Monday was much like any other day except for a bit more activity in his inbox.

        The number two on the screen meant two unread emails. One of the subject lines immediately caught Liam’s eye:

        “Book Review.”

        He froze. This was the moment he had been waiting for. And the moment he dreaded.

        He looked up at Eva. She was sitting in the armchair, one leg bent, leaning her shoulder against it. A brush in one hand, her phone in the other. She was watching something, smiling occasionally, swinging her foot childishly.

        She had the calm of someone at peace with herself and the world.

        Liam took a deep breath and opened the email.

        “Three stars.” he said quietly. “Again.”

        Eva turned immediately. “What did they write?”

        “‘The plot isn’t bad, but predictable. Weak for sci-fi,’” Liam said, his throat tight.. “That’s it… just as I thought. I’m a worthless writer.”

        He was already reaching to close the screen, but Eva stood up and came closer.

        “That’s all?” she asked softly.

        Liam looked at the email again.

        “‘However…’” he paused, “‘…all the sex scenes are top-notch. I only finished it for that reason.’”

        Eva smiled—not mockingly, but with tenderness.

        “When it’s you and me… it’s never the same. Not something you could put in a handbook.”

        Liam shrugged, but she took his face in her hands.

        “You think it’s just sex? That you’re just describing mechanics?” Her voice trembled slightly, but it was utterly sincere. “When you and I… it’s never the same. Not like a manual.”

        “You know how to feel. You really look at me. Gently, attentively.”

        “You don’t just take—you live every touch. Every time, it’s new. Like in a movie.”

        She glanced aside, remembering something, then smiled and touched his forehead softly.

        “There’s no template to you. You don’t write ‘by the rules.’ You do it not because ‘you have to.’ This is your strength. Not in imaginary worlds, but in how deeply and genuinely you feel.”

        He smiled faintly, looked her in the eyes, and added, “Deeply, huh?”

        Eva rolled her eyes and, with a slight smile, shook her head, exhaling loudly.

        Liam froze for a few seconds, lost in thought.

        “But writing… well, erotica… I don’t know. It’s not considered serious.”

        “Who says it’s not serious? Look how many people read not for the plot, but for the feeling. Not for intrigue—but for something alive. For the touch.”

      “Erotica is art, too. Just difficult. And you know how to make it honest, not vulgar.”

        Liam opened a folder on his desktop—”Erotica.” Three dozen files. He scrolled through them slowly.

        “Maybe… I should try sending it? Through a publisher. I still have that contact, Marina, the one we met at the webinar.”

        “Of course, try,” Eva said, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “But only if you promise to write with the same fire you love with.”

   “Fine,” Liam chuckled. “I’ll write a scene about how the editor, Marina, reads an erotic scene… about an editor named Marina.”

        Eva laughed and tossed the brush at him.

        “Liam… you’re incorrigible. But that’s exactly why I love you.”

        A few minutes later, Liam was already arranging all his short erotic stories into the plot of a future novel.

        Each of those stories had been written for Eva. It was how, systematically, sentence by sentence, through texts full of feeling, Liam had kindled love in Eva’s heart. He used to slip his stories into bouquets of flowers, in boxes of chocolates, hide them in her purse, and always signed them “a secret admirer with a stolen heart,” adding a postscript asking for his heart back.

        The last time he had written erotica was three years ago, after their wedding, but before they learned they both needed fertility treatment.

       Eva sat on the stool in front of a blank canvas, but she kept looking back at the “Beatrice” painting, focusing on the eyes and the shadow. Liam was rereading his old stories more than he was working on the new novel. Their typical day was hardly distinguishable from morning, afternoon, or evening, except by the names of the meals: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.