We shared a small look, an exchange that felt like a treaty. There would be no sudden betrayals between us—only a shared professionalism and, perhaps, a tentative understanding. It was not warmth; it was a cautious truce.
That night, my longing for Conley and my need for reparation converged into a different kind of hunger—one that had less to do with jealousy and more with reassurance. When he joined me in our bed, he held me like a man who had been given raw information and had decided to answer it with devotion. He moved through me with slow and intimate precision, and each touch felt like a deliberate marking down of a map: this is mine, this is protected, this is cherished.
By the time we fell asleep, exhausted and aligned, the house seemed to loosen its shoulders. I knew it was onl
