The nightlight casts its single amber eye across the nursery, and I watch it paint the bars of the empty crib in long, wavering stripes. The rest of the room falls away into shadow—the dresser with its neat stacks of folded onesies, the changing table, the rocking chair where I sit with my daughter pressed warm against my chest. The air is thick with the smell of warmed milk and talcum powder, the particular perfume of this room, of these months, of this life I've built.

Mira's mouth goes slack against my nipple, her tiny body going heavy with sleep. I feel the letdown shudder through me—that deep, primal release that still surprises me every time, the ache in my engorged breasts easing by a fraction as the milk flows. Her little hand, curled into a fist, opens and closes against my skin. I shift her gently, lifting her from my breast and settling her against the burp cloth on my shoulder, patting her back in the slow rhythm that always brings up the air she swallows.

My honey-brown hair falls over my shoulder, brushing the extreme curve of my waist as I lean forward. The strands are tangled—I haven't brushed it since this morning, and I can feel the knots catching against my collarbone. My breasts are still heavy, still leaking, the milk soaking through the thin cotton of my nursing top in two dark crescents. I should change. I should put her down. I should do any number of things that don't involve sitting here in the dark, listening to the house settle around us.

The floorboards creak in the hallway.

I don't look up. I know the weight of those footsteps, the careful, measured pace of a man who's learned to move quietly through a house with a sleeping baby. Luke appears in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the dim light from the hallway, his glasses catching the amber glow of the nightlight. He's wearing his pajama pants and a t-shirt I bought him two Christmases ago, the one with the faded logo of a band he used to love. His brown hair is neatly combed, even now, even at—I glance at the clock on the dresser—eleven-forty at night.

"She's down?" he asks, his voice soft, tentative.

"Almost." I pat Mira's back again, and she lets out a tiny burp, her body relaxing fully into sleep. "She's out."

He crosses the room, and I watch him come—the way he navigates around the toy basket, the way his hand brushes the crib rail as he passes. His movements are careful, deliberate, the same way he does everything. He stops in front of me, and for a moment, he just looks down at us: me in the rocking chair, our daughter asleep on my shoulder, the milk still soaking through my shirt.

"You're leaking," he says.

"I know."

"Do you want me to take her?"

I should say yes. I should let him put her in the crib, should go to the bathroom and change my shirt, should do any of the practical things that keep this household running. But I'm tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, and the weight of her against my chest is the only thing that feels real tonight.

"I've got her," I say. "Just give me a minute."

He doesn't push. He never pushes. He just stands there, his hands hanging at his sides, those soft accountant's hands that have never held anything heavier than a ledger. I watch him shift his weight from one foot to the other, and I know what's coming. I can feel it in the air, in the way he's looking at me, in the particular quality of his silence.

It's been six weeks.

I know because I've been counting. Not because I want it—I never want it, not like this, not after what it costs me—but because I know he's been counting too. Six weeks since the doctor cleared me. Six weeks of him being patient, being gentle, being careful not to push. Six weeks of me pretending I don't see the hope in his eyes when he looks at me across the dinner table, the way his hand lingers on my lower back as he passes me in the kitchen.

Mira stirs against my shoulder, and I rock her gently, feeling the soft weight of her, the warmth of her breath against my neck. I don't want to put her down. I want to hold her forever, to keep her between me and everything else.

"Elena." His voice is soft, careful. "I could put her down. If you want."

I close my eyes. The nightlight glows orange against my lids, and I can feel the milk still leaking from my breasts, the slow trickle of it soaking into my shirt. My body is a machine, I think. It makes milk and it makes babies and it makes pain, and I'm not sure any of it belongs to me.

"Okay," I say.

I stand up slowly, careful not to wake her, and Luke takes her from my arms. His hands are gentle, cradling her head the way I showed him, and I watch him lay her in the crib, tucking the blanket around her tiny body. She doesn't stir. She's out cold, the way babies get when they've finally had enough, when the world has exhausted them and they just need to sleep.

He turns back to me, and the nightlight catches his face. His hazel eyes are soft behind his glasses, his expression tentative, hopeful. He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers threading through mine, and I let him. I always let him. That's the thing about being married to a good man—you never have a reason to say no.

"I missed you," he says.

"I'm right here."

"I know. I just—" He stops, swallows. "I miss you. The way we used to be."

I don't know what to say to that. The way we used to be was painful too, just in a different way. The way we used to be was me gritting my teeth through it, counting the seconds until it was over, pretending the tears in my eyes were from something else. The way we used to be was a woman who thought something was wrong with her, who didn't know that her body was just—different. Wrong. Too tight for the man she loved.

