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Tara is three and a half months old when Samira finally gets medically cleared.
Her OB says it cheerfully, so Samira nods, thanks her, and drives home.
It's strange to think she’s healed, like her body is a wound that's closed. It’s technically true: difficult pregnancy, nearly twenty-four hours of labor, with the postpartum depression as the cherry on top. She’s on medication now, seeing someone weekly, doing the work, but her body still doesn't feel like hers.
Soft where it wasn't. Changed in ways she's still cataloging. A stranger's body that she's been forced to inhabit.
And she misses Jack.
Not his presence — he's been constant, steady, the person who held Tara while Samira made herself shower, who got up first when their daughter cried in the night, who never once made her feel like she was failing.
She misses wanting him, misses feeling like herself enough to reach for him, misses her body being something she recognized, something that responded the way it was supposed to.
She needs him to help her find her way back. To touch her until this foreign body feels like hers again. To prove that she's still desirable, still whole, still her.
So when Tara goes down, Samira makes a decision.
She finds Jack in the living room, reading. He looks up when she enters, and something in her face makes him set the tablet aside.
She sits beside him, close enough that their thighs touch.
His hand finds hers automatically, fingers threading through hers like it’s muscle memory. "Hey."
"I got cleared today."
Jack goes still. His thumb pauses mid-stroke across her knuckles, then resumes its deliberate path.
"Okay." There’s a precision to the word, carefully chosen.
"I want to try."
He studies her face for a long moment, like he’s searching for something hidden in the tilt of her lips or the angle of her brows. He swallows, then nods once. "Okay."
That's it. No questions. No performance. Just his hand tightening on hers as they stand together and move to the bedroom.
They undress each other slowly — not reverent, or tempting, but a careful reunion. Jack's hands map her body like he's trying to memorize what's changed, what's stayed the same. His eyes follow the route his fingers take, and his expression makes her ache. He is all concentration and tenderness as he traces
When they're both bare, he pulls her down to the bed, and they lie facing each other.
He kisses her. Slow. Thorough. His hand slides down her side, over her hip, between her legs.
"Okay?" he murmurs against her mouth.
"Yeah." Her response is almost automatic, but she needs to be decisive. Needs this to work.
His fingers move gently, exploring. Finding her clit, circling it with the kind of pressure that used to make her arch into him.
Nothing.
Not pain, exactly. Just... distance. Like the sensations are happening to someone else's body.
"Is this alright?" Jack asks, his voice low.
"Yes, keep going." But even as she says it, panic starts threading through her chest. Come on. Feel something. Anything.
His touch is perfect — she knows it is, remembers it being perfect — but her body won't cooperate, won’t respond. She tries to focus, tries to chase the pleasure she knows should be there, but it's like grasping at smoke.
Jack's touch lightens. Not stopping, just easing. His fingers slow their rhythm, the pressure gentling.
No. No, don't stop.
Samira's eyes fly open.
He's watching her face, reading her the way he always does, and she can see the exact moment he decides to pull back.
"You’re tensing up," he murmurs, his hand starting to withdraw.
"I'm trying." She reaches down, covering his hand with hers, pressing his fingers more firmly against her clit. "Keep going. Please."
Jack's hand stills beneath hers. "Samira —"
"Please. I just need —" She shifts her hips, grinding against his fingers, trying desperately to feel something. "It's fine. I'm fine. Just don't stop."
"This isn’t working, sweetheart."
"It is." But her voice is tight, edged with something close to desperation. She guides his hand again, more insistent this time, her fingers digging into his wrist hard enough to leave marks behind. "Just — like this. Keep doing this. I need you to —"
Jack's other hand comes up to cup her face, and his fingers slip away from between her legs entirely.
"No —" The word comes out sharp, almost a gasp. "Jack, don't —"
"Look at me."
She does. Something like regret is storming across his features, eyes steady and dark and pained.
"You're not here," he says quietly, stroking her cheekbone once.
The words land like a fist to her sternum. All the air goes out of her lungs.
"Yes, I am, I'm right here." Her jaw sets, panic clawing up her throat like something with teeth, wild and desperate. She can feel the moment slipping away, her one chance dissolving like sugar in steaming tea. "I want this. I want you. I need —"
She kisses him, hard, trying to reignite what was building before, trying to prove something. Her hand slides down his chest, wraps around him. He's hard — he wants this too, he has to want this, want her.
It hadn’t just been the fifteen weeks since Tara was born, not really. They still had sex during pregnancy, but it wasn’t the same — how could it have been, when half the time she’d been vomiting and the other half dealing with sciatica?
"See?” She’s almost relieved. “You want this. We both —"
"Samira." His hand catches her wrist, and the gentleness in his grip makes her want to scream. "Stop."
