Day thirty-nine felt like the fragile rhythm was slowly becoming something steadier. The mist had lifted enough for the porch to be comfortable again, and the lilacs along Maple Lane continued to perfume the air with their heavy sweetness. Amina had texted in the morning: “Dinner tonight. Eleventh time. I’ll bring pasta salad and some strawberries. Porch afterward if it’s nice. Looking forward to it.”
Elias read the message while I was still wrapped in his arms in bed, his body curled tightly around mine, morning hardness pressed hot against my a*s. His hand was already between my thighs, fingers spreading the slick warmth he had left inside me the night before.
“She called it the eleventh time,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet hope and immediate hunger. “She’s counting them now. She
