The problem is, my body's a traitor. It's been another three weeks of solitude, and my hormones are staging a coup. Every night I wake up aching, sheets twisted around my legs, his name hot on my lips.
"Nova." Myles's shadow falls across the garden bed. "He's here."
I focus on the pea vine tangled in my fingers. If I look up, he'll see the hope warring with fury in my eyes. "Good for him."
"Aren't you coming inside?"
"I'm busy." The lie sits between us like the growing curve of my belly---obvious and impossible to ignore. "I'll be in when I'm done."
Myles sighs. In the weeks since Samuil disappeared, he's watched me cycle through rage and despair with the patience of someone who defuses bombs for a living. Which, come to think of it, he probably does.
I wait until his footsteps fade
