“Stop if it begins to hurt.”
“There was a path behind the cottage.”
“Along the cliff.”
“You told me you loved me.”
My throat closed.
“Not for the first time,” he said.
“No.”
“It felt like you’d already said it a thousand times.”
“Probably several hundred.”
His face warmed for another reason.
“There was a green quilt on the bed.”
I stayed still.
“And a bath beneath the window.”
“Yes.”
His breath became ragged.
“I remember your hands.”
I did not ask where.
The answer was written across his face.
His gaze dropped.
“Not all of it. Pieces.”
“That is enough.”
“I remember wanting you.”
The words were nearly soundless.
“I remember it aching. Not pain exactly. I wanted you so much it felt like too much for my body.”
Heat moved through me, but I kept my voice calm.
“Do you feel safe inside the memory?”
“Yes.”
“Any fear?”
“No.”
“Then let it remain what it is. A memory does not obligate you to repeat it.”
