Chapter 2: Ovulation, Lace, and No More Waiting
The house was quiet when Tim rolled through the front door, but not the empty kind of quiet. This was the held-breath kind, the kind that prickled at the back of his neck and made him pause in the entryway with his keys still in his hand. The lights were dimmed to a low amber glow. A candle flickered somewhere deeper in the house, its light throwing soft shapes against the hallway wall.
He set his keys on the hook by the door and wheeled forward slowly.
"Tim?"
Lucy's voice drifted from the bedroom, warm and unhurried, like honey sliding from a spoon. He stopped moving for a second. Just listened. The jasmine she'd planted by the window last spring had bloomed again, its sweetness threading through the air, mixing with the older scent of books and the faint smoke of a candle that had been burning for a while.
"I'm in here," she called again.
"I figured that out when I heard your voice."
"Smart man. Get in here."
He wheeled down the hallway, past the framed photos they'd hung last month—her in Paris, him at a book signing, both of them squished together on a couch at Vanessa's Christmas party—and stopped in the doorway of their bedroom.
Lucy was stretched across the bed on her stomach, propped on her elbows, her phone in her hand. She wore a slip of red silk that barely qualified as clothing, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder in a loose wave. The candle on the nightstand flickered, throwing shadow and light across her skin in equal measure.
Tim let out a slow breath.
"You're staring," she said, not looking up from her phone.
"I'm appreciating."
"Same thing."
He wheeled closer, stopping at the edge of the bed. The velvet curtains stirred against the open window, letting in a breath of night air that made the candle flame dance. Lucy finally looked up, and her smile was the kind that made him forget, for a second, how to form words.
"I read your text," she said.
"I figured."
"'I'm ready.' That's all you had to say?"
"What else was I supposed to say? 'I've been emotionally constipated for fifteen years and my sister finally beat some sense into me'?"
Lucy laughed, low and genuine, and pushed herself up to sit cross-legged on the bed. The silk rode up her thighs. "I like that version better, actually."
"Of course you do."
She reached for his hand, tugging him closer until the wheel of his chair bumped against the bed frame. Her thumb traced circles on his knuckles. "Vanessa got through to you?"
"She called me a ghost."
"She what?"
"Not me. The version of me I keep measuring myself against. The perfect father who never existed." He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. "She said the only father I'll actually be is the one who shows up. And that's enough."
Lucy was quiet for a moment. Her eyes, dark and steady, searched his face. "She's right."
"I know she's right. I just needed to hear it from someone who wasn't you."
"Why not me?"
"Because you love me. You're biased."
"I'm not biased. I'm correct." She squeezed his hand, then let go and picked up her phone again. "Which brings me to something."
"What?"
She turned the screen toward him. A calendar app, with today's date circled in red.
"I went to the doctor this morning. I'm ovulating." She said it plainly, no preamble, no cushion. "Tonight's the night. If we're doing this, we're doing it now."
Tim absorbed the words. Let them settle. The candle flickered. The jasmine drifted in from the window. Somewhere outside, a car passed and faded.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He reached down and locked the brakes on his chair. "Help me up."
Lucy didn't hesitate. She slid off the bed and came around to his side, positioning herself without being asked. She knew his body almost as well as he did—the weak spots, the strong ones, the way he needed to pivot to get his weight right. He gripped the bed frame and she took his arm, steadying him as he transferred from the chair to the mattress. His legs settled against the sheets, and he leaned back against the headboard, breathless for a second, the way he always was after a transfer.
Lucy climbed onto the bed beside him. She didn't rush. She straddled his hips, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him, and looked down at him with an expression that made his chest tighten. Not pity. Not hesitation. Just want. Pure and uncomplicated.
"You're sure?" she asked.
"I told you. I'm ready."
"Not just about tonight. About everything. The kid. The adoption paperwork. The two a.m. feedings and the diaper blowouts and the—"
"Lucy."
She stopped talking.
"I've been sure since the first time you fell asleep on my couch and drooled on my shoulder. I just didn't know how to say it."
Her laugh was soft, almost breathless. She leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, her hands braced on either side of his head. He felt the silk of her slip brush against his chest, the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. His hands found her waist, then her hips, then the hem of the slip.
"Can I?" he asked against her mouth.
"Please."
He pulled the silk up and over her head. It landed somewhere on the floor. She sat back, straddling him, bare and unapologetic, the candlelight painting gold across her collarbones and the curve of her breasts. Tim let his eyes travel over her, taking his time.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You've said that before."
"It's still true."
She smiled and reached for the hem of his shirt. "Your turn."
He lifted his arms and let her pull it over his head. She tossed it aside and went to work on his jeans, unbuttoning them with quick fingers, tugging them down his hips and off his legs. He helped where he could, shifting his weight, lifting when she needed him to. When he was finally bare beneath her, she sat back and looked at him the way she always did—not like he was broken, not like he was something to be handled carefully, but like he was exactly what she wanted.
"This okay?" she asked, hovering over him.
"More than okay."
She positioned herself, one hand braced on his chest, the other reaching down between them. Tim watched her face, the way her lips parted, the way her brows drew together in concentration. When she sank down onto him, slow and deliberate, they both let out a sound at the same time—hers a soft gasp, his a low groan that rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest.
"God," she breathed.
"Yeah."
She didn't move for a moment. Just sat there, eyes closed, breath uneven, adjusting to the feel of him. Tim ran his hands up her thighs, over her hips, settling on her waist. Her skin was warm. Her pulse beat against his palms.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Better than okay."
She started to move. Slow at first, a rolling rhythm that built as she found her pace. Tim matched her, his hands guiding her hips, his breath coming faster. The candle flickered. The curtains whispered. The world outside—the city, the traffic, the distant hum of everything else—faded into something distant and unimportant.
Lucy leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest, her hair falling around them like a curtain. Her breath was hot against his neck. Her hips moved faster.
"Don't stop," she said.
"Wasn't planning on it."
She laughed, then gasped, then stopped laughing altogether. Tim felt her tighten around him, felt the shudder run through her body, and let himself follow, his hands gripping her waist, his head falling back against the headboard.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Lucy collapsed against his chest, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her breath still uneven. Tim wrapped his arms around her and held her there, feeling her heartbeat slow against his own.
"So," she said eventually, her voice muffled against his skin. "That was round one."
Tim laughed, low and hoarse. "Round one?"
"We've got a lot of ground to cover." She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes bright, her smile crooked. "I'm not ovulating forever, Bradford."
"I'm aware."
"Good." She pushed herself up and kissed him, quick and dirty. "Then stop talking and get ready for round two."
He didn't argue.