Dominic breathed me in until my crying slowed. “Whatever he says—whatever they send—this is our life too,” he said. “You are not a commodity to be traded for his peace. Your body, our children, our love—they are not bargaining chips.”
The night felt like an upheaval and a hugging refuge at once. We made love in a way that was protective rather than performative: hands that knew exactly where to make me feel safe, touches that were careful of my belly, whispers that were promises to the two small people inside me. The rhythm was slow and intimate; the heat of it was a fostered, savage tenderness. He traced plans across my skin—who to call, which lawyers to push, how to make sure Dad couldn’t sign us away without the public seeing every line.
When we finally stopped, exhausted and tender,
