I just sleep, safe and content.
The cursor on my phone screen blinks at me, seemingly to mock my indecision. I’ve been staring at this text thread for three days.
Three days since the kitchen, since the cinnamon buns, since Eli’s hands were on me and the world narrowed down to the smell of sugar and the feel of his skin.
Hey.
I type it out. My thumb hovers over the send button. It’s too casual. It’s pathetic.
I delete it.
Thanks again for the other night. It was really nice.
Too formal. Sounds like a thank-you note for a gift basket.
Delete.
I can’t stop thinking about the buns.
I groan and toss my phone onto the workbench, where it lands with a clatter among the pile of silver dollar eucalyptus stems I’m stripping. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to scrub the image of his face out of my mind.
But it’s no use. I can still see the way his hair looked when he ran his hands through it, the way his glasses slipped down his nose, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never been good at this—the aftermath. With Luke, it was always fighting or making up, a volatile cycle I knew how to navigate.
With Eli, there is no cycle. There’s just… quiet. And that quiet is terrifying.
“You look like you’re trying to burn a hole in that wood with your mind.”
I jump, spinning around. Norah is standing in the doorway to the office, leaning against the frame.
She’s cradling a massive ceramic mug that readsI’m A Succa For Plants. Steam rises from the rim, carrying the scent of peppermint and chamomile.
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just thinking.”
“About?” She takes a sip, her eyes narrowing over the rim of the mug. “You’ve been a million miles away all week. Distracted. Jumpy.”
“Just work,” I lie, turning back to my eucalyptus. “The winter orders are piling up. Trying to stay ahead of the inventory.”
Norah hums, a sound that says she doesn’t quite believe me but is willing to let it slide for now. She sets the mug down on the counter and stretches her arms above her head.
The movement pulls the fabric of her red dress tight across her stomach. The belly bump is undeniable now, a rounded curve that she loves to rest her hands on.
The dress is beautiful—a deep, vibrant red that makes her skin glow, paired with black ankle boots and thick tights. She looks gorgeous. Radiant.
But she also looks miserable.
“Are you okay?” I ask, watching her fan herself with a sheaf of order forms. “You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she echoes my earlier sentiment, though her voice is tight. “Just… warm. Again.”
I frown. “Is the tea not working anymore?”
She sighs, picking her mug back up. “Miss Thea’s blend worked wonders for the first few days. But lately…” She shakes her head. “The mini-heats are coming back with a vengeance. Ifeel like I’m burning from the inside out. I’ve got the AC unit in the bedroom dialed down to sixty-five degrees, and I’m still sweating.”
She walks over to the thermostat on the wall and fiddles with it, even though the digital display already reads sixty-eight. “Ryker says it’s normal. The pregnancy hormones are amplifying everything.”
“It sounds exhausting,” I say gently.
