Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Claire
On certain days, the bookstore feels like a living thing, breathing with every page turned, sighing when customers linger too long in the aisles.
Today it feels heavier. Not unhappy. Just aware.
It appears as though it understands that I'm responsible for more than just inventory, invoices, and delayed shipments.
Three weeks into the schedule Dr. Madsen outlined, my body has its rhythm now, one that hums beneath everything I do.
Every three hours.
Pump. Hydrate. Vitamins. Herbs. Repeat.
I can feel the timing even before my phone reminder buzzes.
A warmth builds low in my chest first, subtle, then insistent.
My breasts feel fuller now, rounder against the fabric of my bra.
The sensation of my breasts growing heavier is both intimate and startling.
When I move too quickly, there’s a tug, a reminder that something inside me is responding exactly as promised.
I adjust the strap beneath my cardigan and glance toward the back room where I keep the pump tucked discreetly in a cabinet.
I’ve already had two sessions today. The first one surprised me, the soft, electric tingling that rippled outward just before the suction began.
The second time, I recognized it. My body is preparing.
Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just… working.
Dr. Madsen had told me it would begin like this. A fast responder, she’d called me after reviewing my labs and performing that careful, methodical exam. My hormone levels were well within range. My tissue is responsive. My cycle is steady. My system is primed.
I hadn’t expected to feel so aware of myself.
My bras fit differently now. The difference isn't drastic; it's just enough that when Erik's eyes linger, I can feel the heat creep up my neck. My shirts stretch in a way they didn’t three weeks ago. There’s a softness along my upper chest that wasn’t there before, a fullness that feels deliberate. Alive.
And the hunger. God, the hunger.
I’m eating more without even trying. Protein bars are available behind the counter. Greek yogurt between customers. I eat toast, avocado, and handfuls of almonds. My body demands fuel like it understands what it’s building toward.
The front bell chimes, and I look up automatically, and it’s him.
Erik walks in like he belongs here, with broad shoulders, a quiet gaze, and all that coiled stillness wrapped in a charcoal button-down. The air shifts when he crosses the threshold, like the store itself is straightening up.
He’s not alone. A younger guy follows him inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. Late teens, maybe. He has dark blond hair, earnest brown eyes, and a nervous energy that vibrates under his skin, as if he's trying very hard not to mess this up.
“Claire,” Erik says, his voice low and steady. “I’d like you to meet Leander.”
The young man offers a quick, awkward smile. “Hi, Ms. Claire. It's… it's delightful to meet you.”
Ms. Claire. I’m officially old.
I blink at Erik. “What’s going on?”
“A solution,” he says simply. “You’ve been doing the work of three people. You need help.”
“I never said…”
“You didn’t have to.”
He gestures toward the counter. “Interview him.”
Leander shifts his backpack around, digging for something. “I, uh, brought my résumé. And references.” He pulls out a neatly folded packet, smoothing the edges. “One of them is my brother, Sven; he works two doors down at the deli with Grace and her dad. They said you’d know him.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders dissolves. “Oh. Yes, I know him. Sven is wonderful.”
Leander lights up. “Grace and Sven both said you’re the nicest person on the block.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “They’re biased.”
Behind him, Erik’s mouth curves in the faintest smirk. He’s absolutely enjoying this.
I take the packet and skim the top page. “So, Leander. Why do you want to work in a bookstore?”
He straightens a little, swallowing. “Reading got me through some rough stuff. I like how books make people feel… breathe easier. And I’m good at organizing, carrying boxes, memorizing layouts, and that kind of thing. I don’t panic easily.”
That last part lands heavier than the others.
He hesitates, then adds, “Sven says I talk too much, but in a store that’s a plus, right?”
I laugh. “It can be.”
He nods, more earnest now. “He also said I’m really observant.” His gaze flicks briefly to Erik, then back to me.
I glance at Erik. His jaw ticks once, an almost invisible acknowledgement.
“Have you ever worked retail before?” I ask.
“No. But I helped at the deli during rushes. Sven says I’m good with people who are stressed out and hungry, so that’s kind of the same, right?
I can’t help smiling. The kid is trying so hard it hurts.
He looks at me rather than Erik, when he says, “If you give me a chance, Ms. Claire, I’ll do right by the store. And by you.”
My throat tightens. He means it.
Erik folds his arms and watches me, not interfering, but I feel his presence like a second gravity.
