What the Storm Prescribed

I arranged the vitamin samples on the kitchen counter, sorting them by potency like I'd been trained to do. Lightning struck somewhere close—thunder rattled the cabin windows while David stood by the fireplace, nursing his third whiskey.

"The merger goes through next week," he said, not looking at me. "After that, we're set."

The fox had been appearing at the edge of the property for three nights. I'd seen it through the bedroom window, a flash of russet fur moving through the storm-darkened trees, watching the house like it knew something we didn't.

"I'm not taking the supplements anymore," I said.

David turned slowly. "What?"

"The vitamins. The regimen you've had me on since the miscarriage." I met his eyes across the room. "I've been flushing them down the toilet."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Outside, lightning forked across the sky, illuminating his face—confusion, then recognition, then something that looked like grief.

"You said you wanted to try again," he whispered.

"I wanted us to be okay again." My voice trembled. "I wanted you to stop looking at me like I was something broken that needed fixing."

The fox appeared at the window then, pressed against the glass, its eyes reflecting the storm inside and out. David saw it too.

"You're bearing it alone," he said, understanding dawning. "All this time."

"We both are." I moved toward him. "But the storm already broke us, David. The question is whether we're going to rebuild something real from the pieces."

He set down his glass. The fox watched as he reached for my hand. Outside, the rain began to fall harder, washing away what we'd been pretending for so long. Lightning struck again, but this time, neither of us flinched.