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I’ve started to move away to fetch the shower gel when a hand grabs onto my wrist.
“Hey, Eli?”
“Yes?” I face her, and for a moment, she looks so radiant, so fucking beautiful, pain explodes in the useless organ tucked behind my rib cage.
An organ she poked, provoked, and breathed life into, now it seems to only beat in her presence.
Her words fill the bathroom thicker than the steam. “Let’s have a baby.”
34
AVA
It’s irrational and completely asinine, but I don’t take back the words I said in the bathroom three days ago.
Eli simply ignored me, slapped me with a ‘we’ll talk about it later,’ then proceeded to sweep the entire topic under the rug.
We’ve been going to the beach, swimming, tanning, and having more sex than porn stars—mostly because I can’t get enough and I want to encourage him so I can get pregnant.
Am I being too reckless? Too unfair to the child who would live with an unstable mother?
Possibly. But I’m also desperate to engrave these moments with any method available.
I don’t care what anyone says. I know myself the best, and I can recognize that my time is limited. If I’m correct, the last time I woke up in the hospital and lost two years of my life happened after a breakdown, and judging by how drastically degenerative my state is, this time will be worse than mere amnesia.
This time, the tired branch might finally break under my weight.
So I spent the past few days savoring every moment I could get my hands on. Every view, every touch, and every activity.
We went hiking, we had picnics, and he ate my food without my having to use Sam as an excuse. So when I asked if he was okay with me cooking for him, he disclosed he knew all along it was me.
He was the one who ate a slice of my cake before I doomed it to the rubbish bin.
It’s strange to see him more relaxed and open about himself. Eli’s talked about his childhood here, his bond with his grandparents, and the pressure he put on himself early on to be the perfect heir for the King's name.
The admission that these past few days were the only occasion he’d ever taken time off for himself made me feel so bad for him.
I’ve been absorbing everything about him, imprinting every single detail to memory and hoping, praying that the stars collide and I never forget them this time.
Today, he took me to the highest tip of a mountain to witness the most stunning sunrise.
“Here you go.” He passes me a bottle of water as I collapse on a rock beneath a massive willow tree.
“I’ll be sore as hell tomorrow,” I grumble after I nearly empty the bottle. “But it’s worth it.”
My husband drops his backpack on the uneven surface as his lips pull in a wolfish smirk.
The early morning sun slips through the tree’s leaves and casts a warm glow on his sharp features. His jet-black hair shines in a blue hue, and his eyes appear lighter like a summer cloud.
He looks hot as hell in black shorts and a tight white tee that sticks to his smooth muscles like a second skin.
“Are we talking about the hike or the way I fucked you while you were half asleep this morning?”
“Both.” I grin. “Your stamina is no joke. No idea how you could go several rounds and barely pant at the end of the hike.”
“It’s called exercise. Something you should do more of.”
“The only exercise I like is opening my legs in bed and being a princess while you do all the work. So I’ll leave the stamina workout thing to you. Please and thank you.”
