What followed was not a rush but a liturgy. Conley’s hands were adept and gentle, the way of someone who loves not to own but to learn the map of another. He began at my shoulders, thumbs pressing out the day’s stiffness, his rhythm a quiet protocol that asked nothing and offered everything. Angel moved with equal tenderness, her hands tracing the lines that worry had carved and soothing them with the easy confidence of someone who knows how to mend.
There were moments when the world’s voice crept in—the residue of headlines, the aftertaste of anonymous envelopes—but we had rehearsed how to answer that: a squeeze of the hand, a whispered word, the agreed signal that would pull us away if a public moment intruded. Tonight none of that was necessary. The taste of wine and the salt on our sk