"It's been a long day," I say, which is not an answer, and we both know it.

He doesn't push. He never pushes. He just nods, and his hand finds my hip, his fingers pressing into the curve of my waist through the thin cotton of my shirt. I feel his touch like a brand, like a question I don't know how to answer.

"Let's go to bed," he says.

I let him guide me out of the nursery, down the hall, into our bedroom. The bed is unmade—I never made it this morning, too busy with Mira, too tired to care. The sheets are tangled at the foot, and the pillow still has the dent from where I slept. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me down beside him, his hand still on my hip, his thumb tracing small circles through the fabric.

"I want to try," he says quietly.

"Luke—"

"I know. I know it hurts. I know it's hard. But it's been six weeks, and I—" He stops, his jaw tightening. "I need you. I need to feel close to you again."

I look at him. His eyes are earnest behind his glasses, his face open and hopeful, and I feel a twist of something in my chest—guilt, maybe, or grief. He's a good man. He's a good husband, a good father. He takes out the trash without being asked, he changes diapers in the middle of the night, he brings me water when I'm breastfeeding and my throat is dry. He deserves a wife who doesn't flinch when he touches her.

He deserves a wife whose body doesn't fight him.

"Okay," I say.

His hand stills on my hip. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." I'm not sure. I'm never sure. But I say it anyway, because it's easier than explaining, because I'm tired of saying no, because some part of me still hopes that maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time my body will cooperate. Maybe this time it won't feel like being torn apart from the inside.

He leans in and kisses me. His lips are soft, tentative, the way they always are—like he's asking permission even when I've already given it. I kiss him back, and I try to feel something. I try to feel the spark, the heat, the desire that I see in movies and read about in books. But all I feel is the familiar dread coiling in my stomach, the way my body tenses before he's even touched me.

He lays me back on the bed, his hands finding the hem of my shirt. I raise my arms and let him pull it over my head, and I see his eyes go dark as he takes in my body—the heavy swell of my breasts, still leaking milk, the extreme curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. He's seen me a thousand times, but he still looks at me like I'm something precious, something he can't quite believe he gets to have.

"You're beautiful," he says.

I don't feel beautiful. I feel like a machine, a vessel, a body that exists to feed and carry and endure. But I don't say that. I just lie there and let him undress me, let him peel off my leggings, let him settle between my thighs.

His hands find my hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh. He's gentle, always gentle, like he's afraid I'll break. And maybe I will. Maybe that's the problem.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says.

"I will."

He reaches down and guides himself to my entrance, and I feel the familiar pressure, the blunt head of him pressing against a body that has never learned to open for him. I take a breath. I brace myself. I think about the ceiling, about the crack in the plaster, about anything other than what's about to happen.

He pushes.

The pressure builds, and I feel the wall—that impossible wall of tightness that has been there since the first time we tried, that has never once given way. He pushes harder, and I feel the burn, the stretch, the beginning of the pain that I know will only get worse.

"Stop," I say, my hand pressing against his chest.

He stops immediately, his eyes finding mine, concern flickering across his face. "Are you okay?"

"Just—give me a minute."

I close my eyes. I breathe. I feel him still pressed against me, the heat of him, the weight of him, and I try to relax. I try to open. I try to be the woman he wants me to be.

"Okay," I say. "Try again."

He pushes again, and it's the same—the wall, the burn, the impossibility. I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I press my hand against his chest again, and he stops again.

"Elena." His voice is strained, barely holding onto control. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I know." I swallow. "I know. Just—give me another minute."

The nightlight from the nursery spills through the open door, casting a thin line of amber across the bed. I can feel the milk leaking from my breasts, soaking into the sheets, a physical reminder of what my body is for, what it's already given. I think about Mira, asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling. I think about the crack in the ceiling, the one I've stared at a hundred times, the one that's been there since we moved in.

"Try again," I say.

He pushes, and this time I feel something give—not enough, never enough, but a little. The head of him forces past the first ring of muscle, and I gasp, the pain sharp and bright, like a knife. He stops, his eyes searching mine.

"Don't stop," I whisper. "Just get it over with."

He pushes deeper, and I feel the burn spread, the impossible stretch of a body that was never meant to take him. I feel the blood—I know I'm bleeding, I always bleed—and I see the panic flicker across his face as he feels it too.

"Elena, you're—"

"I know. It's fine. Just finish."

