“I think so," I pause. “Thank you for bringing him.”
He doesn’t smile, exactly. What crosses his face is deeper, heavier. “I’ll always bring you what you need,” he says quietly. “Even if you don’t know you need it yet.”
Something warm and a little dangerous curls low in my chest. I’m not ready to name it. Not yet.
But soon.
A new routinebegins with a small rhythm. Morning tea. I take two capsules each of the milk production herbal supplement and domperidone that Dr. M prescribed me. I apply a warm compress to my chest for a duration of twenty minutes. Light massage.
Before I even touch the keys for the bookstore, I engage in a twenty-minute pumping session.
Then, while I’m at work, alarms go off on my phone every two hours. Pump. Log. Eat. Take supplements and domperidone three times a day to start, and according to Dr. M, taper off once milk begins to let down.
I’ve got it all written on a note Erik made for me in neat block letters, black ink, and precision, even in kindness.
He labeled it "our schedule."
I keep that note taped above my vanity mirror. Seeing "our" instead of "my" makes the air taste sweeter, like I’ve quietly stepped out of solitude and into something shared.
At first, it felt purely clinical. Like homework. By now, it feels intimate, like we’ve built a private language no one else can hear.
Every evening, just before closing, Erik appears at the bookstore. The bell chimes, and my body recognizes his presence before my brain does. He checks the front lock, flicks the alley light twice to test the bulb, and doesn’t relax until it stays steady. Then he guides me out, sliding my hand into his as we cross the street toward his car, driving us to his loft.
Every detail saysyou’re safe.
I used to think safety was a myth. Now it sounds like his voice saying, “Time for your tea, sweet girl.”
The supplements leave a faint maple scent clinging to me. I notice it strongest at night, when steam from the kettle curls up. I observe him noticing it as well, each time he passes by me in the kitchen. His eyes track me like he’s memorizing a work of art.
Tonight, he’s cooking something with garlic and lemon that fills the loft, warm and bright. The space feels like him: steel and order. The space is reminiscent of a capable man's cocoon, overlooking Hermann Park.
I perch on the counter, ankles swinging, Dr. Madsen’s guide open in my lap.
“Massage increases circulation, encouraging early prolactin release," I read, then snort. “You’d think they could make that sound less… erotic.”
He glances over his shoulder, amused. Sleeves rolled, towel slung over one shoulder, forearms dusted with flour. “You reading or auditioning?”
“Maybe both.”
His chuckle slides down my spine like warm honey. He turns off the burner, wipes his hands on the towel, and steps closer.
“Show me what it says next.”
My mouth goes dry. “Apply gentle pressure in circular motions for two to three minutes, three times per day.’”
His gaze lifts, pinning mine. “Gentle, hmm?”
The room hums. His hand comes up, just hovering near my collarbone. Heat radiates between us.
“That’s trust work, Claire,” he says softly. “The body listens when it’s safe.”
My pulse flutters. “I trust you.”
His mouth curves, slow and sure. “Good. Then we’ll learn this together.”
The way he says “we”makes my knees feel unreliable.
A faint warmth pulses deeper in my chest, a subtle heaviness, tingling along the skin where the warm compresses have been. These early signs align perfectly with what Dr. Madsen previously mentioned.
