Beneath the Fire, the Flame

The final stretch of this pregnancy unfolded like a fever dream—equal parts passion, closeness, and something sacred humming just beneath the surface. My belly rose round and full again with Matthew’s child. The ache of our loss never fully disappeared, but somehow, this life growing inside me felt like a balm. A continuation. A promise kept.

We were still insatiable. Even with the growing curve of my stomach and the fatigue that came and went like a tide, Matthew found ways to make me feel wanted—needed—every single day. His hands seemed to have memorized me by now, from the stretch of my hips to the swell of my breasts, now heavier and sensitive with the early pressure of milk. My nipples darkened, ached often, and leaked even before the baby arrived. And Matthew... he loved it.

He made it a ritual—finishing what the twins and Anthony couldn't when I nursed them, kneeling before me in quiet reverence, mouth warm and hungry. He would wrap his lips around one breast, tease the nipple with his tongue while I gasped and held onto him, body trembling with pleasure. It was love in its most primal, most tender form. And when we fucked, he stretched me slowly, deeply, with patience and hunger intertwined. He watched my face, my breasts, my growing belly, worshiping me with every thrust and kiss.

The birth itself came gently, swiftly—another water birth in our villa tucked in southern Italy. Elias Matthew arrived just after sunrise. Our fourth boy. A perfect mix of Matthew and me, all softness and quiet wonder.

Matthew held him first, skin to skin, whispering something only the baby could hear. When he finally looked up, his eyes were wet with emotion and awe.

I recovered quickly. And a few days after bringing Elias into the world—before my body had even stopped bleeding—I quietly resumed my birth control.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want more children. I did. I do. But I needed space to breathe, to recover, to heal in ways I didn’t know I needed. I couldn’t bear to risk another loss so soon. Not for me. Not for Matthew. Not for the family we’d fought to build.

He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him. I kept the pills tucked into a small pouch in my nightstand, hidden behind folded scarves. Each morning, while he played with the children or made us coffee, I’d slip one under my tongue with water and tuck the moment away like a secret prayer.

Still, I gave him everything.

Four weeks after the birth, I slipped into a pale blue lace set Matthew had once picked out—the same one that barely fit me now. My breasts were swollen, taut, my hips wide, the outline of motherhood still soft around my middle. I walked slowly past him, watching the way his gaze shifted from curious to hungry in an instant.

We didn’t leave the bed for three days.

He took his time, each time. Stretching me fully, worshiping every inch of my skin, his mouth soft against my throat, his hands gentle around my waist before becoming rough with need. We made love like it was sacred. Like it was war and peace all at once.

He whispered my name when he came. Kissed my breasts. Fell asleep still inside me, only to wake an hour later and begin again.

We loved louder. Deeper. Freer.

Even when we returned to working—taking calls between feedings and meetings, emails in bed while babies slept curled against my chest—we never lost the rhythm. His hand would find mine under the desk. His mouth would find my neck in passing. We worked less, but we loved more.

He had no idea I was taking the pills again. No idea that I’d quietly carved a boundary not out of fear, but out of fierce protection—of what we had, of my body, of our balance.

And each time he looked at me, like I was everything, I promised myself I’d know when it was time to stop again.

But for now... I chose the fire.