The moon hangs low over Jackson, casting silver light across the snow-covered roofs. Inside your home, built by Joel's hands and filled with the scent of woodsmoke and baby lotion, all is still.

You’ve just put the Clara down. She’s a few months old now, growing fast. She sleeps in her crib, close to your bed, where you lie, under a blanket.

Joel’s in the doorway of the bedroom, back from patrol. You can feel the heat of his gaze even before you turn around.

He walks over slowly, crouches in front of you, hands warm as they find your legs under the blanket.

"You okay?"

You’ve been his for years now. His wife. His girl. The mother of his child.

You nod, although you're not. It's hard. Motherhood.

He leans in, lips grazing your ear, voice low and rough like gravel in warm honey. His calloused fingers moving on your legs.

“Been real patient, darlin’. Let you heal. Let you rest.”

He's right. Since the birth, you haven’t let him touch you much. Not like that. The pregnancy had been rough. Your body had hurt in places you didn’t know could ache. The delivery… you don’t even like to think about it. Months have passed, but something in you still flinches when you remember.

You’d never said the words outright, but Joel isn’t a fool. He knew. He waited.

Now, his hands are slow as they push the blanket aside and slide over your thighs, kneading gently. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“But I miss you,” he says.

His lips brush your knee. Then your hip. Then the soft stretch of skin just under your shirt. You close your eyes. Breathe.

He moves over you with reverence, with care, like he remembers everything that’s changed and doesn’t mind any of it. He touches and kisses places he hasn't kissed or touched for months now.

His lips trailing along your jaw while he whispers. “Let's give Clara a brother. Wouldn’t take much, baby. Just let me try.”

Your eyes open. He wants other children. And you are scared at the thought of doing that again so soon.