to try eating something?” 

“Fuck no,” you snap, adamant. 

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” 

He places your tea on the daisy themed coasters on the table before gently helping you maneuver your body. Before you know it, you’re leaning against his chest, legs spread out over the expanse of the couch, eyes glazed over and focused on the television as John plays some sort of documentary. His touch is grounding. Everything spins less as you lean against him, no longer falling through the floor, plummeting into the depths, stomach churning at the descent. 

Half an hour into relaxing with little conversation, your eyes grow heavy. Your obstetrician warned you that you would grow tired—you’re growing a tiny human, after all—but you never expected anything like this. Fifteen hours of sleep, constant naps, hardly able to finish house chores before you’re curling up in bed and dozing the day away just to continue it through the night with no issue. 

Right as you’re about to succumb to the enticing lullaby of rest, John’s rumbling voice rouses you. “Is that better, darling?” 

“Yeah,” you say with a hum. “Still sore.”

“Where at?” 

“Everywhere.” 

It doesn’t take much more than that to prompt John’s hands into motion. He starts at your thighs, fingertips moving in wave-like patterns into the muscle where he watches your skin dimple with the pressure. You close your eyes as you allow him to wander. Up along your hips, digging into the sore spots that rest right between the bone and your thighs, then your stomach, thumbs deep into your round ligament—you keen beneath his touch. 

For a man like him—tall, with thick arms and the sparse scars to match—you never expected any of this. Not how gentle his touch can be, or how soft his eyes are when they land on you. Certainly, you don’t expect this. Hands wandering up your nightgown, burrowing beneath the fabric, nails scraping along the underside of your breasts before he cups them into his palms. 

You whine. Back arching, legs tensing, you nearly reach up to rip him away from you. Everything is tender. Skin like tissue paper, muscle like open wounds; John refuses to relent. He rolls his fingers along your breasts and it aches like a knot turned to stone. 

“Shh, shh, shh.” John’s breath is hot on your ear as he continues despite the way your body rocks against his. “Easy, darling.” 

“That—ah—that hurts, John,” you squeak. 

“I know, just give it some time, hm?” he coaxes. 

Each second that passes by is agony, until it isn’t. Pain bubbles deep in the fiber of your being until it wanes into something dull, like sunshine that can’t quite peek through a curtain. It’s still there. That raw throbbing that rages against the meat of your body, but the tension melts beneath John’s touch. The pain remains, but he’s cut the synapses so the messages are fuzzy—too broken, too dull. 

He notes the exact moment you feel better. Liquid against him, head rolling back to rest against his shoulder, body going limp. He places a kiss just behind your ear. 

“Better?” he asks. 

You nod. “Yeah, better.” 

“Good.” He continues his torturous massage for a moment longer before his movements ebb. Then, he’s holding you close, palms cupping your growing tissue. “I imagine you’re tired now, hm?” 

“Maybe a little,” you admit, already half asleep. 

“Get some rest, darling,” he urges, but not before cheekily flicking his thumbs along your nipples. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

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John's under the sink when you float into the kitchen. Resting on his side with one hand while the other twists a wrench, he makes quick work with the finishing touches on the leaking pipe before he ducks his head out from under the cabinet to take a gander at you.

You've grown so much over these last few weeks since he's moved in with you—or rather, the baby has. Rounded stomach and swelling breasts, the most comfortable thing for you to wear these days is a dress. It doesn't have the constricting waistband like your garden jeans do, and John has to admit that it's very easy on the eyes. The way your stomach is put on display when you rest your hands just below the crux of your hips leaves John's mouth extra watery.

"You look amazing," he says breathlessly.

Your smile is small with teeth hidden behind tense lips. You watch with curious eyes as John rises from the floor with a grunt, and though his fingers twitch as if to reach out and hold you, he restrains himself from ruining the fresh color of your dress with the grease on his hands.

"You're sure? I don't look like… an anamorphic blob, or something?" you say, half in jest. Dressing yourself has been a challenge these days. Your body is changing so quickly that once you figure out a fix, it seems to break itself all over again. Swollen feet, bra sizes growing—becoming a woman has turned you into a girl all over again. A gauche thing that can scarcely remember how to take care of herself.

"Darling," John says in a chuckle. "You're beautiful. Dressed perfectly for an afternoon of sweet rolls and—what is it?—that sweet tea Lottie always makes."

"Oh, don't remind me," you groan. "She promised she'd make me cookies. I think I'm going through withdrawals."

John hums. "Sounds like I should get washed up then."

With a farewell kiss on the cheek, John vanishes into the bathroom, leaving you by yourself long enough to wander back into the living room to ponder your gift to the Laswells.

Though you feel selfish to admit it—even to yourself—you've been dreading the baby shower all day. It's hard to decipher why. All you know is that when you think of arriving at their rental with their friends and family from the States, your stomach flips like the baby's attempting to rearrange your insides. This feeling grows from a dull ache into a piercing bite the moment you peek beneath blue tissue paper to view those baby-sized cowboy boots you and John bought at the market.

Today, you're a little over thirty-two weeks. You can't tell if your due date scares you because of the birth, or because you're not quite ready to say goodbye.

John assists you into the passenger's seat once he's finished cleaning himself up from yet another chore. You haven't been asking him to do any of these things, but you've gathered the idea he's not a man who likes to stay stagnant. Things are fixed in your crumbling cottage long before you ever realize they're broken in the first place.

The seatbelt sits odd on your body. Shoving the lab restraint beneath your belly, you shift uncomfortably in your seat the entire ride to the Laswells'. Sitting too long hurts your tailbone, standing too long hurts your feet, laying too long hurts your hips—you question what part of all this is supposed to be nature's great engineering, but you do well enough to forget about it long enough to get you to the rental.

Though the weather has grown colder, the windows are cracked just enough for the pleasant silage of Lottie's cooking to waft around the front door as John knocks. Chatter punctuates the scent with jovial laughter and the quiet hum of a television for background noise.

Lottie's first instinct is to smother you in one of her famous, bone crushing hugs, but she doesn't make it very far before your stomach gets in the way. "Oh, goodness me, look at you! You're just glowing."

While her compliment gets the apples of your cheeks warm, it's the gaze of strangers that really ignites the flame that threatens to melt you into mush.

Though there is by no means a crowd, there is still enough people to turn the living room into an oven. Lottie jovially introduces you to her family—mum, dad, and a gaggle of sisters who all somehow seem to be the same being split into several women—and you ensure that you steal the seat closest to the open window, lest you sweat through the thin cotton of your dress.

You're grateful for John. You have been for the last few weeks that he's moved in with you. What had been awkward at first—tip toeing around one another like virgins in the dark—has now blossomed into something stable. A rigid rock that refuses to sway even as the earth moves beneath your feet. He does most of the talking for you. Sharing updates about the baby that you nod along with, the pressure eases off of your chest. You breathe in the late year air and for once things don't feel so intimidating.