He pushes harder, and finally, finally, he sheathes himself fully inside me. I lie beneath him, breath held, the sting still radiating through my body, the familiar ache of being filled by a man who doesn't fit, who has never fit, who will never fit. I feel the blood slick between us, warm and wet, and I know there's a smear of it on the condom, a dark stain on the latex that I can't see but can feel.

He doesn't move. He just lies there, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Elena," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. You're bleeding."

"I always bleed."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and quiet. I feel him soften inside me, and I know he's not going to finish—he never finishes when it's like this, when he can feel me tensing up around him, when he knows he's hurting me. I feel the shame wash over him, the guilt, the same cycle we've been through a hundred times before.

He pulls out slowly, and I feel the emptiness rush back in, the ache, the sting. He lies beside me, his hand finding mine, and I stare at the ceiling, at the crack in the plaster, at the way the nightlight paints the shadows across the room.

"I love you," he says.

"I know."

I feel the milk leaking from my breasts, soaking into the sheets, and I think about my daughter, asleep in her crib, and I wonder if she'll ever know how much her mother gave up to have her. I wonder if it was worth it. I wonder if any of it was worth it.

But I don't say any of that. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to fade, waiting for the night to end, waiting for something I can't name and don't know how to find.

I turn onto my side, away from him, and the sheets pull against my skin. The crack in the ceiling is still there, the same one I've stared at through a hundred nights like this. Behind me, I feel Luke shift, his body settling into the familiar shape of defeat. The mattress dips as he rolls to face my back, and I can feel the heat of him, the weight of his guilt hanging in the air between us.

"Elena." His voice is soft, careful. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." The lie comes easily now. It's worn smooth from repetition.

His hand finds my shoulder, hesitant, like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch me. I don't pull away, but I don't lean into it either. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting between my legs, the familiar ache that will fade by morning but never quite goes away.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine, Luke."

"It's not fine. You're bleeding. You're always bleeding, and I keep—" He stops, his voice catching. "I keep doing this to you."

I close my eyes. The nightlight from the nursery paints a thin line of amber across the ceiling, and I watch it flicker as a car passes outside. I think about Mira, asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling. I think about the way she looks at me when she's nursing, her eyes half-lidded and trusting, like I'm the whole world.

"Luke." I say his name carefully, the way I'd test a bridge I wasn't sure would hold me. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

I turn to face him. His eyes are soft behind his glasses, his expression open and hopeful, and I feel the familiar twist in my chest—the guilt, the grief, the weight of everything we don't say to each other. The sheets are tangled around his waist, his pale chest bare, and I can see the faint lines of tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself like he's waiting for something.

"Do you still want another child?"

The words land between us like a stone. I watch his face change—the hope flickering, the confusion, the careful mask he wears when he's not sure how to answer. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

"Why are you asking?"

"I just want to know." I keep my voice even, measured. "We talked about it before Mira. About having more. I just want to know if that's still—" I stop, searching for the right word. "If that's still what you want."

He's quiet for a long moment. I watch him look away, his eyes finding the same crack in the ceiling I was just staring at. His jaw tightens, and I can see him thinking, measuring his words the way he always does.

"I don't know," he says finally. "I used to think I did. I used to picture it—a house full of kids, chaos, noise. I thought that's what I wanted." He pauses. "But then Mira came, and I saw what it did to you. The pregnancy, the birth, the way your body—" He stops, his voice thick. "The way you struggled. And now, with this—" He gestures vaguely at the space between us, at the blood still drying on his skin. "I don't know if I can keep doing this to you."

The room goes still.

I feel the words settle into me, heavy and cold. He's not saying no. He's not saying yes. He's saying he doesn't know, and somehow that's worse. Because I don't know either. I don't know if I want another child, if my body can survive another pregnancy, another birth, another year of being a machine that makes milk and babies and pain.

"But I also don't know if I can stop," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "I look at Mira, and I think about what it would be like to have another one. To see you hold our baby again, to watch you nurse, to—" He shakes his head. "I don't know, Elena. I really don't know."

I lie there, staring at him, and I feel something crack open in my chest. Not the familiar ache of guilt or grief, but something sharper, something I can't name. I think about the months after Mira was born, the way my body felt like a stranger's, the way every touch was a reminder of what I'd been through. I think about the way Luke looked at me in the hospital, his eyes full of tears, his hand gripping mine so hard it hurt.

"I don't know if I can do it again," I say, and the words come out before I can stop them. "I don't know if my body can take it. The pregnancy was hard, Luke. The birth was harder. And now, with the breastfeeding, the engorgement, the—" I stop, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "The way sex feels now. It's not—" I swallow. "It's not something I can keep doing."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches out, his hand finding mine, his fingers threading through mine the way they did in the nursery. His palm is warm, soft, the hand of a man who's never held anything heavier than a ledger.

