Sometimes, in the late afternoon, I watch her in the kitchen while she moves through the loft. Her shoulders are looser. Hersmile comes quicker. A softer fullness gathers at her neckline. The way I look at her changes. It deepens. Warms. It becomes perilous in ways she's not yet comprehended.
So I break eye contact first. This reaction is due to the simplicity of my desire for her. Earning her trust is sacred.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Dr. Madsen.
“Halvorsen.”
“Hello, Mr. Halvorsen, it’s Dr. Madsen. I received Claire’s latest logs and labs.”
My spine straightens. “And?”
“She’s responding beautifully,” the doctor says. “Her prolactin response curve is higher than average for this stage. We were right; she’s a fast responder. If hydration and rest remain solid, she should be in full production very soon.”
Relief hits first. Then a sharper, deeper feeling: awe.
“Understood,” I say.
“And whatever you’re doing to keep her feeling safe?” Dr. Madsen adds. “Keep doing it. Oxytocin is doing half the work here.”
“Noted,” I answer, my voice quieter.
When the call ends, I find Claire in the living room, bent over the little journal we share for her schedule. She looks up as soon as she reads my face.
“Well?” she asks.
I hold out the prescription slip. “Dr. Madsen says you’re responding beautifully. She says you should be producing milk very soon.”
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the paper. Her eyes go bright and wet all at once. “So… it’s really happening?”
“Yes.” I step closer, crowding her gently against the edge of the couch. “It’s happening.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not thinking this is… weird.”
“I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s amazing.”
She laughs weakly, blinking fast. “Amazing?”
“You’re teaching your body to give,” I say. “That’s as sacred as it gets.”
Her breath stutters. “You always know what to say.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head. “I just know what I mean.”
She slides her arms around my waist and tucks herself under my chin. Her heartbeat settles into mine, slow and sure. She fits there as though she were perfectly designed for it.
“This moment feels like a pact,” she murmurs against my shirt.
“It is,” I say. “You’re not doing any of this alone. Not one step.”
Claire
His fingers press into my waist assuredly. His thumb traces down the line of my hipbone, smooth and flat against my skin, like he’s memorizing me. Heat blooms beneath his palm and spreads throughout my body.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, quieter this time somehow, as if asking permission became more serious now that I’ve already given it.
It’s not idle words. Never is, with him. When Erik offers a question like that, he is handing me control and asking for consent all at once.
“Yes,” I repeat. “I trust you.”