The festivities for the baby shower are relaxed, unlike the stories you've read in your work's online chatrooms for remote workers. Horror stories seeped into your brain of embarrassing games meant to fluster everyone and ungrateful mothers-to-be who belittled gifts, but there's nothing of the sort here.

To begin, Lottie serves food. Delicious picky bits and airy pastries that lead into a conversation of baking techniques that then spiral into into stories about her time in Georgia. Kate is more quiet than usual. A wallflower on the sofa next to her wife, she keeps a kind smile as the family gushes over one another, filling the room with laughter.

When the conversation topic lands on you, John slips his hand into yours as you explain your work, your hobbies—this decision. A surrogate. What does your family think? Is your mum going to be there for the birth?

Your throat goes dry and the twitch of John's fingers grows stronger with your silence.

"How about we open some presents?" Kate suggests.

As soon as the pain arrives, it subsides. Tissue paper and discarded bags soon litter the floor as Kate and Lottie rip into the gifts given to them by family and friends alike. There are useful items there, like bottles and brushes, noise machines, diapers, wipes, and bath supplies, as well as fun things—clothes, nursery decorations, and coffee for late nights.

There's a small, red flannel onesie that looks more like a shirt when paired with a set of faux blue jeans that John nudges you when he sees. "Those'll look great with the boots you picked out."

The pride you feel carries on for a short moment as Lottie unravels the last present, an expensive baby monitor equipped with a camera and large screen. She's in the middle of thanking everyone for their gifts when Kate nudges her arm and raises her brows in a silent question.

"Oh! I almost forgot," Lottie perks up, standing from the couch. "I'll be right back."

She vanishes from the room long enough for small talk to take place. Your mind begins to wander to house projects. Winters are always drafty, so you'll need to replace the stripping on the windows to keep the heat in. All this will be easier after the birth, of course. When the baby is born and you're compensated by the Laswells—so then why must your brain give you images of a nursery?

"Here we are!" Lottie enters the living room again with a large box covered in iridescent lavender wrapping paper. She huffs as she approaches you with it, setting it on the floor so she doesn't bump your stomach. "This is from Kate and I."

All you can do is blink at it. Despite the sweet tea still lingering on your tongue, your teeth feel dry enough to stick to your lips. "This is for me?"

"Of course! Go on, open it," she urges.

The paper is gossamer beneath your fingertips. It feels like a crime ripping it open like this, but your curiosity gets the best of you anyway—what could you have possibly done to deserve this?

They've left the cardboard box untaped, allowing for easy opening as you peel back the lips to reveal an assortment of self-care items. Perineum ice packs and bottles, period diapers for after-birth bleeding, boxes of soothing tea, face masks, a new bath robe, a doughnut pillow. There's enough in here to make your head spin.

The baby kicks against your stomach and your vision begins to blur. Brine and water. The rims begin to sting.

"You alright, darling?" John asks, hand slipping behind your back to rest between your shoulders.

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you nod, but the action feels like a lie. A betrayal. Even your smile cracks along your lips, reaching far enough to threaten the mask you've curated and glued to your face.

"Those pregnancy hormones are no joke!" Lottie's mum hums.

You're thankful for the distraction, even though it's only half the truth.

There's not much left to do after the presentation of your gift. You linger for a little while longer with wet eyes and trembling smiles, but it doesn't take John too long to put you out of your misery and offer to drive you home.

He loads your box of gifts into the back seat of the car before helping you into the passenger's seat and taking off for the cottage. A wave of enervation slams into you, knocking you against the seat as you watch the city fade into something softer. You're too exhausted to cry but the grey cloud looming over your head doesn't go unnoticed.

"Are you alright, darling?" he asks, repeating his question from earlier.

You nod, but it's too quick. Clearing your throat, you go slower this time. "Yeah, just tired."

Rough hands slide over the steering wheel, but he doesn't reach for you. "Are you sure? I'm always here if you need to talk."

"It's… just a lot. But I'm fine, I swear. I'll be much better after a nap when we get home," you assure.

The lies seeping through your teeth burrow into your jaw and pang throughout your skull. You've never liked doing this, whether blatantly committing the action, or through omission—still, you refuse to name the envy that eats through your chest.

It would destroy you; naming the truth that as time draws closer to your due date, the less you want to give up this little miracle of life.

A single line in faded blue—you stare down at it with tight lips as you fight to keep your disappointment manifesting in frustrated tears at bay. Really, you know it was silly to allow yourself to get your hopes up so high. A single round of sex can easily lead to conception just as easily as it can lead to nothing. Still, you have people waiting on you, and you try not to think of this arrangement too different from any other job you’ve ever held. 

You like doing your work well. Punctual and reliable—resubmissions are always a pain. 

Sighing, you set the test on the counter with the fleeting hope that a second line will magically appear before you scrub your hands clean in the sink. Once the scent of lavender has sufficiently soaked into your skin, you exit the bathroom where you find John in the living room covered in inky soot and dried pine needles. His usual rosy, freckled cheeks are marred with streaks of grey as he pulls his head out of the chimney with a huff. Dead leaves weave between the strands of his hair which he quickly shakes out with his fingers before offering you a tired smile. 

“Any luck?” you ask with a poorly hidden giggle. 

Nodding, John wipes his hands off on his shirt, staining the cotton with faint charcoal before he rests his hands on his hips. The strong taper of his hips still makes your mouth water, especially when coupled with the memory of how they rolled so sweetly against you a few weeks back. 

“You had two nests shoved up there. Unoccupied, mind. Happy to say you’ll be able to survive the winter without smoking yourself out this time,” John informs with a grin. “Now all that’s left is to clean up the floor.” 

It’s a simple task—at least, when compared to the cleaning of a chimney anyway. John allows you to lead the way as you sweep up dust, soot, and various tree materials into neat piles, though he still insists on holding the pan for you so that you don’t mark up the hem of your dress. Kneeling on the floor, hand holding the metal steady, he watches you carefully as the bristles push the mess into the dustpan. 

“Any luck on your end?” he asks after a moment. 

Your brows crease. “My end?” 

“The pregnancy test.” 

You swallow. Suddenly, all the chaff wafting through the air catches in your throat, making your eyes water. “Oh, no. No, it was negative.” 

John stands to his feet with a hum with the dustpan in hand. He reaches out to brush his thumb against your face, but when he catches sight of the state of his skin, he decides against it. “Well, there’s always next time.” 

Everything feels stiff as you follow John into the bathroom. He makes a beeline for the sink where he gratefully washes his hands to rid himself of old soil and rusty brick, but all you can stare at is the stick next to the basin. The paper has become discolored now, sitting much too long while wet, and still the results haven’t changed. 

Attempting to divert your focus, you instead watch as John cleans himself up. Hands scrubbing up over his forearms, palms pressing side by side to cup water before splashing it in his face, fingertips rubbing away at particularly stubborn stains—when he’s finished, he leaves the water running before motioning for you to go next while he dries his hands. 

