Then he began to laugh.
“What?”
“The research had practical value.”
“I’m pleased your afternoon was academically rigorous.”
“I didn’t complete the curriculum.”
“Tomorrow.”
He lifted his head.
“Are you serious?”
“Within the boundaries of medical sense.”
His smile softened.
“Did you miss this?”
“Sex?”
“This version of me. Wanting you without having to fight myself first.”
I thought before answering.
“Yes.”
Pain flickered across his face.
I touched his cheek.
“I missed desire being easy between us,” I said. “I never missed it more than I valued keeping you safe.”
“Both can be true.”
“Yes.”
He looked down at our disordered clothes and the evidence of what we had shared.
“I don’t feel like I’m borrowing his desire now.”
“Whose?”
“The man I was before the accident.”
My chest tightened.
“This belonged to me,” he said.
“Yes.”
“He can keep the memories.”
The eye I could see shone.
“I’ll keep everything else.”
