“Debatable.”
“Not really.”
I laugh again, and God, it feels good. The kind of good that hurts a little, because it reminds me how long it’s been since I enjoyed talking to someone, since someone paid attention because they cared, not because they wanted something from me.
And I’m so aware of Locke. Too aware.
Of the line of his jeaned thigh beside mine, almost touching. Of the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Of the way his presence fills the space without crowding it.
I’m thinking about the way his arms felt around me. About how easily my body responded to it. How quickly, how completely.
All this after three years of… nothing.
Three years of marriage that never became real, never crossed that invisible line between obligation and intimacy. Where a husband’s touch is more th
