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The red in his cheeks is fading to a healthier pink, at least, and you feel brave enough, soft enough, to press your lips to his forehead, the sparkle of blue on his cheekbone. He shudders in his sleep, poor, beautiful boy, and you can’t help a quiet laugh as you thumb his hair out of his face. No, you’ll never, ever hurt him. You love him too much. You should tell him more often. You should tell him when he wakes up.
Your knuckles brush over his brow, smoothing out the furrow there, and you rest your hand on his neck, thumbing the line of his jaw. And this time, when he sighs, oh, his whole body seems to do it, so beautiful, so, oh, you could just…
Wait a minute.
What day is it again?
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Or: the universe really did something, making you ovulate on Ebb Day, of all days.