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“I’m nervous too,” Molly said, distracted by the tiny sparks and hums coursing through her hands in his, the brush of his touch. He broke them apart just as the heat crawling up her arms began reaching critical mass.

He pulled something from his pocket and offered it to her.

“I didn’t want to bring another mug, because, well, that seemed like a strange thing to bring to a restaurant, so I brought something else instead. A date felt like as good a reason as any to break something else out of the spare room.” His face contorted into a briefly indecipherable expression, wistful and grieving and terrified all at once. “I thought—I pulled this out today. I thought maybe it’s been”—he paused—“long enough. Photos, in particular, are hard for me. But this is about you.”

She took the small square from his hands and flipped it over. Contained in a Polaroid frame was a photo of her and Aster dancing, caught mid-spin as he lifted his arm and allowed her to twirl beneath it. At the point where she faced him again, Molly wore a broad smile, gazing up at him. He faced away from the camera, expression hidden. But she could see his fingers entwined with hers, posture angled entirely into her.

A geyser stung high in the back of her throat, sidestepping her sinuses, straight to a tender spot behind her eyes that blurred immediately.

“That’s from Roy and Alannah’s wedding,” Aster said, watching her carefully. “It’s our first photo together. We, uh, used to keep it on our fridge. Under the cat paw magnet from the shelter where you got—” He broke off, clearly watching her struggle. “Molly?” It wasn’t really her name. It was a question: how was she doing?

She nodded, eyes glued to the photo in her hands. An agony of dissociation nearly strangled her; the cavern between knowing and remembering grew to an impossible size.

Of all the things she could say, thank you or this is hard or it hurts so much more than I thought it might, she settled on the simplest option. “We look happy.”

He smiled wistfully. “I told you before. It was a perfect evening.”

She grieved for him, sudden and sharp, as her appointment from the day before invaded her thoughts. Irreparable. What if she could never have them back? Memories like the moment in her hands? And what if he couldn’t have them either? Forever out of step with the woman he’d shared them with. With the right context, with his help, she could know about her memories, but she still couldn’t own them.

Her fingers tightened on the photo. She couldn’t bring herself to shatter his hope.

Aster’s gaze had gone distant, almost lost. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

He shook his head, just once. A dismissive action. His hands returned to his glass.

“What is it?” she asked again.

“It was an unfair thought. Unkind. Not worth sharing.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “About me?”

“Molly, I have no intention of ruining this date.”

She squared her shoulders, unwilling to let it drop. “There isn’t a single thing about this situation that’s fair. I wouldn’t fault you for thinking so. Maybe you’d feel better if you shared it anyway.”

“Doubtful.”

“I’d like to know you,” she said. “You know—beyond you recounting our past.”

He pressed his lips together, a brow arched, perhaps waiting for her to bluff and back down. She didn’t. He conceded, inclining his head at the picture in her hands.

“That expression on your face, like you trust me? I miss it. That’s all. You’re the only person in the world who’s ever trusted me like that. And every time you look at me like you’re surprised I’m capable of something decent, or like you can’t understand a decision I’m trying to make for us, or like you only see me as this overbearing, irritating—” He cut himself off, glancing away. “It’s pretty fucking awful, to be honest. But I know that’s not your fault.”

Aster’s confession barreled into her with a force that nearly left her breathless.

How many times had she considered the novelty of his decency? Disagreed with his choices? Chafed at his overstepping? Probably more times than she could count. And he’d seen it.

“It’s daunting,” he continued, “the task of earning that trust again. I’m not even sure how I did it the first time.”

Seeing the conflict on his face, Molly wished she knew the answer.

Their meals arrived, a timely distraction, and Molly found herself treated to the distinct pleasure of watching Aster struggle with the mildest curry on the menu, gulping water and panting periodically at his dish. Molly, for her part, delighted in a vegetable-heavy green curry that was spicy enough to clear her sinuses.

She tried a new topic, something lighter. “What’s the story with the blue sofa no one will tell me?” She grinned as Aster adjusted his curry to rice ratios, heavily in favor of rice.

“Oh, no, no. That is a story you start before appetizers. A lot of stories, actually. Stacked on top of each other and wearing a royal-blue brocade trench coat.”

“Do you have one of those in your closet?”