Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] The first night without them, the house feels wrong. Too quiet, too clean, too much empty space where chaos should be. Liam and I eat dinner at nine PM-luxurious adult timing that feels decadent and slightly wrong. No interruptions, no negotiations about eating vegetables, no tiny hands reaching for food they absolutely will not eat anyway. Just us, talking across the table like actual adults having an actual conversation. I keep listening for them. Their laughter from upstairs, their fighting over toys, their inevitable demands for water or bathroom or one more story.

But there's only silence and Liam's steady presence and the strange reality that I'm just a woman right now. Not a mother. "This is weird," I admit, pushing pasta around my plate. "Weird how?" Liam refills my wine glass-another luxury, drinking without watching the clock. "I'd forgotten what it's like. To have a full conversation without being interrupted. To eat a meal that isn't chicken nuggets." I sip the wine, let it warm my chest. "To just be me." "You're always you." His foot finds mine under the table, familiar intimacy. "No. I'm always Mom.

There's a difference." The admission feels guilty. "Is it terrible that I'm enjoying this?" "It's human." He reaches across the table, takes my hand. "You're allowed to miss them and also appreciate the break." The permission helps, but guilt lingers. Good mothers shouldn't enjoy their children's absence. Right? The second day, I wake at ten AM. Ten. A time I haven't seen since before pregnancy, since before my life became alarm clocks and tiny humans demanding breakfast. Liam's still asleep beside me, and for a moment I just watch him.

The peace on his face, the way morning light catches his features. My fiancé-no, not yet. My boyfriend. My partner. My person. He wakes to me staring. "Creepy." "Observant." I grin. "It's ten AM." "No." He checks his phone, shocked. "That's not possible." "Very possible." I stretch, luxuriate in the absence of tiny feet kicking me awake. "What do we do with ourselves?" "Whatever we want. We're adults with no responsibilities for five more days." He pulls me closer, and his hand slides under my shirt. "I have some ideas." Two hours later, we're eating breakfast on the porch.

Coffee that's still hot, food that hasn't been picked over by small fingers. The morning is warm and lazy and utterly perfect. "We should do something today," Liam suggests. "Not waste this freedom." "Like what?" "Act like we're dating." He grins over his coffee mug. "Remember dating? When we dressed up and went places and pretended to be sophisticated?" "Vaguely." I lean back, consider the proposal. "You mean go into the city? Like actual adults?" "Exactly like actual adults." We go into the city-something we haven't done in months, maybe longer.

The art museum first, wandering through galleries without rushing or worrying about bored children touching priceless paintings. Lunch at a café where the menu doesn't include a kids' section. Browsing bookstores, stopping to kiss on street corners, laughing at stupid jokes that only make sense to us. I'm wearing a dress and heels-not the mom-uniform of yoga pants and sneakers that's become my default. Liam can't stop looking at me like I'm the only woman in the world. Maybe in his world, I am. "I forgot how much I like you," I tease, stopping outside a bookstore.

"Just like?" He backs me against the wall, crowds into my space. "Love. How much I love you without distraction." I thread my fingers through his hair. "When it's just us." "Feeling's mutual." He kisses me thoroughly, deep and unhurried. People walk past but I don't care. This moment-this freedom to kiss him in broad daylight without little voices asking what we're doing-feels revolutionary. That night: fancy dinner at a restaurant with cloth napkins and wine pairings.

No bedtime deadline, no need to rush home for bath and stories and the endless negotiations that come with putting six-year-olds to sleep. We come home and have sex on the couch. Unhurried, exploratory, the kind of sex you can't have when you're listening for footsteps on stairs. Then the kitchen counter. Then finally the bedroom, where we collapse breathless and satisfied. "Why don't we do this more often?" I gasp against his shoulder. "Because we have two cockblockers under our roof." His laugh rumbles through his chest into mine. The crudeness makes me laugh harder.

"That's terrible." "But accurate." He pulls me closer. "I love our girls. But I also love this. Just us." "Me too." I trace patterns on his chest. "We should do this more often. Regular date nights." "Agreed." He kisses my forehead. "Once a month. Mandatory." "Deal." The fourth day, we take a spontaneous road trip. Drive to the coast just because we can, walk the beach without worrying about sunscreen reapplication or bathroom emergencies. Eat lobster rolls at a shack with picnic tables, lick butter from our fingers like teenagers. We talk about everything and nothing.

Plans for the future, dreams we've put on hold, fears we haven't voiced. It's the kind of conversation that requires hours of uninterrupted time-the kind we never have at home. "I want to marry you," Liam says suddenly. We're sitting on rocks, watching waves crash against the shore. The statement lands casual but weighted. "Liam-" "I know. July. You said ask me again in July." He's still watching the ocean, not looking at me. "It's July." I laugh despite the emotion rising in my throat.

"I meant end of July." "So that's not a no?" He finally turns, and the hope in his face makes my chest ache. I look at this man. Patient when I'm chaotic, steady when I'm spiraling, mine in ways I never thought I'd get to claim anyone. The person who stayed when others left, who chose me completely when I thought I was too complicated to choose. "Ask me properly. When we get home. With the girls there." The words come certain, clear. "Really?" His expression shifts from hope to joy so fast it's almost comical. "Really." I lean into him. "They should be part of it.

This affects all of us." "You're saying yes." It's not a question, but there's wonder in his voice. "I'm saying ask me properly and find out." I kiss him, taste salt air and future and promise. His smile could power cities. "I can do that." We sit on those rocks until sunset paints the sky orange and pink. The girls would love this-would squeal about colors, demand to wade in the water, collect shells we'd have to carry home. But tonight it's just us, and that feels perfect too. "Five more days," I murmur against his shoulder. "Then we get our girls back. And I propose properly.

And we start planning our life." He says it with such certainty, like he's already seen our future and knows it works. "Our life." I test the phrase. "I like the sound of that." "Me too." His arm tightens around me. "I really do." "Thank you," I say suddenly. "For what?" "For this. For giving me space to just be. For not making me feel guilty about enjoying our time alone." I reach for his hand on the console. "For being patient while I figure out who I am outside of motherhood." "You're Jasmine." He squeezes my fingers. "Mother, songwriter, partner. All of it simultaneously.

You don't have to choose." But I have been choosing-putting motherhood first for six years, sublimating everything else to their needs. This week reminded me that I'm still a person. Still a woman with desires and dreams that don't revolve around bedtime routines. "One more day," Liam says as we pull into our driveway. "Then they come home and life returns to beautiful chaos." "Beautiful chaos." I like the phrase. "That's exactly what it is." We go inside our quiet house, and I don't feel guilty about appreciating the silence. Tomorrow I'll miss them desperately.

Tomorrow I'll count hours until pickup. But tonight, I'll be grateful for this-for Liam, for space, for remembering who I am when I'm not just Mom. And tomorrow, I'll be ready to be both again. Virgin Dot Com