Chapter 4: Cottage Cheese and Carnal Cravings
The sun cut through the blinds at an angle that suggested it had somewhere better to be, striping the bedroom in bands of gold and shadow. Lucy had been awake for twenty minutes, but she hadn't moved. Moving meant acknowledging that the day had started, and starting the day meant facing the fact that she was currently wearing Tim's old fire department t-shirt from the academy, the one with the frayed collar and the faded logo, and she had no intention of giving it back.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She ignored it.
The buzzer rang. She ignored that too.
Then came the knock—three sharp raps, followed by a pause, followed by two more. Tim's knock. The one he'd used for years, the one that said I'm here and I'm not leaving.
Lucy groaned into her pillow, then pushed herself up. The apartment looked like a crime scene, if the crime was "single woman in her thirties who hadn't done dishes in four days." Coffee cups congregated on the counter like they were plotting something. A single white rose drooped in a vase by the couch, its petals brown at the edges. She'd bought it for herself a week ago, a small act of defiance against the chaos of her life, and now it was dying just like everything else she touched.
She shuffled to the door and opened it.
Tim stood in the hallway, holding an armful of sunflowers so large they obscured half his face. In his other hand, a paper grocery bag strained at the seams.
"You look like a florist who got mugged," Lucy said.
"You look like you haven't slept in three days."
"I slept. Sort of." She stepped aside to let him in. "What's all this?"
"Stuff I had lying around."
She raised an eyebrow. "You just happened to have two dozen sunflowers lying around? And a bag of—" She peered into the bag as he set it on the counter. "Is that six tubs of cottage cheese?"
"I heard you were craving it."
"I mentioned that once. In passing. To my sister."
Tim shrugged, already opening her cabinets like he lived here. Which he didn't. Except he kind of did, in the way that his toothbrush had migrated to her bathroom months ago and his hoodie had taken up permanent residence on the back of her couch.
"You're ridiculous," she said.
"You're welcome."
She watched him move through her kitchen, putting away groceries with the same efficiency he brought to everything. Sunflowers went in a water glass because she didn't own a vase. Eggs went in the fridge. A bag of sour gummy worms—her other craving, the one she hadn't mentioned to anyone—went on the counter with a pointed look in her direction.
"I didn't tell you about those," she said.
"Lucky guess."
"You're terrifying."
"I know."
Lucy hoisted herself onto the counter, her bare feet dangling. She was still in her sleep shorts, still in his shirt, still a mess of tangled hair and morning breath. Tim looked at her like she was the best thing he'd seen all week.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked.
"Define sleep."
"That bad?"
"I keep having this dream where I'm back in nursing school and I forgot to study for a final, except the final is just someone asking me what I'm going to do with my life, and I have no answer." She picked at a cuticle. "So, you know. Normal."
Tim came to stand between her knees, his hands settling on her thighs. The contact was casual, almost absentminded, but it sent a current through her anyway. Two weeks since the supply closet. Two weeks of this new thing they were doing, this careful dance of figuring out what they were without actually saying it out loud.
"I brought donuts too," he said. "They're in the car."
"You left donuts in the car?"
"I got distracted by the flowers."
Lucy laughed, the sound surprising her. It had been happening more lately—the laughing, the loosening, the slow unfurling of something that felt dangerously close to happiness.
"Go get the donuts," she said. "I'll put on real pants."
"Don't do it on my account."
"I'm wearing your shirt. The least I can do is not also be pantsless when you return."
"Disappointing."
She shoved his shoulder, and he grinned, and for a moment everything felt simple. Easy. Like this was something they'd been doing forever instead of something they were still learning.
He came back five minutes later with a box of donuts and a look on his face that she couldn't quite read. He set the box on the counter and leaned against the sink, arms crossed.
"How are the cravings?" he asked. "Other than the cottage cheese situation."
Lucy pulled a glazed donut from the box and took a bite. "Fine. Manageable. I'm basically a pregnant woman cliché at this point. Pickles, ice cream, the whole nine yards."