I’m exhausted. My schedule is full of pumping alarms, herbal doses, opening and closing shifts at the shop, and evenings with Erik. I don’t want to admit I’m worn out.
But I am. “Can you start tomorrow?” I ask.
Leander’s whole face changes, like someone turned on all his internal lights. “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”
“You’ll start with mornings for now,” I say. “You will begin by opening with me, unpacking shipments, and restocking. We’ll ease you into customer service once you know the layout.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats.
“Claire is fine,” I say, amused.
“Right. Claire.” He grins, wide and genuine. “Thank you.”
“You can look around now,” I tell him. “Start memorizing shelves.”
He darts into the aisles with intent, already scanning spines like he’s mapping the place.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Erik. “You did all this… why?”
“You needed support.” His eyes soften, but his posture stays precise. “And I can’t watch you run yourself into the ground.”
“It’s just a job,” I murmur.
“No.” His voice drops. “It’s your life. And I intend to protect it.”
My breath stumbles.
“Leander’s clean,” he continues. “He’s my cousin and Sven’s brother, so that is good enough for me.”
“Bossy,” I whisper under my breath.
“Effective,” he counters with a smirk.
Behind a display, Leander’s voice pops up. “Uh… Claire? Do we alphabetize Stephen King by series or title?”
“Title,” I call out.
He gives a thumbs-up and disappears again.
Erik’s hand lightly grazes the small of my back, a subtle touch that still manages to ground me.
“You made the right choice,” he murmurs.
“I think so," I pause. “Thank you for bringing him.”
He doesn’t smile, exactly. What crosses his face is deeper, heavier. “I’ll always bring you what you need,” he says quietly. “Even if you don’t know you need it yet.”
Something warm and a little dangerous curls low in my chest. I’m not ready to name it. Not yet.
But soon.
A new routine begins with a small rhythm. Morning tea. I take two capsules each of the milk production herbal supplement and domperidone that Dr. M prescribed me. I apply a warm compress to my chest for a duration of twenty minutes. Light massage.
Before I even touch the keys for the bookstore, I engage in a twenty-minute pumping session.
Then, while I’m at work, alarms go off on my phone every two hours. Pump. Log. Eat. Take supplements and domperidone three times a day to start, and according to Dr. M, taper off once milk begins to let down.
I’ve got it all written on a note Erik made for me in neat block letters, black ink, and precision, even in kindness.
He labeled it "our schedule."
I keep that note taped above my vanity mirror. Seeing "our" instead of "my" makes the air taste sweeter, like I’ve quietly stepped out of solitude and into something shared.
At first, it felt purely clinical. Like homework. By now, it feels intimate, like we’ve built a private language no one else can hear.
Every evening, just before closing, Erik appears at the bookstore.
The bell chimes, and my body recognizes his presence before my brain does.
He checks the front lock, flicks the alley light twice to test the bulb, and doesn’t relax until it stays steady.
Then he guides me out, sliding my hand into his as we cross the street toward his car, driving us to his loft.
Every detail says you’re safe.
I used to think safety was a myth. Now it sounds like his voice saying, “Time for your tea, sweet girl.”
The supplements leave a faint maple scent clinging to me. I notice it strongest at night, when steam from the kettle curls up. I observe him noticing it as well, each time he passes by me in the kitchen. His eyes track me like he’s memorizing a work of art.
Tonight, he’s cooking something with garlic and lemon that fills the loft, warm and bright. The space feels like him: steel and order. The space is reminiscent of a capable man's cocoon, overlooking Hermann Park.
I perch on the counter, ankles swinging, Dr. Madsen’s guide open in my lap.
“Massage increases circulation, encouraging early prolactin release," I read, then snort. “You’d think they could make that sound less… erotic.”
He glances over his shoulder, amused. Sleeves rolled, towel slung over one shoulder, forearms dusted with flour. “You reading or auditioning?”
“Maybe both.”
His chuckle slides down my spine like warm honey. He turns off the burner, wipes his hands on the towel, and steps closer.
“Show me what it says next.”
My mouth goes dry. “Apply gentle pressure in circular motions for two to three minutes, three times per day.’”
His gaze lifts, pinning mine. “Gentle, hmm?”
The room hums. His hand comes up, just hovering near my collarbone. Heat radiates between us.
“That’s trust work, Claire,” he says softly. “The body listens when it’s safe.”
My pulse flutters. “I trust you.”
His mouth curves, slow and sure. “Good. Then we’ll learn this together.”
The way he says “we” makes my knees feel unreliable.