Chapter 1: News of the virus
The living room was a pool of quiet, warm light. Ritchie had one leg tucked under him on the plush couch, a stylus hovering over his tablet as he sketched absently. Ellie was a compact, comforting weight against his side, her fiery hair spilling across his thigh, the scent of her coconut shampoo cutting through the smell of dust and old paper from the bookshelves.
She scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other tracing idle patterns on his knee. The local news played on the TV, a low murmur of traffic reports and feel-good segments.
“Mrs. Henderson’s lab results came back today,” Ellie said, not looking up. “UTI. Again. I told her to drink more water and less cranberry juice cocktail, which is just sugar, but she smiled and called me ‘dear’ and I know she didn’t hear a word.”
Ritchie smiled, adding a cross-hatched shadow to his digital drawing. “You’re a saint.”
“I’m a nurse. Saints work for free.” She nudged him with her elbow. “What’re you drawing?”
“Logo for that new kombucha place. They want a ‘spirit animal phoenix rising from a bottle of enlightened fermentation.’”
Ellie snorted. “Sounds gross. And impossible.”
“My specialty,” he said, dropping the tablet onto the cushion with a sigh. He wrapped an arm around her, his fingers finding the familiar curve of her waist. She leaned into him, her head fitting perfectly under his chin. For a few minutes, there was just the sound of their breathing and the droning TV.
The tone of the broadcast changed. The anchor’s usually smooth voice gained a brittle, urgent edge.
“We interrupt our scheduled programming for a breaking health bulletin.”
Ellie went still, her clinical attention instantly locked on the screen. Ritchie felt her body shift from relaxed to poised.
A graphic with the words “NOX-22” flashed beside a CDC logo. The anchor’s face was grim. “Federal health officials have confirmed the first domestic cases of a novel pathogen initially identified in Southeast Asia. Symptoms are appearing exclusively in biological males and are described as… unusual.”
Stock footage of harried doctors in masks played. A chart diagrammed a cell.
“Primary presentation involves severe inflammation and swelling of the testicular tissue,” the anchor continued, her diction careful. “Accompanied by a hyperproduction of seminal fluid. The condition is reportedly extremely painful and, in early cases, has led to complications requiring surgical intervention. Transmission vectors are still unknown, but suspected to be airborne. The CDC is urging calm, but recommends that individuals experiencing sudden onset of scrotal pain or… associated symptoms, seek immediate medical attention.”
The studio was dead silent for a beat.
“Well,” the anchor said, blinking rapidly. “We’ll return to our… scheduled programming after this.”
A cartoon cat leaped for a chip on the suddenly cheerful screen.
The cozy light now seemed weak, insufficient. It couldn’t touch the new chill in the room.
Ellie let out a long, slow breath that was more of a sigh. It was the sound she made after a double shift, when her feet ached and the last of her adrenaline drained away. But this was different. This was the sound of a starting gun.
“Well,” she said, her voice deliberately flat, cutting through the stunned silence. “There goes my social life.”
Ritchie looked from the TV to her face. Her expression had shifted from soft to sharply focused, her green eyes already distant, calculating. He saw the nurse in her fully surface, eclipsing the wife. “Ellie?”
“Hyperproduction of seminal fluid,” she muttered, as if ticking off items on a mental checklist. “Testicular inflammation. Surgical intervention. They’re going to need extra beds. And a lot of specialty equipment. Logistics is going to be a nightmare.” She turned to him, a wry, tired smile touching her lips. “I’m about to become very, very popular at work.”
She unfolded herself from the couch with a fluid, pragmatic motion. Ritchie watched her, the familiar ache of admiration and dread settling in his stomach.
“I need a drink of water,” she said. “You want anything?”
“Sure.”
He followed her as she rose from the deep cushions. The movement was pure, unconscious grace. Ellie was short, just four-foot-eight, but built with a compact, athletic intensity that made every step seem deliberate. She stretched, a full-body arc that pulled the soft fabric of her crop top taut across her torso. The shirt, a faded heather grey, ended several inches above the waistband of her hotpants, revealing a smooth, toned strip of her stomach and the subtle dip of her navel.
The hotpants were denim, frayed at the edges, and so small they seemed more like an idea than an article of clothing. They clung to the dramatic, generous curve of her backside, the fabric straining just slightly with the shift of powerful muscles as she walked. Her legs, strong and shapely from years of constant motion on hospital floors, tapered down to bare feet with chipped red polish on the toes.
Her fiery red hair, a chaotic mane of loose waves, tumbled down her back, swaying against her skin with each step. Ritchie watched her, the familiar mix of affection and raw appreciation warming his chest. She moved through their home with the unselfconscious ownership of her own body that he’d always loved.
In contrast, Ritchie unfolded himself from the couch like a thrown-together puppet. He was all loose joints and lanky limbs, his own faded band t-shirt hanging loosely on his frame. His longish brown hair, escaped from its messy bun, framed a face that was more thoughtful than handsome. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble as he trailed her into the kitchen, the cool of the hardwood floor giving way to the checkerboard tile.
