Two weeks passed in a thick, sticky fog of waiting.
Every morning I woke up and touched my stomach first thing—flat palm pressed low, hoping for some secret sign. Nothing. My breasts stayed tender for a few more days, then slowly went back to normal. The nausea never came back. My period was due any day now, according to the app Matteo still checked obsessively. He marked the calendar with a small red X every time we f****d, but the Xs just kept piling up without changing anything.
I told myself it was fine. The first try rarely worked. They said that. I believed it.
But the hunger never left. If anything it got worse. Knowing we might have failed made me need them more. Harder. Deeper. Like if I could just take enough loads, force my body to accept it, the test would finally turn posit
