The house is warm and quiet, the last of the evening light coming through the blinds in long orange stripes. April's got her legs tucked up under her on the couch, turned toward you, one arm draped over the back of it. She's in a soft grey sweater that's a size too small and leggings, and she's been talking for a minute now, calm and unhurried, like she's explaining a dental procedure.

"So. The rules." She holds up one finger, smiling gently. "One. No finishing. Not on your own, not with me, not in your sleep if you can help it. If it happens, it happens, but we count it."

Second finger.

"Two. I'm not going to be cruel about it. No waking you up at three in the morning. But I'm also not going to make it easy." Her smile widens a fraction. "So be on your toes, honey. That's the whole warning."

She lowers her hand and leans in a little, her voice dropping to that soft, patient register that always means she's enjoying herself.

"Three. If you make it to December first, you get the PlayStation. I'll drive you to the store myself and you can pick whatever you want." She tilts her head. "And if you don't..." She lets it hang for a second. "...then we spend the rest of the month making sure I'm nice and full. Every night if we can manage it. You know how much I want a baby, and you know I don't give up on things I want."

She reaches over and pats your knee, twice, light.

"That's it. Those are the rules. Fair?"

She settles back against the arm of the couch, watching you with her chin propped on her hand, and there's something behind the gentle expression—a glint, patient and certain, like she's already planned the whole month out.

"Say yes and we can start."

It's mid-afternoon and the house smells like the candle she lit an hour ago. April comes down the hall in a white bathrobe, loosely tied, her hair still damp from the shower and pushed back off her face. She's carrying a mug of tea in one hand and her phone in the other, and she's barefoot, and the robe is doing very little work.

"Mm," she says, passing the couch. "Forgot my book."

She drifts toward the shelf, takes her time, and then on the way back—

The tie slips.

The robe drops. All of it, straight to the floor, and April is standing there in the middle of the living room with nothing on at all. Damp hair, soft belly, the full heavy curve of her breasts, the wide round of her hips, the smooth shaved line between her thighs. She's holding her tea like nothing's happened.

"Oh," she says, and looks down at the robe. "Oops."

She bends to pick it up. Slowly. One knee, then the other, her back arching as she reaches, her big round ass tipped up toward you and held there a beat longer than it needs to be. Then she straightens, robe bunched in one hand, and doesn't put it on.

"I'm so clumsy," she says, entirely unconvincingly. "I do this all the time."

She turns to face you, unhurried, and takes a sip of her tea.

"It's just more comfortable, honestly. Around the house." She gestures vaguely with the mug. "You don't mind, do you?"

The couch has a blanket over it now, and April is folded into the corner of it with her knees up, face buried in her hands. The crying is quiet but convincing—shoulders moving, a wet little hitch every few seconds.

"It's been Three weeks," she says, muffled through her fingers. "A whole three weeks and you haven't even come close. Not once."

She drags the back of her hand across her cheek and looks up at you, eyes red-rimmed and shiny.

"So I've been thinking about it. And I think I know why." She sniffs. "I've put on weight. I know I have. I'm not—" she gestures at herself, at her soft belly and her wide hips, "—I'm not one of those little thin girls. Two hundred pounds. That's a lot. Maybe it's just not..." She trails off.

Then, smaller:

"Do you think I'm too gross to have kids with?"

She lifts her hands to her face and covers it again, and the crying resumes—but through the gap between two fingers, one eye is open, fixed on you, watching.

"Because I'd understand," she goes on, voice wobbling. "If you didn't want to. If it was just— easier with someone else. Someone prettier."

The eye doesn't blink. It's waiting.

The kitchen smells like dinner. Two plates, cutlery set, the good tablecloth she only uses when she's in a mood. April sets the last of it down and pulls her chair out, sitting across from you with her hands folded on the table, and she's got that soft, patient look on.

"You've done really well," she says. "Five weeks and a half. Better than I thought, honestly. I said I wasn't going to make it easy and you've still held out."

She reaches across and rests her hand on yours.

"So I've been thinking. You deserve something for that. A reward." She tilts her head. "Not a break in the rules. Just... something nice. Something that isn't finishing."

Her thumb moves slowly across your knuckles.

"Because you must be so pent up by now, honey. All that just sitting there, building up, nowhere to go." Her voice drops a little, gentle and sympathetic. "That can't be comfortable. A man's body isn't made to hold onto it like that. It gets sore. Heavy. You start thinking about it at work, don't you. In the shower. Right before you fall asleep."

She sits back and lets her hand slide away.

"So. Name it. Whatever would help. A massage. A long one, no clock. Or you can just lie there and I'll use my hands and you don't have to do a thing." She pauses, then adds, quieter, almost like an afterthought:

"Or my mouth. If you think you could take it."

She picks up her fork and looks at you over it.

"Your call. What sounds good?"