"You haven't mentioned pickles."
"I'm pacing myself."
Tim nodded, but his eyes stayed on her, and she could feel him waiting for something. She took another bite of the donut, stalling, because she knew what was coming and she didn't know how to say what she needed to say.
"I've been having another craving," she said finally, mouth half-full.
"More cottage cheese?"
"Not exactly." She set the donut down and wiped her hands on her shorts, suddenly unable to look at him. "It's more of a... you thing."
The silence stretched. She could feel him processing, the way his weight shifted on his feet, the way his breathing changed.
"What kind of me thing?"
Lucy twisted her fingers in the hem of his t-shirt. The fabric was soft from years of wear, and she caught herself thinking about all the times he'd worn it, all the calls he'd gone on, all the moments of his life that had nothing to do with her.
"I need you," she said quietly. "Not just—I mean, yes, that too. But I need to feel close. I need to feel wanted. I've been so in my head these past two weeks, and you've been so good, so patient, and I just—" She exhaled. "I want to turn my brain off for a while. I want to let you take over. I want to feel like I'm not carrying this by myself."
She finally looked at him.
Tim's expression had shifted. The teasing light was gone, replaced by something deeper, something that made her chest ache.
"You're not carrying this by yourself," he said.
"Then show me."
He didn't move for a long moment. Just stood there, looking at her like she was something precious and fragile, and she hated that look, hated the implication that she might break. But then his hands were on her waist, lifting her off the counter with the same care he'd use carrying someone out of a burning building, and the look changed to something else entirely.
"Bedroom," he said.
"Bedroom," she agreed.
The walk down the hall was short, but time felt like it stretched. His hand rested on her lower back, steady and warm. She could feel the calluses on his palm through the thin fabric of her shirt.
The bedroom was still messy—sheets tangled, pillows scattered, the imprint of her body still visible in the mattress. Tim looked at the bed, then back at her.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"What do you want?"
She appreciated that he asked. That he always asked, even now when he knew her better than almost anyone. She appreciated that this wasn't just about the physical for him, that he was here, in her apartment, on his day off, because he wanted to be.
"I want you to take care of me," she said. "I want you to stop being careful. I want to feel nothing but you."
Something flickered in his eyes—heat, tenderness, something complicated and raw.
Then his hands were on her.
He stripped her down with a slowness that bordered on torture, pulling the t-shirt over her head, sliding her shorts down her legs, kissing each newly exposed inch of skin like he was cataloging it for future reference. When she reached for him, eager to push things along, he caught her wrists and pinned them gently to the mattress.
"That's not taking over," he said. "That's you doing my job."
"Bossy."
"You wanted me to take control."
She wanted to make a joke, to deflect with humor like she always did, but the words died in her throat when he looked at her like that. Like there was nothing in the world he'd rather be doing than this, with her, in this moment.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Shut up."
"I mean it."
"I'm literally the least beautiful I've ever been. I have a permanent cold, my hair is a disaster, and I'm pretty sure I have cottage cheese in my—"
Tim kissed her.
It was a slow, deliberate kiss, the kind that shut down her nervous system and left nothing but sensation. He tasted like coffee and something sweeter underneath, and she felt herself melting into the mattress, all the tension of the past weeks bleeding out of her.
"You're beautiful," he repeated when he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. "Stop arguing."
"I'm not arguing. I'm just stating facts."
"Your facts are wrong."
He kissed her again, and she stopped talking.
What followed wasn't the frantic, desperate coupling of those first few months, or the careful, tentative exploration of the weeks after the supply closet. This was something else entirely. Tim moved with a slow, deliberate tenderness that made her bones ache, his hands mapping every curve and hollow, his mouth following in their wake. He didn't let her rush, didn't let her hide. Each time she tried to turn away, to bury her face in the pillow, he brought her back with a gentle touch or a whispered word.
"Stay with me," he said.
"I'm here."
"Not just physically."