“You’re quiet, darling,” John notes as he places the hand towel back on its rack. “What are you thinking about?” 

For the type of relationship you and John have—something bordering on textbook professional and painfully romantic—he’s impressively keen and intune with your emotions. It’s as if he’s split your skull open, viewed every turning cog in your brain, memorising every fleeting beat of your heart and what makes it continue to tick. 

“Oh just… I dunno,” you admit with a shrug. “Guess I’m a little upset about the test is all.” 

He’s standing behind you now, hands wandering to your hips, thumbs rubbing at you through the thin fabric of your sundress. The butter yellow cotton wrinkles beneath his touch, but it’s nothing compared to the heat emanating from your body that threatens to melt it right off of you. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, you try to keep your focus on the sink. 

“I’m sorry, love,” John murmurs as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “These things take time. We’ll try again soon.” 

The water shuts off with a squeak before you’re drying off your hands with the damp towel. Not even the scent of the soap can overpower the musk that rolls off of John. He smells of sweat and hard work—sunkissed skin glistening on the rooftop and long stagnant dirt. It muddles the vetiver of his cologne until your mind is left spinning. Your eyes rise from your hands and it’s all over. Mussed hair, his nose against your neck as he places a reassuring kiss.

Now that you think about it, the first time the two of you had sex wasn’t the right moment. Off in your cycle, body not quite ready—you’re certain that’s changed now. It’s been building up the last few days, this insatiable desire that growls in your lower stomach like a starving beast. You’ve tried to satiate it at night with your fingers shoved inside of yourself and anamneses of John playing on repeat in your mind, but it’s not quite enough. 

“Soon?” you repeat. “Like, right now?” 

Every muscle in John’s body hardens to stone. “Eager, aren’t we?” 

“Why not?” you shrug. Then, in a quick moment of what is either bravery or uncontrollable ovulation hormones, you rock your hips back until your rump is bumping into him—flaunting. “We’ve got a job to do, don’t we? Besides, I recall you promising to… how did you word it? Get me plump?” 

Your words lure a groan from John as his hands wander up from your hips until he’s cupping the expanse of your stomach. “Nice and pretty carrying my kid,” he concurs. 

The speed at which the skirt of your dress pulls up over your rump leaves you pixilated as your hips hit the counter, bones digging into the enamel. Fingers curling into the fabric, you feel John grind into you, rubbing his coarse jeans against your floral panties as if there wasn’t a barrier there at all. 

By the time he finally works your underwear down your arse, you’re embarrassed to admit how wet you are. Body begging and anticipating something like this for days, you’re nearly dripping with a glistening sheen that sticks between your thighs. He curses as he swipes a finger along your sex, dipping between your labia and coming dangerously close to skewering. 

“Fuck, that thought really got you going, huh love?” he hums in awe. 

“Please, John,” you whimper. Your legs are quivering so bad you can hardly stand. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll do it right this time.” 

He slides into you so easily—so deliciously—and you drink him up. Parched, and lost in the midst of a desert. John keeps hold of your crumpled skirt while his cock pushes into you through the mere hole of his fly. This angle pushes your organs aside. You feel the way it zaps your clit from the inside out, pushing taut through your walls, forcing you to move to his will the way waves erode ancient palisades into dust. 

John’s pace is slow but firm, dull slaps padding against the back of your thighs as his hands begin to wander upwards until he’s cupping your breasts. When the floral pattern of your dress is deemed too much distance between you and him, he pulls at the fabric until you’re bare and spilling free. Cerulean eyes meet you in the mirror as he cups the fatty tissue, rolling your nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, sending your back arching. 

“Can’t wait to see how big you get. I’ll rub out every ache for you, darling,” he swears between grunts. When you place your hands over his to hold yourself steady, his pace picks up until you’re gasping for breath. “Look at you, such a pretty girl. So perfect already, but you’ll drive me mad when your tits begin to swell.” 

When your legs begin to shake, John offers you a little reprieve by allowing you to bend forward until your palms are flat on the counter, supporting your weight as his hips roll into you. His words have you staring at yourself in the mirror—at all the features you once thought were so plain. He’s already building you up. Igniting a fire until you’re glowing. 

“Yeah, we’re gonna do this right this time, aren’t we darling?” John continues. “Not gonna let a single drop spill out of this pretty cunt.” 

Eyelashes fluttering, it takes all your strength to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head in ecstasy. “I-I—John—I can’t,” you babble. “Not like- not when we’re—ah!—standing!” 

Seeing the sense in your words, he slows his pace until he’s made a full stop. Your breathing comes so ragged and hot that it fogs up the lambent mirror, obscuring your vision and the small knowing smirk that pulls at John’s lips. 

“I think I’ve got a solution for that.” 

It isn’t long before you’re stumbling into your bedroom, dress shorn clean from your body like abloom wool left to litter the ground. John has you at the edge of the bed with the orders to keep your legs spread wide as you lay on your back, hands hooked beneath your knees and pulling them far apart until the cold makes your pussy shiver. He stands over you, stained shirt and pants still sticking to his body as he examines what you think must be a small cone of some sort. Cylindrical with a flared base, the lilac silicone squishes beneath his whim. 

“What’s that?” you question, knees wavering as sweat builds up on your skin. 

“A plug,” John replies simply. “Laswell thought it might come in handy.”

Your cheeks burn at the thought that Kate and Lottie know more about your intercourse with John that you previously thought. Offering him toys; tools. There isn’t much time for you to linger on the idea before John’s sinking into you again, forcing your toes to curl as he quickly finds his way home. 

“It’ll keep you nice and full of me until it takes. It’ll take this time, darling,” he promises. 

Then, it’s back to work. Unrelenting strength that you’ve seen so often from him in the way he helps around the house or lifts your groceries for you. Biceps swelling as he pulls himself toward you, fingers digging into your hips, body rolling against you. That heat swells as he blankets over you, beard tickling the side of your face as he presses wet kisses against your cheeks before his lips wander towards your ear, breath warm on your skin. 

“Gonna look so pretty being so full of me, aren’t you darling?” he whispers. “My pretty girl, such a pretty mum. Who knows, maybe the Laswells will want more than one, hm? Maybe I get to fill you over and over again. Fuck, you’re getting tighter. You like the sound of that, do you? Like the idea of carrying my kids?” 

Your orgasm swells within an instant like bread finally proofing, dough expanding until it’s ripe and full with bubbling yeast. Unable to hold onto your knees any longer, your hands snap out towards John until you’re pressing against his chest as if to push him away but your heels say otherwise as they dig into his lower back in a pitiful attempt to keep him locked against you. But John is a raging fire that you have no control over as he chuckles breathlessly against your neck. 

“Yeah you fucking do. Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he says in a near growl. 

