She explained that pleasure wasn't something separate from safety; it was something the nervous system relearns when it stops associating closeness only with threat. Even neutralor slightly pleasant sensations were important because they created contrast, evidence that touch could exist without harm.
She guided me through grounding exercises slowly, teaching me how to stay present inside moments instead of abandoning myself the second vulnerability appeared. Some days it was as simple as breathing steadily while maintaining eye contact. Other days she would place objects with different textures into my hands and ask me to focus on sensation instead of anticipation, on what was actually happening instead of what my body feared might happen.
"You are allowed to experience affection without earning it first," she told me quietly that afternoon. "And you are allowed to want things too."
The words followed me long after I left. By the time I arrived at Bramwell's house that evening, the rain had stopped, and before I had even knocked properly the front door opened.
Alice smiled immediately when she saw me. "There you are, sweetheart."
Something in my chest still tightened every time she called me that.
She pulled me gently inside before the cold could follow me through the doorway, already taking my coat from my shoulders with the effortless warmth.
"Martin has been banned from helping in the kitchen. He thinks following recipes 'limits the creative spirit,'" she explained, making quotation marks with her fingers.
"I heard that," Martin called from somewhere nearby.
"And yet not a single denial," Alice replied calmly.
I walked into the dining room to find Martin leaning back in his chair. Bramwell stood near the kitchen doorway behind him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking tired and warm and unfairly beautiful in the low light.
The second he saw me his expression softened instinctively.
"There you are," he said.
Martin glanced between us and sighed in relief. "Thank God. He's been pacing like a medieval king awaiting the arrival of a plague physician."
"I was cooking," Bramwell replied.
"You opened the oven twelve times as though expecting invading forces."
I only smiled before carrying the fruit salad I had made into the kitchen. Bramwell had once told me he loved them. Dinner unfolded slowly after that, warm in the easy way their house always seemed to be. Conversation drifted between ridiculous stories from Martin's university days, Alice gently correcting half of them while laughing anyway, and Bramwell pretending increasing levels of suffering every time his father exaggerated something for dramatic effect.
At some point I realized I had relaxed completely without noticing when it happened.
I was laughing more easily now, answering questions without rehearsing every sentence first, letting silence exist without scrambling to fill it. Alice asked me about work with genuineinterest instead of politeness, and Martin somehow turned a story about grocery shopping into a ten-minute performance involving an elderly cashier who apparently "radiated organized disappointment."
Even Bramwell looked calmer watching me there. After dinner, Alice stood and began gathering plates before I could help.
"You two stay," she said immediately when I started to rise. "Martin promised to walk with me before it gets too cold."
Martin blinked once at his wife. "I did?"
"You did now." She replied.
Something suspiciously amused passed between them. Bramwell noticed it too. "You are both being extremely transparent."
"Nonsense," Alice replied serenely while putting on her coat.
Martin pointed toward Bramwell while following her toward the front door. "Do not emotionally destabilize the poor girl with geology facts while we're gone."
"No promises."
The door closed behind them a moment later, leaving the house suddenly quieter.
I looked toward Bramwell slowly. "They planned that."
"Oh, absolutely," he said. "My mother has the subtlety of a military operation."
