"Gage—"
"There," he said, quiet. "Feel that?"
I did. A strange releasing pressure, a warmth.
"This is what you do with a fresh heifer," he said, still working, slow circles. "When the milk first comes in. You have to encourage it. Can't force it." He glanced up at me. "Try her again."
I blinked. "Did you just compare me to a cow."
"I compared the principle," he said. "Do you want my help or not."
I looked at his hands. At Bea, fussing. "Yes," I said. "Obviously yes."
He kept going—that slow, deliberate compression, warm and sure—and I brought Bea back up and she latched and this time something happened, a proper letdown, and she went quiet immediately, and the relief of it hit me so hard my eyes went wet.
"There she is," Gage said softly. He didn't move his hand.
"Don't say I told you so."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking," he said, "that you're doing a good job." He pressed his mouth to my temple. "Both of you."
I leaned into him, Bea nursing, Gage's hand still warm and steady, and felt the specific exhausted gratitude of being taken care of by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
Bea went down easier than she had all week.
I lay her in the bassinet and stood there for a moment with my hand on her back, waiting to see if she'd startle awake the way she sometimes did, but she stayed down—milk-drunk and boneless, her little mouth still making the faint sucking motion of a baby who'd gotten exactly what she needed.
I straightened up.
And immediately felt it—the uncomfortable fullness on the other side, tight and heavy, the letdown that had happened whether Bea had gotten to it or not. I pressed my hand against myself and winced.
"Still full," Gage said. He'd been watching from the bed.
"She only took one side." I looked at the pump on the nightstand, at the instructions I'd read approximately nine times. "I should probably?—"
"Come here," he said.
I looked at him.
"You've been fighting with that pump for four days," he said. "Come here."
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed and he shifted to sit behind me, his legs on either side of mine, and his hands came around and he cupped me the way he had before—careful, warm, that same steady pressure.
"Better?" he said.
"A little." I let my head drop back against his shoulder. "It's just uncomfortable. Full and—" I exhaled. "Tight."
"I know." His hands moved—firm, purposeful, working inward the way he had before but with more intention now, his palms warm against me. I felt the pressure shift, the tight fullness starting to give, and made a sound I couldn't quite help.
"There," he said.
"That's—" I lost the sentence. His hands were thorough in the way he was thorough about everything, methodical, finding the spots that were hardest and working them until I felt the relief spread outward in waves. "God, that's better."
"Been watching you wince for four days," he said. His mouth was at my shoulder. "Should've done this sooner."