John’s quick to chase his own pleasure all while barreling through the rest of yours. Bordering on near overstimulation—wires rubbing raw together, leaving you exposed and open, tender to the touch—he comes with his lips latched to the side of your jaw while buried as deep as you can manage to take him. You’re pawing at his back now, nails digging into the sordid t-shirt as you feel him twitch inside of you, feeding your womb exactly what she’s been begging for. 

The two of you stay like this too long for you to count. He grinds against you as if attempting to massage his cum against the aching muscle of your cervix. With closed eyes you focus on your breathing and the thumping in your chest; wild horses running free, or small creatures skittering across the floor of a forest. 

When the dust settles, John pulls out of you—carefully. Strategically keeping you full of him until the last moment, you gasp when something else intrudes. He shushes you with a gentle pat on your stomach before a tame cold presses deeper inside of you, leaving your cunt clenching around something foreign and squishy. 

“Just the plug, darling,” he reminds. Once he’s satisfied, John collapses next to you where he wraps an arm around your torso, burying his face in the side of your neck once again. “Did so well. Didn’t even spill a drop.” 

Buzzing, you allow yourself to melt into John, body sublimating to be soaked up by the duvet below you; something sings within you. 

“I hope it works this time,” you sigh quietly. 

“If not, we’ll try again,” he assures. 

“Really?” 

John takes your hand into his own before pulling it to his lips. “As many times as it takes and more.”

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Usually, you’re not a fan of them. Every time you’ve been gifted the delicate things either from a friend, or for some achievement at work, they’ve never felt right. Sitting in the center of your kitchen, you find that roses look out of place. Faux, and like a stranger. Lilies are too large, shoved into a fluorescent pink glass, they scream in the small cottage, surrounded by too much life. Too much nature. Every bouquet you’ve ever gotten has always meant to steal the show. 

The one that John hands you when you open the door is nothing of the sort. Small, spindly flowers that remind you of the wild ones that grow on the environs of your walking path. They’re wrapped carefully in parchment paper and tied with a cream ribbon. When he places them in your hands, you feel like they’ll shatter in your grip alone—so light and delicate. A whisper of nature to compliment you—an extension of you.

“Congratulations.” He seals his accolades with a kiss on the apple of your cheek. 

It’s impossible to stop your hand from shooting to your stomach. You feel warmer these days, and not just because of the summer months beating down relentlessly on your ancient stone home. You’re working double time now. A flourishing woman, and now a soon-to-be-mother, too. 

John follows you into the house with a wider stride than usual. Chest inflated, shoulders squared—he’s always been the zenith of strength in your mind. Bulky enough to withstand the most severe of storms, yet so soft around you; it’s as if he’s got something to protect now. Something worth flaunting for. A warning flag waving in the wind. 

He proves your suspicions correct when he stands behind you at the sink, fat palms wandering over your stomach as you fill a fresh vase for your new decorations. Pressing and kneading into you, all you can do is chuckle as you place the delicate flowers into their new home. 

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to feel yet,” you hum. 

“I’m feeling you,” he quips. Still, his hands begin to venture away, fingers curling into your hips instead. “How did the Laswells take the news?” 

You chuckle. “Oh, they were ecstatic. Especially Lottie. With the way she was squealing on the phone, you would have thought I told her she just won the lottery.” 

Lips to skin, facial hair on the back of your neck—you shiver. “I think they did, darling.” 

While you meander throughout the cottage, gathering items into your arms—a wicker basket, your purse—John doesn’t let you stray too far. Trailing behind you, his feet swamping over your imaginary footprints, everything about him is almost overwhelming. How he lingers on your skin, in the air, redolence running along your nose, attempting to lure you into drowning in him. For once, you refuse to bite no matter how badly your teeth ache. You’ve got a very important event to attend to. 

As you shove your feet into your shoes, you watch as John’s politeness slowly slips away from him as his head tilts to the side. Hands in his pockets, a faint smile flickers across his lips as he takes in the sight of you. Already radiant as if what you grow inside of you is not a child but the sun itself—full of life of his own creation. 

“Where are you off to?” he asks. It’s teasing. The way a cunning fox would ask a rabbit, knowing it could not stray too far before ending up in its loving maw. 

“The Sunday Market.” There’s a bounce in your stature when you speak as if the very idea of the market is the most riveting thing you’ve ever heard of. “I always try to go if I can, even if I don’t end up buying anything. Everything feels so much better than going to a proper store, and I just, well…”

You’re talking a lot. Too much. Gauche girl always overexplaining herself to tired ears—but John is not frustrated. His eyes glow bright with a glossy sheen as he watches you speak, and you suddenly find your tongue shriveled up in your mouth. 

“You should come with me,” you offer. “It’s good fun, and I’d think… well, maybe you’d enjoy it too?” 

Chuckling, John closes the distance between the two of you in long strides that leave your head spinning. With his hands on your shoulders to hold you steady, he places his lips on your forehead. You fear that your heart may stop beating. 

“I’d love that, darling.” 

John drives—he refuses to have it any other way. Hand in yours, the other on the steering wheel navigating strange roads with sharp curves until there’s nothing but a wide field and colorful tents pitched on verdant grass like bundles of flowers to fill your view. The door stays locked until he’s walked around to help you out. Palm on your back, warmth bleeding through the cloth; he lets you lead the way. 

It’s strange navigating this place knowing it’s just the same as last time except you’re different. Changed. Glowing in a way that would put the sun to shame. A weight has vanished from your shoulders now that you know you’ve completed a job well done. Above and beyond, putting in the extra work.

It’s time for a treat. 

“Are the jams your favorite?” 

John’s voice lulls you out of your head as you rest the basket on your hip, surveying rows of prismatic jams and jellies laid out on teal cloth. Each jar has a beautiful handwritten label with swirling script that curls at the ends like a cat next to a hearth. You’ve been thumbing over a jar of strawberry jam for the better part of two minutes while you peruse, and you feel the summer warmth begin to bubble between your shoulders. 

“I’ve had to restrict myself to only getting two,” you sheepishly admit before sneaking a jar next to the homemade goat cheese you bought from the tent next door. “Otherwise I buy out the entire stock.” 

“Which one is your favorite?” He snatches one off the table before turning it over in his hands. The grape jelly refracts the sunlight until a mauve hue washes out his palms. 

“It’s hard to pick just one,” you sigh. “The strawberry goes so well with my morning toast, and the peach is so refreshing, but the apple-cinamon butter is perfect for pastry rolls…” 

As you speak, you can’t help but lament over them. Teeth digging into your lip, you watch as John retrieves the apple butter and puts it into your basket. “Get all three, then.” 

Blinking, you look at him with wide eyes. “No, I really shouldn’t. I-I’ve been trying to budget, really, and I already splurged on the goat cheese and-” 

His chuckle cuts you off. It’s canorous and warmer than the summer heat that bakes you alive. Next is the peach jam, tucked safely next to the others. “Get whatever you like. I’ll pay.” 

It doesn’t stop at the jams. 

