"She already said I was transforming correctly."
"That was before the constant nausea. Before you started falling asleep in the middle of the day." He gestures at me. "Please, Kess. For me."
The desperation in his voice wears down my resistance.
"Fine. Tomorrow."
Relief floods his expression, so raw that I almost ask what he's really afraid of.
But I'm too tired for that conversation.
That night he brings me tea.
Same blend he's been bringing for weeks—bitter herbs masked by something slightly sweet. It settles my stomach. Helps me sleep. I drink it without question because I trust him.
But there's something in his eyes as he watches me drain the cup. Something that looks like grief.
"Are you okay?" I ask, setting down the empty cup.
"Fine." He takes the cup, not meeting my eyes. "Just tired."
"Stay with me tonight."
The invitation surprises us both. We've barely touched since his rut ended—I've been too sick, too exhausted, and he's been keeping a careful distance I don't fully understand.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I'm sure. I don't want to be alone."
He follows me to bed. We don't have sex—I'm too exhausted for that—but he curls around me, his chest against my back, his arm draped over my waist. Even through the nausea and exhaustion, I'm aware of the heat of him, the solid weight of his body against mine, the way I fit perfectly into the curve of him.
His hand comes to rest on my stomach.
Neither of us mentions it.
I don't think about why that feels significant. Don't think about the slight fullness there. Don't think about the way my body is changing in ways I can't name.
I just let the tea work its magic, let everything go soft and distant.
But as I drift toward sleep, I find myself wondering why the bond feels so weak.
Why I feel disconnected from him even when he's pressed against my back, even when his hand is warm on my belly, even when I can feel his breath in my hair.
Why something that should be growing stronger feels like it's slowly fraying apart.
The tea pulls me under before I can follow the thought to its conclusion.
Three weeks after the nausea starts, I'm staring at myself in the mirror.
The dark circles. The weight loss everywhere except my belly. The nausea that comes every morning and fades by afternoon. The exhaustion. The crying. The strange daydreams about children I've never wanted.
My hand drifts to my stomach without permission.
There's a thought trying to form at the edge of my mind. Something I'm not ready to look at directly. Something that would explain everything—the symptoms, his hovering, the guilt I keep catching in his eyes.
But I push it away.
It's just the contamination. Just the transformation. Just stress and change and my body adjusting to everything that's happened.