"I know," he says. "I know it's hard. I know I don't understand what you go through. I just—" He stops, his voice breaking. "I don't know how to be close to you anymore. I don't know how to touch you without hurting you. I don't know how to want you without feeling like I'm doing something wrong."

I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, staring at the ceiling, at the crack in the plaster, at the way the nightlight paints the shadows across the room.

"I don't know either," I whisper.

We lie there in the silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. I can feel the milk still leaking from my breasts, soaking into the sheets, a physical reminder of what my body is for, what it's already given. I think about Mira, asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling. I think about the future, the impossible future, the one where I'm either a mother again or a wife who can't give her husband what he wants.

"Maybe we should see a doctor," Luke says finally. "There has to be something they can do. Some kind of treatment, or therapy, or—"

"I've seen doctors, Luke." My voice comes out flatter than I meant it to. "They all say the same thing. My body is just—different. Too tight. There's nothing wrong with me, but there's nothing they can do either."

"There has to be something."

"There isn't."

He's quiet again. I feel his hand tighten around mine, and I let him hold it, even though I don't feel anything. I don't feel the spark, the heat, the desire that I'm supposed to feel. I just feel tired, hollow, like a vessel that's been emptied and refilled so many times I've lost track of what's mine.

"Elena." His voice is soft, tentative. "Do you still love me?"

I turn to look at him. His eyes are earnest behind his glasses, his face open and vulnerable, and I feel the familiar twist of guilt in my chest. He's a good man. He's a good husband, a good father. He deserves an answer that doesn't hurt him.

"Of course I do," I say.

He searches my face, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. Then he nods, slowly, and pulls me closer, his arm wrapping around my waist, his forehead pressing against my shoulder. I let him hold me, even though I don't feel held. I let him cling to me, even though I don't feel like there's anything left to cling to.

"I don't want to lose you," he whispers.

"You're not going to lose me."

"I feel like I am. I feel like you're slipping away, and I don't know how to stop it."

I don't know how to answer that. I don't know how to tell him that I'm already gone, that I've been gone for months, that the woman he married is a ghost who haunts the halls of this house, going through the motions of a life she doesn't recognize. I don't know how to tell him that I don't know if I can come back.

"I'm right here," I say instead. "I'm not going anywhere."

He nods against my shoulder, and I feel his body relax, the tension draining out of him. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of him against me, and I think about all the things I can't say.

The nightlight from the nursery flickers, casting a long shadow across the room. I watch it dance across the walls, across the dresser, across the crib where my daughter sleeps, and I feel something shift in my chest. Not hope, exactly. Not fear. Just the awareness that something has changed, that a door has opened that I can't close, that the question I asked has set something in motion that neither of us can stop.

"Luke?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"What if we waited? Before we decide anything about another child. What if we just—gave it time?"

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he lifts his head, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. I watch him consider it, the way he considers everything, careful and methodical, weighing the options like columns in a ledger.

"Time for what?" he asks.

"Time to figure out if we can fix this. If we can find a way to be close again without—" I gesture at the space between us, at the blood still drying on his skin. "Without this."

He looks at me, and I see something flicker in his eyes—hope, maybe, or the ghost of it. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle, tentative.

"Okay," he says. "We can wait."

I nod, and I feel something loosen in my chest, a knot I didn't know I was holding. It's not a solution. It's not an answer. But it's a reprieve, a moment of peace in the middle of the storm, and I'll take it.

He settles back against me, his arm still wrapped around my waist, and I feel his breathing slow, the rhythm of sleep beginning to take him. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, at the crack in the plaster, at the way the nightlight paints the shadows across the room, and I think about the future.

I think about Mira, growing up in this house, learning to walk, learning to talk, learning to become a person. I think about Luke, patient and kind, waiting for a closeness I'm not sure I can give him. I think about myself, trapped in a body that doesn't fit, a body that makes milk and babies and pain, a body that's never been my own.

The nightlight flickers again, and I watch the shadows shift across the ceiling. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaks, settling into the cold. I feel the milk still leaking from my breasts, soaking into the sheets, and I think about my daughter, asleep in her crib, and I wonder if she'll ever know how much her mother gave up to have her.

I wonder if it was worth it.

I wonder if any of it was worth it.

But I don't say any of that. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to fade, waiting for the night to end, waiting for something I can't name and don't know how to find.