John watches you for every little change. A flickering flame in your eyes. Soft tongue darting out between your lips. If he has a simple inkling that you’re attracted to something, he’s putting it into your basket before you even realize what he’s doing. Handmade pottery with floral designs. Slaved over lace doilies that you made an off-hand comment about looking perfect beneath your sugar and flour containers. Eventually your basket grows too heavy that he carries it around for you, trailing behind you, smiling over your shoulder as the wonder in your eyes blooms. 

It doesn’t end until the two of you are sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of an aspen tree eating homemade vanilla ice cream churned before your very eyes. You got yours topped with fresh fruit donated from the tent two seats down, while John opted for a chocolate drizzle, murmuring something about having a sweet tooth. 

The idle conversation between the two of you never stops. You’re dreaming out loud about what you’ll do with the new trinkets in your possession all while promising to let John try the pastries made with the apple butter you just couldn’t refuse. You spend so much time talking about yourself that your palms begin to sweat through the plastic cup of your ice cream at the attention—steele blue gaze, unbreaking focus, strong like rigid muscles covered by soft skin, tensing shoulders, lips on the side of your neck—

“Laswell told me you have an appointment scheduled for next Wednesday.” 

—the baby. 

You look down as if there’s anything for you to see yet. Any proof of life growing within you, a sown seed now thriving in small glory. Swallowing down the vanilla cream on your tongue, you nod as you roll your lips between your teeth. 

“Yes, it’s just a general prenatal checkup, I think,” you nod. “If I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure what all to expect.”

“I want to come with you.” His tone is serious. Not quite severe, but just firm as if there’s no room for argument. As he dips his spoon into his food, he looks up at you with raised brows before swallowing it. 

“Oh, that’s okay,” you attempt to assure with a flippant wave of your hand. “It’s nothing big. Just simple vitals and a blood test to double check hormone levels and-” 

All it takes is the look in his eyes to cut you off. Warm but teasing as if he knows something that you don’t. “Darling, I told you I wasn’t going to let you do this alone.” 

“N-No, I know.” You’re stuttering. Tripping over your too-cold tongue, brain frozen from any action that would pull you out of this mess. “But it’s only a simple quick appointment, you don’t have to waste your time with it or anything.” 

Ice cream set aside, he pulls your cup out of your hand before ensnaring you in his fingers. Knees turned towards you, body scooting along the side of the bench—he’s crowding your space to the point you’re not sure you can breathe for much longer. Not with the heat of him swallowing you up, constricting you down his gullet to keep you safe. 

“Every appointment,” he says with a slight bob in his head until he’s getting you to nod along with him. “If you have to do it, then I do it with you. I told you, I’m not here for a simple fuck.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” you attempt. 

“I know, but I’m going to.” A small smirk pulls at his lips as he rubs the swell of your chin with his thumb. “You’re not changing my mind, either.”

All it takes is a simple rewire. A smothering. Lips on yours, chocolate lavashing over the aftertaste of strawberries and vanilla—something sweet enough that gets your brain to restart. When he pulls away from you, lips smacking with the schism, all you can do is smile and nod. 

“Okay,” you finally agree, timid but with teeth on display. 

This next kiss lands on your cheek, and the aftermath cold of his frozen treat makes you shiver almost as much as his words. “Good girl.”

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It’s too open ended for you to feel at ease, and it leaves your mind grasping for his definition of the term. Closet torn wide open, dresses, shirts, and pants strewn across your bed; you stand half naked as you assess your options. Your matching bra and panties had already been decided the day you and John planned this date. The rest of this should be easy. Still, you’re standing there for so long that you’re still bare when John sends you a text notifying you he’s on his way. 

By the time he arrives, you’ve settled on a creme sundress patterned with delicate daisies, and you’re pleasantly surprised to see that it matches his off-white button up and blue jeans. He greets you with a kiss to your knuckles, but you’re left gawking at the thick patch of hair that plays peek-a-boo from underneath the undone buttons of his shirt. As he helps you into the car, you note the way the zephyr carries his cologne—vetiver and tobacco.

His redolence follows you all the way to the restaurant, a quaint sit down place bedecked with paintings from local artists where soft music plays through oversized speakers. The perfect mix of casual and proper eases your nerves as you’re led through the room and to a private two-seater table tucked in a quiet corner with hardly any foot traffic. John sits with his back to the wall, leaving you with no distractions. There’s just him, the dull sconce above his head, and the quiet smile that always seems to pull at his lips whenever he’s around you. 

“Get whatever you like. My treat,” he tells you as you thumb through the menu. 

The prices are moderate. Something done on purpose, you suspect. More than nice enough for a date, but nothing too extravagant that would make you feel guilty for eating. You send your order off with a smile to the waiter, and though your jittery hands beg you for a glass of wine, you opt for a water instead. 

Truth be told, you are terrified about tonight. 

Possibilities swirl in your brain, violent enough to stupefy you, rendering you nothing but an anxious mess who’s damn near sweating through her dress. You think about messing things up; being your awkward self and ruining the mood as you’ve done in the past. You need a plan. A straight, ironed out plan that you can count on. Steps to follow. But there’s nothing. You’re scrambling for purchase.

(Are you going back to yours, or John’s after this? How will sex be initiated? What happens if you don’t enjoy it? Are you supposed to spend the night? Or will he? How far does he live? What about pregnancy tests afterwards, and appointments, and—)

“You seem tense, love.” 

Everything fades back into focus as if a coin has dropped and snagged your attention. John’s sitting across from you, comfortably leaning back in his seat as he looks at you, but he’s far from disengaged. He’s enchanting in this light, and it siphons all the moisture from your mouth. Golden rays hitting his hair just right until it glistens, cerulean eyes studying you as you wipe the sweat off your palms and onto the skirt of your dress—you’re an open book. Spread wide with a cracking spine, unable to close and keep your secrets. 

“Was it that obvious?” you say in an attempt at humor. “Sorry, I’m always an anxious person. Guess there’s a reason why I work from home.” 

“Don’t like the crowd?” John asks with a raised brow. 

“I guess not,” you concede. 

“What do you like, then?” 

His question makes you pause. It’s not something that you’re asked often—not legitimately anyway outside of small talk. Usually your answer is locked and loaded with something simple like your favorite color or a hobby that you hope sounds interesting, but John seems to be more stubborn than that. Though you’re about as opaque as cellophane, most people don’t bother to dig deeper than what you give them, but John seems like the type of man who likes to get his hands dirty. 

“I like the outdoors,” you start. 

“Is that why you took the cottage?” he asks. Engage, push—his active listening has your brain nearly restarting. 

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “It was passed to me when my granny died. My ultimate goal is to get it all fixed up so it’s nice and comfortable. Somewhere I can read and work.” 

Humming, John sits forward. His hands are folded together, fingers interlacing as he rests his elbows on the table. “You’re always mentioning work.” 