Ellie went straight to the sink, filling a tall glass with water. The quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound for a moment.
“You think it’s serious?” Ritchie asked, leaning against the countertop. He watched the play of light across her shoulders.
“The ‘making men’s balls swell and overproduce cum’ virus?” she said bluntly, turning to face him. She took a long drink, her throat working. A drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a path down her neck. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. “I have no idea but I'm sure i will find out tomorrow at work.”
She set the glass down with a soft click. The sound was final, like a period at the end of a sentence. The news had written a new, uncertain paragraph in their lives.
“It’s going to be chaos,” she said, more to herself than to him. Her eyes were fixed on some middle distance, already seeing the crowded ER, the gurneys, the pained faces. “Twelve-hour shifts will become sixteen. They’ll cancel all leave.”
Ritchie nodded, the dread in his stomach crystallizing into a cold, hard fact. Her work was a separate country, one with its own brutal weather and laws. He was a tourist there, allowed occasional visits but never truly understanding the terrain. This virus, NOX-22, was a storm system moving in, and she was essential personnel.
“I’ll handle things here,” he said, trying to inject his voice with a steadiness he didn’t fully feel. “Just… tell me what you need.”
She finally looked at him, the clinical distance in her gaze softening. She walked over, closing the small space between them. Standing on her toes, she placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was warm, solid, real.
“I need you to be you,” she said, her voice dropping to that intimate register reserved for late nights and shared pillows. “My steady ground. My messy-bun, weird-kombucha-logo-designing ground.”
He managed a smile, wrapping his arms around her waist. She was so small, yet she always made him feel encompassed. “I can do that.”
Her expression shifted again, a sly, knowing glint entering her eyes. It was a look he knew well—the nurse momentarily receding, the flirt emerging. “You know,” she said, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt. “All this talk of hyperproduction… it’s got my mind going to some very unscientific places.”
Ritchie laughed, a genuine one this time, tension leaking out of his shoulders. “Of course it does.”
“What?” she quipped, feigning innocence. “I’m a healthcare professional. I’m considering the… sociological ramifications. The potential strain on resources.” Her hands slid down his chest. “I’m very dedicated.”
“You’re a nympho,” he said fondly, pulling her closer.
“Your nympho,” she corrected, and kissed him. It was deep and seeking, a promise and a distraction all at once. When she pulled back, she was breathless, her lips slightly swollen. “The world might be going weird, but this doesn’t have to change.”
He knew what she meant. Their arrangement. The open, honest architecture of their marriage that allowed her to explore her voracious appetites with others, with clear rules and clearer communication. It had always worked because the foundation—the two of them—was solid. Unshakeable.
But a tiny, ugly voice whispered in the back of his mind. She’ll be surrounded by it. By men with this… condition. She’ll be their caretaker. Their intimate, clinical confidant. The thought was irrational, stupidly possessive. He shoved it down.
“Nothing changes,” he echoed, hoping it sounded more convincing to her than it did to him.
She searched his face, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She saw the flicker of doubt he tried to hide. Instead of calling him on it, she took his hand. “Come on. I’m exhausted, and my feet already hurt thinking about tomorrow.”
She led him from the kitchen, turning off lights as they went. The cozy living room was left in darkness, the puzzle on the table an unfinished universe of scattered pieces. The large window now showed only their faint reflections against the black of the street.
In their bedroom, they moved through the familiar nightly routine. Ellie shed her tiny clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a soft heap. Ritchie hung his shirt on the bedpost. The casual, unceremonious intimacy of a shared life. She slipped into a soft, short cotton tank and nothing else, climbing into the king-sized bed that always felt built for her exuberant sprawl.
Ritchie slid in beside her, the sheets cool against his skin. She immediately migrated to his side, her back pressing against his chest, her fiery hair tickling his nose. He wrapped an arm around her, his hand coming to rest on the smooth plane of her stomach. She let out a contented sigh, a full-body release of tension.
For a long time, they lay in silence, listening to each other breathe. The unspoken things hung in the dark: the virus, the fear, the unnamed jealousy, her insatiable nature, his quiet need for reassurance.
“Rich?” Her voice was a sleepy murmur.
“Yeah?”
“If my pager goes off tonight, let me sleep. Unless it’s the hospital. Then wake me up.”
“Deal.”
Another silence. He thought she’d fallen asleep.
“Love you,” she whispered, her words already blurred at the edges by dreams.
He held her tighter, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Love you more.”
But he lay awake long after her breathing evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. He stared at the ceiling, the anonymous anchor’s voice replaying in his head. Severe inflammation. Hyperproduction. Surgical intervention.
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, fading into the night. It felt like an omen.
Ellie muttered something unintelligible in her sleep and shifted, pulling his arm more tightly around her. He held on, his steady ground clinging to its most vital source of gravity as the world outside their warm, tangled bed began to tilt.
They went to bed.