The air in their bedroom was warm and thick with the scent of coconut oil and the faint sweetness of Isha’s skin. Soft yellow light from the bedside lamp painted everything in gold. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, but inside the only sounds were the quiet breathing of a heavily pregnant woman and the man who loved her more than his own life.

Isha lay back against a nest of pillows, eight months round, her belly high and full. She wore nothing except one of Vivian’s white shirts, unbuttoned completely, the soft fabric falling open on either side of her body. Her breasts were heavy, fuller than they had ever been, the dark nipples already tight from the cooler air. Between her thighs the soft thatch of hair had grown longer than she liked, and she could no longer reach it comfortably.