“It’s a big part of my life at the moment while I’m saving up,” you sheepishly admit. 

“What about outside of work?” 

You swallow. “I like… music. And animals.” 

“What kind of animals?” 

“Oh, all kinds. I think I’d like to get chickens someday, and maybe a cat. I just think about seeing a happy, fat cat warming up in those old windows while I make bread from the fresh eggs I picked that morning and it makes me… content. It’s quiet, away from the city, away from people where I can live my life as a happy recluse and just… be. Be myself without being…” You pause. He’s looking at you. Staring. The weight of his gaze suddenly feels crushing, and you backtrack. “Well, I’m rambling.” 

John tilts his head to the side with a smile. “Isn’t that the point of answering questions?”

Your smile breaks. There’s too much sweat on your skin. The skirt of your dress sticks to your thighs and you feel the way your rump nearly adheres to the seat. Shifting, your brain scrounges up anyway to save you from your gauche nature. 

“What about you? What do you like to do—erm—outside of work?” you press. 

“Technically, I’m retired,” John sighs. His thumb rubs over his knuckles as if they’re tense and yearning to be cracked open, but he refrains. “Recently retired. These days I’m trying to throw myself back into the thick of it.” 

Humming, you sit forward, words leave your mouth before your brain has time to screen them. “You seem too young to be retired.” 

His lips curl, first a quiet smile, and then into something larger—a closed-lipped Cheshire Cat grin. “Oh, flattery will get you everywhere with me, darling.” 

The remainder of your evening passes by within the blink of an eye. Conversation leaves your tongue easier now that John has softened it, and it flaps until the sun dips below the horizon with a heavy belly, leaving behind streaks of periwinkle and lavender in its wake. Your own stomach has grown heavy with food and drink, though you know nothing will compare to the weight it will bear if tonight goes the way you know it will. 

Back in John’s car you let the dull crackle of his radio lull you into something comforting as the wheels kiss the road. It seems he’s decided you’re going back to your own house—that near dilapidating yet so well-loved cottage in the forest. You think it’s for the best. When you inevitably make a fool of yourself, it’ll be much easier to hide your shame in your own home alone rather than spending an awkward car ride in close quarters, or shamefully calling for a taxi. 

As you expect, he opens the door for you and follows you inside. Or, maybe follow isn’t the right word. He does not slink after you like a dog begging for scraps, maw watering with the promise of a treat. There is something more mature about the way he opens the door and smiles at you as you flip the lights on. Crepuscular animals skitter about on the environs of your property—cooing owls and crying frogs. 

You suppose there will be more than just them singing tonight. 

“Well?” John’s standing in the midst of your living room, eyeing over your fireplace as you grab his attention. His neck twists, azure eyes piercing the distance to see you. “How should we go about this?” 

John’s smile pours over you like warm honey—sticky and wet on your body, adhering until the warmth permeates through your skin and into the bone. He approaches you slowly, as if you’re a skittish creature he can’t afford to scare off, wide palms swallowing your hands into his. 

“You’re nervous,” he states. 

Your brows furrow. “Should I not be?” 

He chuckles. He’s always tittering in some way, though never malevolent with it. “Preferrably not.” 

You shift beneath his gaze. Once more, you’re spread open. Pages pinned open. John’s reading between the lines. 

“When we fuck, I want you to be comfortable. I don’t want you damn near trembling in those flats,” he continues. Strong fingers squeeze your hands, grounding you back in the present as you look at him with a spinning brain. “I know this is just a job, but I still want it to be enjoyable for you.” 

When we fuck. “Wait, so you’re saying that we’re not gonna…” 

“Not tonight,” he finishes. 

Suddenly, you are a child again. The last one left to be chosen for sports teams. A quiet creature haphazardly shoved to the side in favor of something more interesting. You made your friends with the trees, whose branches always waved to you. Even now—glossed over in work meetings, camera always blocked and microphone always muted, and a smile well versed in silent apologies—sorry for being me. 

“I’m comfortable,” you say in an endeavor to convince him. 

“I don’t believe that for a second, darling,” John says humorously. 

Your mouth opens, then slams back shut so fast you nearly chomp the tip of your tongue off. Swallowing, you collect your thoughts before you exhale with a huff. “John, if you wait for me to completely let my guard down, I fear you’ll be waiting on me forever.” 

“That’s quite alright. I’ve torn down larger walls before.” 

Patience. John’s assurance weaves through the wrinkles in your brain before settling at the base of your skull, purring warmth down your spine. So many people have marched up to you before with pickaxes and hammers, ready to wield them in a way that would send you crumbling. Large chunks tossed aside and forgotten. None of them have bothered to stop to read the lettering etched into the stone. Fragmented poems slaughtered, beauty left to rot. 

Unlike the others, John arrives with bare hands. Nothing but short nails and calloused palms. Tender hands. Hands ready to bleed. 

“We’ll take things slow. As slow as-”

“Kiss me.” 

Wide eyes with quirked brows settle on you, and for a split second you see John’s lips part as if ready to convince you otherwise, yet he pauses. Pupils dilating, he soaks up as much information on your face as he can gather—they’re black holes. Not even light can escape their gravity. 

Then, he breaks. 

Neck bowing, he presses his lips against yours, tender like bedding warmed by fireside. You feel everything. The pulse throbbing in the tips of his fingers. Rough facial hair rubbing against your chin and upper lip. His nose kissing your cheek. He tastes like the steak he ordered for dinner, and the smell of ichor and vetiver fills your nose like intoxicating fumes ready to render your brain useless mush. 

When he pulls away, you don’t allow him to stray far. You’re leaning closer, hands slipping out of his until you’re clutching his arms as if you’ll fall through the floor without his support. 

“Stay the night with me, John,” you tell him. 

Hesitation buzzes just beneath his skin—almost as bad as his desire. “You sure?” 

You nod. “I want you here.” 

John dives in for another quick kiss, one that doesn’t seem to want to leave your lips. “As you wish.” 

You're thinking of those cookies. Terrible, awful things packed in individual plastic wrap and packed with more chunks of chocolate chips than they are full of dough. Each time you bite into them you can taste the preservatives. That slightly synthetic sugar that screams it'll eat a hole through your stomach and teeth, yet your tongue attempts to feign the taste that you nearly cry.

This is by far the worst part of pregnancy, you decide. Spewing your guts for a little while in the morning is one thing, but this insatiable desire to have something you can't immediately have does something terrible to your already fragile balance of changing hormones. You're mentally cataloguing the items you have in the kitchen. Flour, eggs, sugar—you tell yourself you could make the cookies but you know it won't be the same. The texture, the brand of chocolate; it's something you can't mimic.

Sighing, you sit up with a grunt. Your little man makes even the simplest of movements difficult these days, but you push through it as you slip your feet into your shoes and shoulder on a jumper over your pyjamas.

If you leave now, you can be back home and in bed within an hour.

