The test sat on the bathroom counter like a loaded gun.
Two pink lines, bold and undeniable, glowing under the single bulb they still hadn't replaced. Elara stared at it for a full minute before her knees buckled. She sank to the cool tile floor, back against the claw-foot tub, the plastic stick clutched in fingers that suddenly felt too small.
Nova was in the courtyard sketching the new agave bed. Elara could hear the scratch of a pencil on paper, Flash weaving between her ankles, demanding dinner.
They were thirty-one days late. They had blamed stress, heat, the new birth control that was supposed to be "ninety-nine per cent effective with perfect use." Apparently, they had been the one per cent.
Elara's hands shook as she opened the darkroom door (the second bedroom still smelled faintly of developer even though she shot digital now). She grabbed the old Leica, the one from college, loaded a roll of black-and-white film out of muscle memory, and shot the test strip against the red safelight. The lines looked radioactive.
She developed it herself, hands moving on autopilot. The image bloomed in the tray: two stark lines on a white rectangle, floating in chemical darkness. She hung it to dry beside a print of Nova asleep under desert stars from last summer.
Then she walked to the courtyard on legs that didn't feel attached.
Nova looked up, pencil pausing. "You okay? You're pale."
Elara handed her the print.
Nova studied it, brow furrowing, then recognition slammed in. The pencil dropped. "No."
Elara nodded.
Nova stood slowly, as the world had tilted. "You're sure?"
"Three tests. And the film doesn't lie."
Nova's eyes filled. She laughed once, sharp and disbelieving, then pulled Elara into her arms so hard they almost fell into the agave. "We're having a baby."
Elara burst into tears against her neck. "We're having a baby."
The first trimester was hell disguised as a miracle.
Elara vomited at the smell of coffee, garlic, Nova's shampoo, and her own skin. She lost eight pounds. Nova carried saltines in every pocket, held her hair at 3 a.m., rubbed her back while she dry-heaved into the toilet they had painted turquoise together.
They fought about stupid things. Elara cried because the succulents looked "judgy." Nova cried because Elara wouldn't let her carry the laundry basket up the stairs.
Sex became careful, then impossible, then careful again. Nova is terrified of hurting them both. Elara was ravenous and repulsed in the same breath.
One night at ten weeks, Elara woke Nova with desperate hands under the sheet. "I need you. Now."
Nova hesitated. "The doctor said—"
"I'm not made of glass." Elara rolled on top, straddled her wife, and guided Nova's fingers inside. "Slow. Just. Please."
Nova moved gently, thumb on clit, fingers curled shallow. Elara came in under a minute, sobbing into Nova's neck from relief and hormones and terror.
After that, they found a rhythm. Side-lying spooning, Nova behind, fingers in lazy circles, Elara's growing belly cradled in her palm. Or Elara on her back, pillows propping her hips, Nova's mouth soft on her breasts (already tender, already changing), fingers careful and reverent.
They told no one for twelve weeks. Kept the secret like the first hidden prints.
At the anatomy scan, they learned it was a girl. The tech asked if they wanted to know. Nova squeezed Elara's hand so hard the rings left marks.
"A daughter," Nova whispered in the dark parking lot afterwards, forehead against Elara's. "We're having a daughter."
They made love in the van that night (parked in the driveway like always), windows fogged, Nova on her knees between Elara's legs, belly between them like a promise. Elara came quietly, hand over her mouth, tears mixing with sweat.
They named her Sol. Sol Reyes-Quinn. Sun. Because she was conceived under desert stars and announced herself glowing in the dark.
The casita transformed. The darkroom became a nursery: walls painted soft sage, a mobile of tiny cameras and track spikes Nova built from scrap metal. Elara photographed every stage: the first flutter, the first real kick that made Nova cry in the middle of the grocery store, the belly that outgrew all her clothes.
They fought about money again. Diapers were expensive. Nova took extra consulting gigs. Elara shot more weddings than her body wanted. They made up on the courtyard mattress, Nova's mouth on Elara's swollen breasts, fingers gentle inside, Elara coming with her wife's name a prayer.
Abuela and Elara's aunt descended at thirty-six weeks like a two-woman army. They took over the kitchen, argued over old wives' tales, rubbed Elara's feet, and threatened Nova with wooden spoons if she didn't rest.
Labour started at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday in October.
Elara woke to a contraction that felt like the world cracking open. Water broke in the bed they had made love in the night before. Nova drove to the birth centre white-knuckled, Elara breathing through contractions in the passenger seat, hand gripping Nova's thigh hard enough to bruise.
Twelve hours. Elara walked the garden paths between surges, Nova behind her, hands on her hips, whispering "you're doing it, you're doing it" like a mantra.
In the birthing tub, water warm, Nova is in a sports bra behind her, holding her up. Elara pushed and roared and cried. Nova cried harder.
At 3:42 p.m., Sol came into the world screaming, with dark hair and fists already clenched like she was ready to fight or love or both.
Nova caught her first, hands shaking, and placed her on Elara's chest. Skin to skin. Tiny heartbeat against Elara's. Rings touching Sol's back.
They stayed in the birth centre for three days. Nova never left. Slept in the recliner, changed the first diaper with trembling fingers, stared at Sol like she was a miracle she didn't deserve.
Back home, the casita smelled like baby and desert rain. Flash and Shutter inspected the new human with suspicion, then claimed the bassinet as their own.
The first night, Sol cluster-fed until dawn. Elara's nipples cracked and bled. Nova held ice packs and cried with her. They made love for the first time at six weeks postpartum: slow, careful, Elara on top, Nova's hands gentle on her hips, tears in both their eyes from overwhelm and love.
Sleep became a myth. Sex became quick and quiet in the shower while Sol napped. Nova's mouth on Elara's breast, drinking what Sol didn't, fingers inside slowly. Elara came with her forehead against the tile, whispering, "I love you" like a lifeline.
Sol grew. Smiled at six weeks. Laughed at four months. Rolled over. Sat up. Her first word was "mama" directed at both of them indiscriminately.
They renewed their vows again on the rooftop for Sol's first birthday. Drove to Vireo with a toddler in the backseat singing made-up songs. Sol wore a tiny green dress and clutched a grape ring pop like a torch.
On the roof, under the same sky, they promised again. This time with Sol between them, sticky fingers in both their hair.
Back in Truth or Consequences, the casita grew too. They added a studio in the back for Elara, a greenhouse for Nova's plants. Sol learned to walk in the courtyard, chasing cats, falling into succulents, laughing like the world was hers.
Nights, when Sol finally slept, they reclaimed each other. Nova is tying Elara to the headboard with the same fairy lights, mouth and fingers worshipful. Elara riding Nova's face in the darkroom, safelight glowing, coming with developer still on her fingers.
They fought still. About sleep training. About whose turn it was to do the dishes. About the way exhaustion made them sharp.
They made up the same way: bodies first, words later.
The positive that glowed in the dark had changed everything.
And nothing.
They were still the girls from the rooftop.
Just with stretch marks and lullabies and a tiny human who called them both mama.
The home they carried grew roots, then branches, then fruit.
And the honeymoon, somehow, impossibly, kept going.