The Storm We Made

The vitamin bottle sat on her nightstand for three weeks before he finally asked what they were for.

"Prenatal vitamins," Elena said, not meeting his eyes as she braided her hair for their Sunday padel match with the Millers. "Just in case."

Mark felt the words like a physical blow. They'd been trying—or not trying, depending on which of them you asked—for two years. Each month passed like clockwork, their bodies out of sync, their conversations growing more careful, more brittle. Now these vitamins sat between them like an accusation.

The court was deserted when they arrived, storm clouds gathering overhead. He watched her serve, her hair escaping its braid, wild and beautiful, and felt a sudden wave of grief for the ease they'd lost. She used to laugh when she missed. Now she just cursed under her breath.

"You're not even trying anymore," she snapped when he let another ball bounce past him.

"I'm tired, El. We're both tired."

"That's your problem. You're always tired." Her voice cracked. "You think you're the only one who's scared?"

The first drop of rain hit the court like a tear. Then another. They kept playing, hitting harder now, the ball crackling against their racquets, their movements sharp and desperate. This wasn't padel anymore; it was combat.

When the lightning flashed, it illuminated everything: her furious tears, his own hollow expression, the ball frozen between them like a suspended breath. The thunder that followed shook the ground beneath their feet.

They stood there in the sudden downpour, water plastering Elena's hair to her face, washing away her makeup, her defenses. Mark reached out, not to wipe her tears but to touch her wet cheek, really touch her, for the first time in months.

"I don't want us to be afraid anymore," he said.

She dropped her racquet. The vitamins were still at home on her nightstand, but what mattered was the space between them now, small enough to cross, if they were brave enough to try.

The rain kept falling, and they let it.