There's no traffic to speak of this late at night, and with all this freedom you find your foot laying heavier on the accelerator because of it. With each traffic light you pass, the taste of those cookies only grows stronger. Grainy sugar dissolving on your tongue, chunks of chocolate settling deep in your stomach; your mouth waters so heavily saliva is nearly spilling past your lips by the time you pull up to the convenience store.

The door announces your arrival with a dull clink and chime of ancient bells. Florescent lights brutally flicker above you as you politely eye the clerk. She's young. University age most likely working this job for a couple extra quid a month between classes. She's scribbling away at work sheets, but allows herself to become distracted for a moment to greet you with a gauche smile before returning to her work.

Skipping the small talk, you make a beeline for the aisle that holds the cure to this madness of decaying hormones and a gurgling stomach. Your beloved cookies sit in a neat like one after another, splayed out like a line of cards for a trick. Your fingers twitch. The urge to scoop all of them into your arms is strong enough to swallow you, but you bite it back in favor of grabbing a mere handful instead. You silently pray the clerk won't judge you too terribly for the five you have shoved in your fist.

It's hard for your eyes not to wander. Clouded with fatigue, you stare at the fridge and tap your foot in thought. Chocolate and strawberry milk, green tea, bubbly water and electrolytes—your greed could kill you. Sandpaper throat and all.

Choosing to indulge in the strawberry milk (and the upset stomach it's sure to give you later), you begin to wander back through the aisles just as those rusty bells sing once more. Just in time, you turn to see another customer enter. Clad in black, hood snug over his head, hands in his pockets, you don't think twice about it as he approaches the counter. The clerk sets aside her work and offers the man a smile just for it to fade the moment she sees the knife in his hand.

"Everything in the register. Now."

He doesn't sound confident. Syllables shaking, hand hardly gripping what looks like a simple kitchen knife—still, the clerk refuses to call out any bluff he might have. She punches a few buttons and pulls out the till without fuss. She's calm. Steps back away from the man with her hands up as if to say I'm not a threat.

You don't feel even a fraction as strong. Cookies slip out of your hand and tumble on the floor, rich dough crushed as your milk topples along with him. It's enough to make the robber turn towards you, knife raised, eyes wide and wild. All you can think to do is to place your hands on your stomach. He's moving—the baby. Kicking and playing like he's unaware of what's happening outside the safety of your womb.

The connective tissue of your ribs ache. You breathe, but it isn't enough. Too fast and shallow. Your vision tunnels. Pressure builds on your bladder to the point you're certain you're about to wet yourself. You take a step back. Your knee buckles.

When the world goes black, all you can think about is John.

Warm hand on your stomach, lips on the back of your neck—always gentle despite the tight cords of muscle that lie beneath his skin. You wish he was here now to catch you. Instead, you have nothing to save you but the cement floor at your feet.

"John?"

It's your voice waking him up sometime after five in the morning. Phone buzzing violently on his nightstand, calls don't usually wake him up like this. He silences every notification except for ones that come from a certain few people—you being one of them.

There's something in the tone of your voice that scares him. A calculated attempt at evening out your words scream at him through the line as if he's staring at a hole in the wall poorly covered by bumpy plaster. He sits up in bed, legs already swinging over the edge, any thought of sleep and good rest vanishing as he stands.

"What's wrong, darling?" His voice is gruff. The old him is slipping through. That calm but rough captain who needs all the details so he can make a plan; so he can figure out which skulls he needs to crack open.

"I had an… accident, of sorts," you explain. He's stripping himself out of his night clothes and shoving his legs through a pair of jeans. No matter how fast he moves, it doesn't seem like it's enough. "I'm at the hospital and it sounds like they're getting ready to let me go soon, but I don't have anyway to get home and, I just- I'm sorry, John, I just-"

"It's alright, darling," he shushes, though it feels like a lie. His thoughts swim with visions of you in the hospital, gown swallowing your body, cheeks stained with tears and arm throbbing at the site of your IV. The lip of his shoe gets caught on his heel and he has to hold back a curse as he shoves the rest of his foot in despite it. "What hospital are you at? I'm coming right over."

The world wakes with a sputtering yawn as cotton candy clouds dust the sky while John weaves through the flowing traffic. Vehicles seem to come out of the wood work, cutting him off at every possible opportunity while he slices through the city as fast as he can without drawing the unwanted attention of any radars.

By the time he pulls next to the hospital, the sunrise is in full bloom. Ichor red and angry orange, it bathes him in flames as he marches into the building and grabbing the attention of the first person who dares to look at him. A slip of his tongue makes him ask for his wife—the fuzzy feeling in his stomach doesn't allow him to correct himself.

He finds you in the OB department, body shrouded in a pale blue gown with various cords and tubes connected to your skin as if you are some terrible amalgamation of flesh and machine. The bones in his knees turn to jelly as he cuts across the room, hands already reaching for you as he sits in the chair next to your bed. Agita eats away at his stomach at the tight lipped smile you give him, and he has to hold back his discontent in favor of pressing your fingers to his mouth instead. He breathes you in as he studies you, eyes scanning for anything that proves harm came your way.

"I'm okay." You pause and watch the tender skin of his lips and how they seem to curl around your fingers as he embraces them. Swallowing, you correct yourself. "We're okay."

"You said you had an accident?" He's cutting right to the chase, skipping over the fine details, attempting to see the bigger picture first before squinting at the minuscule strokes. "What happened?"

Already, he can see the tears swelling in your eyes. You're dipping into a never-ending pool of them judging by the irritation that surrounds your irises with bright pinks and reds. One of the monitors quietly beeps and you go still. Pneumatic humming sounds as the blood pressure cuff on your arm expands, then slowly deflates with a hiss. Once the reading is over, you finally speak.

"I had a really bad craving for cookies," you begin. As if hearing yourself and the absurdity of your story, you chuckle. "Middle of the night, woke up with this insatiable urge for them. John, I don't know how to explain it. Wanting something so bad that you're crying over it like a kid. I couldn't stand it, so I left to get them."

"Was it a car accident?" John asks, already attempting to connect the dots.

"No, no nothing of the sort," you assure.

His shoulders curl forward, head bowing close to you. "Why didn't you call me? I would've gotten them for you."

"I dunno I… I wasn't thinking. I was only thinking about those cookies and how badly I wanted them. But then when I got to the store…" Pausing, you slip a hand out of John's in favor of wiping your eyes off with the backs of your fingers. Patiently, he waits. Watches as you gather up your thoughts and control your breathing. "Someone was robbing the clerk at knife point, and I was- fuck, I've never been so scared in my entire life, John."

As you explain the events, he can see everything play before him like some twisted movie. You, alone in a dangerous situation, someplace he doesn't know, and he isn't aware of any of it. John doesn't doubt your strength. He's seen your fortitude—how much time and effort you put into the things you love. Still, he should've been there. It's only right.