She didn't have an answer for that. She wasn't sure she knew how to be present anymore, not when her mind was a hamster wheel of anxiety and what-ifs. But when he pressed his hips to hers, when he rocked into her with a rhythm that stole her breath, she didn't have to think.
Everything else went quiet.
Just his body, hers, the slide of skin on skin, the sound of their breathing mingling in the small room. He held her gaze the entire time, and she found she couldn't look away even if she wanted to. There was nowhere to hide when he was looking at her like that, like he could see every wall she'd ever built and was dismantling it brick by brick.
When it was over, he pulled her against his chest and held her like she might disappear. She could hear his heartbeat through the sweat-slicked skin, steady and strong, the most reassuring sound she'd ever known.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Mmm."
"You okay?"
She nodded against his chest. "More than okay."
His hand traced lazy patterns on her back, up and down her spine, and she let herself relax into him. The truth was, she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this calm. This safe. Her brain had stopped spinning, stopped cataloging every possible way this could fall apart, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she didn't have to do this alone.
"I called my sister yesterday," she said, her voice muffled against his skin.
She felt his hand pause. "Yeah?"
"She's already planning a baby shower. I told her it was way too early, but she's not listening. She's sending me links to nursery themes."
"What's a nursery theme?"
"Exactly what it sounds like. Apparently you can decorate a baby's room around a specific concept. She's suggested 'woodland creatures' and 'nautical adventure' and something called 'minimalist boho.'"
"That sounds terrifying."
"It is."
Tim resumed his slow stroking. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her I wasn't decorating anything until I actually figure out if I'm keeping this baby."
The words hung in the air between them. She hadn't said it out loud before—not to him, not to anyone. She'd been dancing around the decision for weeks, letting the days slide by without committing to a direction. But the truth was, she couldn't avoid it forever. Eventually, it would be too late.
Tim was quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he said finally.
"Okay?"
"Whatever you decide. I'm with you."
She pushed herself up to look at him. His face was open, honest, no trace of the carefully constructed walls he usually kept around himself.
"What if I decide to keep it?" she asked.
"Then we keep it."
"Together?"
"Together."
"And what if I—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
"Then I'm still here. I'm still not going anywhere."
Lucy felt something crack open in her chest. It wasn't okay—none of this was okay, the situation was complicated and messy and nowhere near resolved. But right now, in this bed, with his heartbeat under her ear and his arms around her, it felt like it could be okay. Like they could figure it out.
"I love you," she said.
The words fell out before she could stop them. She felt him go still beneath her, and immediately she wanted to take them back, wanted to shove them into a box and bury them somewhere he'd never find.
But then his arms tightened around her, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I love you too," he said.
She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Since when?" she asked.
"Since a lot longer than you want to hear about."
"Try me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "The night you came to the station after your mom's surgery. You were exhausted and sad and you refused to let anyone take care of you. I made you eat a sandwich and you fell asleep on my shoulder in the break room. The guys gave me hell about it for weeks."
Lucy remembered that night. She'd been running on three hours of sleep and pure spite, and Tim had shown up with a sandwich she hadn't asked for and a patience she hadn't earned.
"That was two years ago," she said.
"I know."
"You never said anything."
"Neither did you."
She laughed softly. "We're idiots."
"The biggest."
He kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth of him. Outside the window, the sun had shifted, the golden bands of light giving way to something softer, more silver. The day was slipping away, and for once, she didn't mind.
"I'm not going back to work until tomorrow night," she said. "I switched shifts."
"Me too."
They lay there in comfortable silence, the sounds of the apartment filling the space—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, the soft whisper of breath. Lucy felt herself drifting, her eyelids heavy, her body finally relaxed.
"Tim?"
"Yeah."
"I'm keeping it."
She felt him smile against her hair. "Okay."
"Okay."
"Okay."
She fell asleep with his heartbeat under her ear and his hand pressed flat against her still-flat stomach, and for the first time in three days, she didn't dream.