Her full breasts painfully emptied themselves without warning. She needed to pump more frequently, at least every couple of hours throughout the night.
Now the low whir of the pump’s machinery sings white noise to us both. I’ve watched her sleep long enough to memorize the hitch in her breathing when stimulation begins and the sigh that escapes her as tension leaks from her frame once it lessens. The doctor advised her oversupply would level out with time and regularity. She encouraged herbal teas high in magnesium and other small lifestyle alterations to promote relaxation without sacrificing output.
But she’s exhausted. Bone tired. She sleeps now, though, curled against me.
She rests her palm flat against my chest. The hot wetness seeps through the cotton of her shirt as she continues to master balance. I don’t shift. I remain motionless even as numbness begins to creep into my arm beneath her. I will not disturb her sleep.
As I watch her chest rise and fall, an ancient feeling seeps into my bones. Love, yes. My protective instincts are so fierce they feel hungry but not needy. These instincts are primal and inextricably linked to her. She gave this to me. Her body is molding and changing.
She trusted me to bear witness to her transformation, to be the witness of her softening. Her body responded before she fully understood what she was offering. I felt it in the way she softened when my hand found her waist, in the way her breath changed when I held her close.
I remember she had jerked slightly when she first felt the droplets. Worry wrinkled her brow when production increased, and she didn’t yet know how to regulate.
Bringing her into my life like this wasn't a casual thing. It allowed her to fall asleep at my side night after night, her legstangled up with mine under the blankets, her hair falling onto my shoulder, and her breathing evening out until it was in sync with mine. It allowed me to grow accustomed to her weight draped across my chest and how perfectly she fits there.
Possessiveness isn’t intimacy. Never has been.
Intimacy means I want her there beside me when I wake up. It opens my eyes in the middle of the night to see that she didn’t leave and is still there. It’s noticing the little things you start thinking about on your drive home: how she takes my pillow without asking, how she hums before lying down, how her hand reaches for me even when she’s asleep.
It’s about building something that feels ordinary on the outside, but deeply meaningful underneath. Shared blankets. Shared mornings. We share a connection that fills us instead of leaving us feeling empty.
When I look down at her sleeping against my chest, hair tangled over my shoulder, mouth slightly parted in proper rest for the first time in days, what moves through me isn’t ownership. It’s something steadier. Something heavier. I didn’t realize she had made me a promise until I was already living inside it.
She gave that to me when she said yes to living with me. When she reached for me, her fingers trembled, yet she didn't pull away. She could have retreated, laughed it off, or hidden in fear, but she didn't.
She leaned. That’s what undid me. There was vulnerability and real trust there, not performance or some fantasy version of surrender. This vulnerability only appears when someone chooses you and trusts you to handle it well.
I don’t take that lightly. When I think of her, it isn't about caging or owning her. It’s about responsibility. It’s about knowing she stepped toward me and deciding I will never let her regret that step.
She wasn’t allowing herself to be taken. She was giving herself to me to protect and cherish. And in that moment, she placed something around my heart that I do not believe will ever come free. That isn’t possession. That’s devotion.
Every time she gazes at me and consents to my grounding, the trust that is building in her eyes overwhelms me.
Two days later,boxes, halfway full, are stacked up near the doorway. Her books lined up with mine. Her teacups are neatly tucked away in my cabinets. Her sweaters hang next to my coats.
Home feels like us instead of the lonely bachelor pad it once was. I kiss the top of her head, pressing my lips in an attempt to get a taste of her. Lavender and chamomile. Warm and vibrant.
“Welcome home, little one,” I murmur against her skin.
To this life. To me. To us. Her lips brush mine, and she snuggles in closer beneath my chin as I wrap my arms around her. Right here, right now, this is home. I will break anyone or anything that tries to take what I cherish, as my ancestors can attest.
CHAPTER SIX
CLAIRE
One week later…
My routine is different now; mornings are only at the shop for three hours of bookkeeping and special orders before heading back to the loft to rest and pump.
Leander handles the closing with increasing confidence, even with Sven stopping by with sandwiches to brag that his big brother finally has a “real job.”
This morning, I decided to slow down and relax. Sunlight cuts through the loft in long, warm bands. Erik is at the stove, barefoot, mug in hand, quiet in the way storms are quiet when they’re gathering momentum. He glances over as I walk in wearing one of his shirts.
“Morning,” I murmur.
His gaze sweeps over me with a warmth that hits low and deep. “Sit. Your shake is ready.”
There isn’t a trace of hesitation in him anymore. He leads without apology. I follow without fear.
