"Battle scars from creating life."
"My body's softer. Different."
"Your body made my son. That's power." He pulls me closer, and I can feel his heart racing. "I see you, Lena. Not the old you or the new you. Just you. Strong and soft and absolutely magnificent."
I kiss him before I lose my nerve.
It's tentative at first—testing, remembering, relearning how we fit together after six months of distance. Then it deepens, heatbuilding, hands remembering familiar territory and discovering new landscapes.
We move to the bed slowly, carefully. No rush. Just rediscovery.
"Tell me if anything hurts," Zane murmurs against my neck.
"I will."
"Tell me if you want to stop."
"I won't want to stop."
"Tell me if—"
"Zane." I pull back to look at him. "Stop being so careful. I'm not going to break."
"You might. You had a baby six months ago. That's not a lot of time."
"It's enough. Trust me. I'm medically cleared and emotionally ready and desperately wanting you to stop treating me like I'm fragile."
"You are fragile. In the best way. Powerful and fragile all at once."
"Then love me like both. Powerful and fragile. Strong and vulnerable. Changed and still me."
He kisses me again, deeper this time. His hands move carefully, reverently, mapping the new landscape of my body like he's committing every change to memory.
"You're sure?" he asks one more time, and I love him for asking even though I can feel how much he wants this.
"I'm sure."
We move slowly. Three months feels like forever when you're learning each other again. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, and I realize he's as nervous as I am about this.
"Zane." I pull his face to mine. "I'm not going to break. I promise."
"I know. But you're..." He struggles for words. "You're different now. Everything's different. I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. But you might if you keep treating me like I'm made of glass."
That gets a small laugh. "Fair point."
His hands grow bolder, less careful. Finding the places that still make me gasp, discovering new sensitive spots that didn't exist before. My body responds differently now—slower to warm butdeeper when it does. Like motherhood changed even this, made sensation richer somehow.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against my neck.
"More than okay."
"Tell me—"
"I will. I promise. Now stop talking and touch me."
He does, and the self-consciousness I've been carrying for three months starts to melt away. Under his hands, my changed body doesn't feel wrong or less-than. It feels powerful. Beautiful. Mine.