"Why?" The word cracks out of her, sharper than she intends, and she hears the edge of hysteria in it. "I'm cleared, and I — I want to have sex with my husband. Why the fuck are we stopping?"
"Because you're trying to force it,” Jack answers, words both simple and serrated.
"I'm not —" She rips her hand free, sits up. The sudden distance between them feels like confirmation of every fear she's been trying to outrun. Her skin feels too tight, like she's wearing someone else's body. "My OB said I'm healed. I want this. What more do you need?"
“What do I need?” Jack sits up too, muscles hardening along his shoulders. He puts space between them — actual, physical space — and the gap might as well be a canyon. "I need you to enjoy it, Samira. For it to feel good.”
"I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to —" She stops, swallows hard against the tightness in her throat, against the anxiety lodged there like an oversized pill. Her hands are shaking, and she can't make them stop, can’t make the whirl of hurt and fear and failure slow. "I need you to help me. I need you to just keep going and —"
"No."
The word is flat, final, a door slamming shut.
Something snaps inside her, a wire pulled too taut, fraying and breaking.
"So what, you don't want me anymore?" The words come out cruel, irrational, and she knows it even as she's saying them, knows that she's being unfair. But the panic is a living thing now, writhing in her chest. "Is that it? My body's different now and you can't —"
"That's not —" He cuts himself off, eyes flashing.
"Then what is it?" She's breathing too fast, her chest tight, her heart hammering against her ribs like it's trying to escape. "Because my husband won't touch me, won’t fuck me. I need you to want me, Jack, I need my body to feel like mine again and I thought — I thought you could help me. But you won't even try."
"I can't watch you do this to yourself." Anguished,
"You’re doing this to me!" The anger surges hot and desperate, flooding through her veins like poison. Her voice is rising — she can hear it rising but she can't stop it. "I need you to fuck me. I need —"
She reaches for him again, her hand sliding up his thigh, and she hates herself for it. Hates the desperation. Hates that she's trying to manipulate him with touch, that she’s somehow become this person who would use his body against him.
"Please. Just let me —"
Jack catches her wrist again, firmer this time. "No. We're not doing this tonight."
"You don't get to decide that." Her voice cracks on the last word.
"Yes, I do."
The certainty in his voice, absolute and unyielding, makes tears burn hot in her eyes. She jerks her hand away from him.
The baby monitor crackles.
They both freeze.
A whimper. Then a cry. Then full-throated wailing.
"Fuck." The word comes out strangled. Samira presses her hands over her face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck —"
The shame hits her like a wave, crashing right on her head and dragging her into the riptide beneath. She woke the peacefully-sleeping infant because she couldn't keep her voice down, couldn't keep herself together, couldn't do this one fucking thing right. Her body is wrong, her mind is wrong, and she doesn’t know how to mother the right way, either.
She scrambles off the bed, nearly tripping over the sheets. Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely grab her clothes, but she manages her underwear, then her leggings, pulling them up with jerky, graceless movements. The fabric feels like a barrier, an armor. Like if she can just cover herself, maybe she can hold the pieces together.
Jack is moving too, reaching for his boxers, not saying a word, just getting dressed, because what else is there to do when your wife is falling apart and your daughter is crying?
Samira pulls her shirt over her head (one of his old t-shirts, the irony not lost on her) and the cotton settles against her skin like a rebuke. She can't look at him, because she can't bear to see whatever expression is on his face.
Tara's crying gets louder through the monitor.
"I need —" Samira's voice breaks. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to hold something in, or maybe to keep from flying apart. "I need you to understand. I need this to work. I need —"
She stops, presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. The tears are coming anyway, hot and humiliating, and she can feel them leaking through her fingers.
Tara is still crying, too. The sound drills into Samira's skull.
"I woke her up," she gasps out between sobs. "I woke her up because I couldn't — because I'm so fucked up I can't even —"
"Samira." Jack's voice is quiet. He's dressed now too, standing a few feet away like he's not sure if he's allowed to come closer.
"I tried to guilt you." The words come out in a rush, bitter and self-lacerating. "I tried to manipulate you into — God, Jack, I'm so sorry, I said such shitty things, I — I accused you of not wanting me when I know, I know that's not —"
She can't finish. The shame is a living thing, coiled in her gut. She tried to use his body against him. Tried to make him feel like the bad guy for protecting her. The realization sits heavy in her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Jack takes a step toward her. Just one.
"I'm so fucking scared," she whispers, and the admission feels like peeling her skin off with a blunt instrument. "I'm scared it won't ever feel right again. That you'll look at me and see someone you don't want. That my body will never —" Her voice cracks. "That I'll never feel like myself again."
He doesn't answer right away. Tara's crying has shifted to hiccupping sobs through the monitor.
"I want you," he says finally, his voice rough. "But not like this."
