Day One
The bottle arrived next afternoon.
Mark took two capsules after dinner. Sat on the back patio. Waited.
Twenty-one minutes.
Then—a shift. Like someone adjusted his blood's oxygen content. The fog in his head lifted. The 7 PM exhaustion didn't come.
Sarah noticed. "You seem different."
"I feel different."
That night he couldn't sleep. But not from anxiety.
From hope.
Day Three
Saturday morning. 6:47 AM.
Mark woke up hard. Morning wood. Full. Firm. First time in eight months.
He touched Sarah's shoulder.
She opened her eyes. Saw his expression. "Really?"
Her hand slid down. Felt him.
Her breath caught. "Mark..."
Her eyes filled with tears.
They made love. It wasn't perfect—his mind tried to spiral. But his body worked.
Afterward, Sarah cried against his chest. "I thought we were done. I thought you didn't want me anymore."
"I never stopped wanting you."
Week Two
Tuesday evening. Sarah chopping vegetables. Mark wrapped his arms around her waist.
She turned. Saw something in his eyes.
She turned off the stove. Took his hand. Led him to the bedroom.
No pills. No planning. Just spontaneous intimacy.
Halfway through, Mark realized: he wasn't thinking about failing. Wasn't monitoring. Wasn't running contingency plans.
Just present. With his wife.
The performance anxiety was losing its grip.
Week Three
Friday night. Sarah's hand on his thigh. Higher.
His old anxiety tried: What if you can't—
But the thought had no power. His body had proven three weeks straight it worked.
The fear couldn't survive that evidence.
Afterward, she traced circles on his chest. "I missed this. I missed us."
They started touching again. Holding hands. Kissing for no reason. Sitting close.
The wall built by six months of failure was crumblin