Sol turned five in the spring after the fire, the kind of bright desert morning that made the rebuilt casita glow as it had never burned. She woke them at dawn, bouncing on the mattress, curls wild, demanding pancakes shaped like cameras and track spikes. Elara groaned into the pillow. Nova laughed, scooped her up, and carried her to the kitchen where abuela's old griddle waited.
They spoiled her rotten. A party in the courtyard with the whole town: kids from the youth centre chasing bubbles through the heart-shaped succulents, Lupe grilling carne asada, Miss Connie in a caftan reading tarot for tipsy parents. Sol opened presents until she drowned in wrapping paper: a tiny Leica from Elara, running shoes with lights from Nova, and a kitten backpack from abuela.
That night, after Sol crashed sugar-high in her skylight room, Elara and Nova collapsed on the new velvet couch, wine glasses in hand, rings catching candlelight.
"She's five," Elara said, voice soft with wonder.
Nova leaned her head on Elara's shoulder. "We made it through the terrible twos, threes, and fours. Think we get a break?"
Elara snorted. "With our luck? No."
They made love slowly on the couch, clothes peeled, Nova's mouth on Elara's breasts, fingers tracing stretch marks like maps. Elara rode her wife's thigh, grinding steadily, coming with her face buried in Nova's neck, breathing in the smell of a smoke-free home.
Summer settled hot and quiet. Sol started kindergarten prep at the queer co-op. Nova's park designs won national awards. Elara's Fire Series exhibited in Santa Fe, sold out on opening night.
They thrived. Or pretended to.
The ache started small. A whisper during Sol's naps. Elara in the darkroom developing old negatives, finding one from the original dorm: Nova changing, flash accidental, body luminous. She stared too long.
Nova caught her once. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Elara tucked it away.
But the nothing grew.
By fall, Sol six, the casita felt full and empty at once. Sol on school days. Nova consulting in Albuquerque three days a week. Elara's weddings are seasonal.
They filled the quiet with sex. Rougher now. Nova is tying Elara to the new headboard, spanking until her skin is sore, then fucking her with the strap hard enough to rattle the frame. Elara pinning Nova face-down, biting her shoulders, fingers in her ass and cunt until Nova sobbed into the pillow.
They came hard, held harder, but the quiet crept back.
One night in October, wind rattling the new windows, Elara said it aloud.
"I miss the loft."
Nova stilled beside her. "The apartment?"
"The one in the arts district. Before Sol. Before the fire. When it was just us and the city and the road calling."
Nova's voice is small. "We have Sol."
"I know." Elara rolled toward her. "And I love her more than breathing. But sometimes I miss when breathing was just us."
Silence thick.
Nova traced Elara's ring. "You want to leave?"
"No." Elara's eyes filled. "I want to remember why we stayed."
They made love desperately that night. Nova on her knees, eating Elara against the bedroom door, fingers curled deep, Elara coming with her back scraping paint. Elara returned it to the floor, Nova's legs over her shoulders, tongue relentless until Nova squirted, soaking the rug they had bought to replace the burned one.
After, curled tight.
"We could go back," Nova whispered. "Just us. Weekend. Leave Sol with abuela."
Elara's heart raced. "Vireo?"
"The loft's probably rented. But the city's still there."
They booked it secretly. Told Sol a "work trip." Abuela flew in suspicious but smiling.
Friday night drive north. The van loaded light: Leica, sketchbook, strap, fairy lights. Flash and Shutter left pouting.
Vireo City hit like memory made solid. Glass towers taller. Streets louder. They found a short-term rental in the arts district, not the old loft but close enough: exposed brick, high windows, fire escape view.
They christened it immediate. Door barely shut, Nova pushed Elara against the brick, hands under her shirt, mouth hungry. Clothes ripped. Elara on the kitchen island, legs spread, Nova's tongue and fingers until she came screaming the old code word: pineapple.
They explored the city like newlyweds again. Underground clubs where the bass thumped were familiar. Rooftops unlocked by new guards. They fucked on one, Nova bent over the ledge, Elara behind with the strap, city lights blurring with tears.
Saturday they visited Hawthorne Hall. Snuck to the roof. The spot where the grape ring pop happened was marked with a tiny plaque someone had bolted: *Here love said yes. 2022.*
They laughed. Cried. Made love on a blanket, slow and reverent, rings old and new stacked, coming with the wind that started it all.
On Sunday, they drove to the old apartment building. Stood outside. New tenants' lights are on. They kissed on the sidewalk like kids.
Back in the rental, last night. They strung fairy lights across the ceiling, made love under them like the dorm days: Nova tied spread, Elara edging with mouth and toys, denying until Nova begged in verses from the old slam.
Elara untied her, let Nova dominate: spanking, biting, strap punishing. Elara came sobbing.
Monday's drive home was quiet. Sol is waiting with Abuela, arms open.
The ache eased. Not gone. But named.
They hung a new print in the casita: the plaque on the rooftop, their shadows kissing below it.
The loft echoed empty no more.
It lived in them.
The home they returned to was fuller.