She lowers her hands to look at him through tear-blurred vision. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark, and there's something in his expression that makes her chest ache.
"I miss you," she whispers. "I miss feeling like myself. I thought if you touched me, I could find my way back, and my body would feel like mine again. But I can't even —" She stops, swallows hard, and looks away. "I don't care if it hurts, I just need —"
"I care." His voice is strained, almost breaking. "I care if it hurts."
The words settle between them like a physical thing. Tara's crying has quieted to soft whimpers.
Samira stands there, arms still wrapped around herself, feeling like she's been turned inside out.
"Can we just —" She stops. Tries again, her voice small. "Can you come closer?"
"Yeah."
Jack crosses to her slowly, like he's approaching something fragile. She hates it; she loves him for it. When he reaches her, he doesn't pull her toward the bed. Just stands there, close enough that she can feel his warmth.
She takes a shaky breath. Lets her arms fall from around herself.
He pulls her in carefully, and she goes. Lets him hold her even though she's still dressed, even though she feels like she's made of broken glass. His arms come around her and she presses her face against his chest, breathing him in.
"I'm sorry," she whispers into his shirt. "I'm so sorry."
His arms tighten around her. He doesn't say it's okay. Doesn't say she doesn't need to apologize. Just holds her.
From down the hall, Tara whimpers once more, then goes quiet.
They stand there for a long moment. Then Jack shifts, guiding her toward the bed, where he pulls her against him.
The baby monitor crackles softly. Tara's breathing evens out.
Samira closes her eyes. Lets herself be held. Lets the shame and fear and desperation slowly drain away, leaving only exhaustion in their wake.
"Thank you," she whispers after a while.
His arms tighten around her.
That's all.
It happens three weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon.
They've been touching constantly — stolen kisses in the kitchen while Tara sits in her bouncer, hands finding each other on the couch during late-night feedings, lying together in bed before sleep claims them. Relearning each other through proximity and presence and the small intimacies that don't demand anything.
Tara is napping. The apartment is quiet in that specific way that makes Samira's shoulders drop, the kind of quiet that might last twenty minutes or two hours. Impossible to predict, as their daughter already likes to keep them on their toes, naturally.
She finds Jack in their bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling through his tablet. When he looks up, she doesn't say anything. Just crosses to him. Sits beside him.
He sets the tablet aside and reaches for her, giving her an opening.
She leans in.
The kiss deepens naturally — no decision, no discussion, just want, finally uncomplicated by fear. His hand comes up to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone, and she makes a soft sound against his mouth.
"Yeah?" he murmurs, not pushing out of this moment and into the next but sitting in it with her, letting her lead.
It’s exactly what she needs from him.
"Yeah."
His hands slide under her shirt — one of his old t-shirts again, soft from washing. She lifts her arms and he pulls it off, tossing it aside.
His eyes move over her with such an intensity that she’s momentarily breathless.
Then she's reaching for his shirt, tugging it over his head, her fingers finding the familiar planes of his chest.
They move together like a conversation — question and answer, give and take. Jack's hands map her body, reading her responses. When he unhooks her bra and slides it off, his palms cup her breasts carefully, testing.
"Can I touch?" he asks, his voice soft.
"Yeah." She nods, leaning into his hands.
He does, his thumbs brushing gently over her nipples. The sensation is immediate and sharp — not quite pain, but too much.
She gasps, and her whole body tenses.
"Okay?" he asks, already sensing the shift.
"No. No, that's —" She takes a breath. "Too sensitive. They're still too sensitive."
"Got it." He pulls his hands away immediately, no hesitation. "Off-limits."
"I'm sorry —"
"Don't be." He kisses her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth, reassurances that sink through her skin and into her veins. "We know now. We adjust."
His hands move to her sides instead, stroking the soft skin of her ribs, and the pleasure is immediate.
This feels good. This feels right.
"We have time," he murmurs against her mouth, even though they both know that's optimistic at best.
"Do we?" But she's already relaxing into his touch.
"We're taking it." His mouth moves to her jaw, then down her neck — slow, deliberate kisses that make her breath catch. He lingers at her collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, and she feels the first real spark of heat low in her belly.
Her mind tries to catalog — is this working, how long until Tara wakes, am I responding right — and she catches herself. Lets it go and focuses on the warmth of his mouth instead.
Jack's hands slide down to her hips, thumbs tracing the stretch marks there. Then he's kissing lower — between her breasts (carefully avoiding them), down her sternum, across the softness of her stomach. Each kiss is unhurried, reverent.
"Jack —" Her voice comes out breathless.
"I'm getting there." He kisses her hip bone, then the inside of her thigh. "Let me do this."
She wants to tell him to hurry, that they don't have time, that Tara could wake any second. But his mouth is moving higher on her thigh now, his stubble tickling, and her body is responding — heat spreading, muscles loosening, her breathing changing.