"I passed out. Hit my head on the way down," you continue with a sniffle. "When I came to, I was on the floor with the clerk crouching over me while she was calling for help. I guess the guy ran off without taking any money when he saw me collapse. An ambulance came to check on me, and they took me here because the medic didn't like how low my blood pressure was."

"Must've been what made you pass out," John theorizes.

"Most likely," you nod. "They did a scan to make sure I was alright. No concussion, just a bump and a headache. Baby's fine. I'm fine. The doctor said they're going to let me go once they get the discharge paperwork done, but my car is still at the store so I was hoping that maybe you could take me home…"

"Whatever you need." His answer is quick. It spews out of his mouth without a second thought. Already he's leaning closer to you as if ready to scoop you into his embrace and drag you home no matter how hard it is on his back. "We'll go home."

John can't get out of that hospital fast enough once those discharge papers are in hand. You're sent home with the strict orders to keep upping your fluid intake and to take things easy to prevent another event and to keep your stress levels low for the sake of the baby. You rot in the passenger's seat. What are you going to say to Kate and Lottie?

Hi there, I nearly got your unborn child killed, sorry about that.

As you twist your fingers together, your stomach mimics the action until you're nauseous, like morning sickness on steroids. You can't help but feel as if you've made a fool of yourself. You're going to make a further one of yourself the moment you gather up the courage to spill your sins to the women who trusted you with such a terrifyingly important task.

Neither you nor John speak the entire ride home. Already emotionally and mentally exhausted with your day despite its fresh beginning, you instead focus on the changing views outside of the window as you get further out of town and closer to your hidden slice of paradise. That old siding and freshly cleaned chimney are a sight for sore eyes, and you're nearly breaking out of the car before John has the time to open the door for you.

You collapse on the couch. Hands resting on your stomach, you allow the cushions to mold around you as you lean back with a defeated sigh. Enervation seeps into your bones like a curse, and you don't realize the effect it has on you until John's kneeling before you with a hand resting on your knee.

"You look tired, darling. You should rest," he encourages.

A part of you wants to tell him that he should never tell a pregnant woman she looks tired, but the other part of you knows he's right. Weight lingers on your eyes, only growing heavier once more tears spring forth of their own volition.

"I know, I just…" Teeth sinking into your lips, you wipe at your eyes.

"Just what?" he prompts.

You sigh. "I… never got those stupid cookies."

For what feels like the first time in an eternity, John smiles before pointing a cautionary finger at you. "Stay here. I'll go get your cookies."

His orders aren't difficult to follow. Decrepitude sneaks up on you like a ghost, and soon you're collapsed on your side, curled up on the couch fast asleep where nothing in the world could wake you. Birds chirp in the trees as the wind toys with their leaves and you remember why you moved out here in the first place; to slow down. To not worry about the rush of the city or the way it snuffs out the stars in the sky.

A quiet life, perhaps. One with fresh picked berries after a day working in your office. Letting the sun warm your skin while the ground is soft, and the flames in the fireplace when the frost lines the windows in winter. For some reason, John is in this dream.

Someone smaller is, too.

You wake with a hand on your shoulder—it's too small to be John's. When you open your eyes, you're met with Kate Laswell's face. Seeing her jars you into a sitting position with your hand on your chest, a reaction to which she only chuckles to before steadying you.

"Alright killer, we don't need you passing out on us again," she chides.

"What're you doing here?" you ask. Suddenly self conscious of your appearance, your hands begin to smooth over your clothes and face, hoping to erase any remnants of sleep. Behind her, John stands with his arms crossed and a simper on his face.

"Lottie and I helped play musical chairs to get your car back from the store. It's going to do you much better here than it would there."

A pang cuts through your chest, slicing straight through your breast bone and down your stomach. You weren't expecting to have to face them so soon—to apologize for your stupid mistake. Already you can feel the words writhing on your tongue, tangling up together and tripping you up as you attempt to fish for anything that might make sense.

As if reading your mind, Kate raises her hand to silence your mess of thoughts. "John told me everything, and I don't want you worrying about a thing. It could've happened to anyone. We're just glad you're safe."

She doesn't linger long, and she doesn't take your apologies either. With a reassuring squeeze, she leaves with the orders to be kind to yourself before the hum of her car is taking both her and Lottie far away from your cottage.

Still groggy, you lean forward and press your fingers to the goose egg on the back of your neck. The swelling has already gone down, but the tenderness remains like a persistent wound. Before you can anger it too much, John slips his hand into yours and pulls it away to prevent you from doing any more harm. In exchange, he presses a cookie into your palm.

"Oh my god." You're ripping into it like a ravenous beast. Plastic crinkles and shreds until the alluring aroma of soft dough and sweet chocolate fills your nose. You slow down just enough to savor the flavor on your tongue. "I could die happy."

"I'd prefer if you didn't die at all, if it's all the same to you," John teases.

You finish your cookie within a minute, then quickly devour a second one, savoring each bite and the way the chips roll and melt along your tongue. Finally, that dissonance within you quells. Insatiable desire grows quiet, and you lean back into the sofa, content.

When you complain of your fatigue, John easily convinces you to sleep again, this time in the comfort of your bed. He tucks you in, pulling the blankets over your body, ensuring you have enough pillows to support your body and to prevent that twinge you get in your hips from the extra pressure you carry these days.

It isn't until you're comfortable that you see it—the bags. Dark green in color, they're stacked in the corner of your room. Travel bags. Pillows and blankets. They're all neat and even but painfully out of place. Squinting, you motion towards the new arrivals.

"What's all that?" you ask.

John doesn't need to glance over his shoulder to know what you're talking about. "My bags."

"Why'd you bring them here?"

Kneeling on the floor, he rests his hands on the edge of your bed as his head tilts to the side. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you," he humors.

Something spirals in you. A bouncing ball skipping down a twisting staircase. Shaking your head, you would sit up if it weren't for the weight of your stomach keeping you down. "What? No, you don't have to do that, John, that's-"

"No more solo runs to the store in the middle of the night," he chastises.

"Yeah, well but- I'm sure you have a life outside of this, John. Really, you don't need to stay here, I'll be fine."

He silences you with a hand to your cheek. Soft and warm. A thumb rubs over your lips and he looks at you with such intensity you feel as if you're about to combust. Chin lowered, brows raised, lines crinkling in his forehead—your tongue turns to lead.

"You're my life right now, darling," he mutters. "Taking care of you and this baby is all I care about."

For the millionth time today, you feel like you might cry. Trembling lips pull into a smile, one small enough for John to smother completely with a kiss. He tastes warm like summer time trips to the ocean. You decide it's much better than the cookies that you had craved so viciously before.

"Get some rest," he whispers.

Your head falls heavy against your pillow. Before he leaves, John draws the curtains tight and keeps the door cracked just wide enough for him to hear you should you call for him. You sigh as your body melts into the mattress. Sleep comes easy and quick. There is a delicious sort of comfort that comes in knowing that when you wake up, John will be here waiting for you.