When his mouth finally reaches her center, the first touch of his tongue makes her gasp. He goes slowly, reading her responses, finding what makes her hips shift and her breath hitch. His hands are steady on her thighs, holding her open.
The monitor crackles, and they stop.
Samira's heart pounds as they wait, listening. A small sound, Tara shifting in her sleep, and then perfect silence.
Jack looks up at her, and despite everything, there's a hint of amusement in his eyes, a smirk on his lips. "Still with me?"
"Yeah." Her voice is shaky. "Keep going."
He does as he’s told: his tongue moves in steady rhythm now, and she feels herself getting wetter, her body remembering this even as her mind tries to race ahead. How long has it been, is this taking too long, what if she wakes —
She catches herself again, brings her focus back to the sensation — the heat of his mouth, the building pressure, the way her thighs are trembling.
"Jack." She's panting now. "I need — I want you inside me."
He pulls back, his mouth glistening. "You sure?"
"Yes. Please."
He shifts up her body, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on his tongue. When he reaches between her legs with his fingers, testing, she's slick and ready — more than she expected, her body responding despite the nerves.
But when he reaches for the nightstand, pulling out the lube, she’s relieved. He slicks his fingers first, then touches her again — the glide is smoother now. He works her carefully, watching her face, until she's shifting her hips against his hand and making whiny sounds in her throat.
"Okay," she breathes. "I'm ready."
"You’re sure?" he asks, the gravel of his tone exposing the line between want and control he’s walking so carefully.
"I am."
He positions himself, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. When he starts to push in, his hand bumps awkwardly against her inner thigh.
"Sorry —" He adjusts, trying again, and this time his elbow catches her shoulder as he shifts his weight.
They both pause, and then Samira laughs — a real laugh, surprised and genuine.
"Smooth," she teases.
"Shut up." But he's grinning, his ears going red. "It's been a while."
"For both of us." She reaches up, cupping his face. "Try again."
He does, and this time the angle is better. When he starts to enter her, Jack goes still, his whole body tensing with restraint, every muscle locking as he pushes in slowly.
"Okay?" His voice is thin, breathy.
"Yeah,” she tells him, chest fluttering. “Keep going."
He moves another inch, stops. "Still okay?"
"Jack." She tightens her legs around his hips. "I'm not going to break."
"I know." But his jaw is clenched, his breathing careful. "Just — let me do this right."
And she understands then that he's scared, too. He’s the one who’s seen her through all of it, who knows her better than she knows herself sometimes. Jack loves her, and she knows he’s terrified of hurting her, of pushing too hard, of undoing the careful healing of the past three months.
His caution is love made physical.
"I trust you," she whispers.
Something in his face softens. He pushes in further, still slow, still careful, until he's fully seated inside her. They both exhale shakily.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel —"
"I know."
He starts to move, and the angle isn't quite right — there's a slight pinch of discomfort. She shifts her hips, tilting them up, and he adjusts with her, gripping her hips.
"There," she breathes, melting into the feeling. "Like that."
They find a rhythm that’s slow and steady, his hand sliding between them to find her clit. The dual sensation grounds her completely so she's present in every stroke, every touch.
Her traitorous mind tries to drift again — is he feeling good, should I be doing more — but she shuts it down faster this time.
"I just want you," he says, and it’s like a vow. "However you are. Whatever you need."
She nods, tightening around him. "I know."
The orgasm builds slowly. It’s not explosive, just deep and steady and real. When it comes, she makes a sound she doesn't recognize, her back arching, her hands fisting in their sheets. The pleasure rolls through her in waves, and she lets herself feel all of it.
Jack follows moments later, his breath hot against her neck, his body shuddering against hers, familiar and new all at once.
They don't move immediately (she can’t, and he waits) and just breathe together, hearts hammering, bodies still joined. Eventually, once everything feels a bit less intense, Jack pulls out and shifts to lie beside her, pulling her against him like he had each and every night they’d ever spent together.
"Wow," Samira manages, still catching her breath. "That wasn't that bad."
Jack rears back to look down at her, eyebrows raised. She realizes what she said and laughs.
"I mean — that came out wrong —"
"Not that bad?" His mouth twitches with amusement. "That's the review I get?"
She's laughing harder now, her face heating. "I meant it was good. Really good. I just wasn't thinking —"
He shifts over her, a heated smirk curling across his mouth.
"Guess I'll just have to work harder," he says, his voice dropping into that commanding register that makes her knees weak. "Get better feedback next time."
Her breath catches. "Next time?"
"Next time." His hands slide up her thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. "And the time after that."
She kisses him, slow and deep, wraps one of her legs over his and feels him already starting to harden again beneath her.
They lie like that for a while, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back. Something in her chest finally loosens, unfurls. She breathes, and the air reaches deep.