Instinct

I don’t mean to stay.

That’s the first lie I tell myself.

After the nursery memory cracks me open, I should leave.

I should go back to the guest room.

Or the hospital.

Or somewhere that doesn’t smell like him.

Instead—

I’m still in his arms.

And neither of us moves.

His hand is at my back.

Warm.

Steady.

Not gripping.

Just… there.

Like he’s afraid I’ll fall again.

My forehead rests against his chest.

I can hear his heartbeat.

Slow.

Controlled.

Infuriatingly calm.

Mine is not.

Mine feels like it’s trying to escape my ribs.

“You can let go,” I whisper.

But I don’t move.

He notices.

“I know,” he says quietly.

But he doesn’t let go either.

Silence stretches between us.

Not hostile.

Not tense.

Just… full.

Of everything we haven’t said.

My fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

I don’t even realize I’m doing it.

Until he does.

His breath changes.

Just a fraction.

“You used to do that,” he murmurs.

My throat tightens.

“Do what?”

“That.”

I glance down.

My hand is fisted in his shirt.

Like I’m anchoring myself.

Like I’m afraid he’ll disappear.

Heat creeps up my neck.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

There’s no teasing in his voice.

No arrogance.

Just memory.

I pull my hand back quickly.

Space floods in where warmth was.

The absence is immediate.

And unwanted.

He steps back first this time.

Controlled.

Measured.

“Sit,” he says gently.

Not commanding.

Concerned.

I sit on the edge of the couch in his study.

My body feels exhausted.

Like I’ve run miles.

Grief is physical.

Remembering is worse.

He kneels in front of me.

Not dominant.

Not towering.

Just eye level.

His hands hover near my knees.

Not touching.

Waiting.

“I don’t want you to push yourself tonight,” he says quietly.

“I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

“No.”

His gaze softens slightly.

“I said you’ve been through enough.”

The difference hits me.

I swallow.

“You talk differently than Marcus.”

The moment the name leaves my mouth, something shifts.

Not anger.

But restraint.

“How?” he asks evenly.

“He would tell me to calm down.”

“And I don’t?”

“No.”

“What do I do?”

“You wait.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“I learned.”

“From me?”

“Yes.”

The vulnerability in that admission unsettles me.

“You changed for me?”

“I adjusted.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

Silence again.

Heavy.

But not unbearable.

“I don’t remember loving you,” I say suddenly.

The words hang between us.

Raw.

Honest.

His expression doesn’t break.

“I know.”

“That must hurt.”

“It does.”

My chest tightens.

“Then why aren’t you angry?”

“Because you didn’t choose to forget.”

“I still forgot.”

“Yes.”

“And that doesn’t make you resent me?”

His gaze holds mine steadily.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I remember enough for both of us.”

The words hit somewhere deep.

Somewhere I don’t have access to yet.

“Tell me something,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Something small.”

His brows knit slightly.

“Small?”

“Not the betrayal. Not the miscarriage. Not the divorce.”

I swallow.

“Something… normal.”

Something that proves we weren’t just tragedy.

He studies me carefully.

Then—

“You hate sleeping with socks on.”

I blink.

“What?”

“You say it makes you feel trapped.”

I stare at him.

“I do?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You threw a pair at me once.”

My lips twitch despite myself.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“When?”

“Third month of marriage.”

The word marriage lands strangely now.

Intimate.

Real.

“What happened?”

“I tried to warm your feet.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“And?”

“You told me if I ever forced socks on you again, you’d file for divorce.”

My mouth falls open slightly.

“That sounds dramatic.”

“You are dramatic.”

I almost smile.

Almost.

“What else?” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“You hum when you’re stressed.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“What do I hum?”

“Whatever song you’re pretending you don’t like.”

My heart skips slightly.

“That’s very specific.”

“You’re very predictable.”

I exhale shakily.

“Tell me something bigger.”

His gaze shifts slightly.

More careful now.

“You fall asleep faster when I’m touching you.”

The air changes instantly.

My pulse quickens.

“That’s not small.”

“It is to me.”

His voice is calm.

Too calm.

“You don’t like silence at night.”

“I thought I did.”

“You say you do.”

“And?”

“You don’t.”

I swallow.

“And you know that?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

He hesitates.

Just briefly.

“Because the only time you slept through the night after the hospital…”

His eyes soften.

“…was when I held you.”

The words hit like warmth spreading under cold skin.

My breath catches.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Silence stretches.

Charged now.

Different.

My body feels aware.

Of him.

Of the space between us.

Of how close we’re sitting.

“You shouldn’t tell me things like that,” I whisper.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t remember them.”

His voice lowers slightly.

“You don’t have to remember to feel.”

The statement lingers.

Dangerous.

I shift slightly on the couch.

My knee brushes his.

It’s accidental.

But neither of us moves away.

My skin tingles where we touch.

Ridiculous.

It’s just contact.

Just fabric against fabric.

But my body reacts.

And he notices.

His gaze drops briefly.

Then lifts again.

Controlled.

Always controlled.

“You’re reacting,” he says quietly.

“To what?”

“To me.”

Heat floods my face.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“That’s inappropriate.”

“We’re married.”

The reminder hits differently now.

Not like a trap.

More like a fact.

“You’re very calm about this,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“You look calm.”

“I’m disciplined.”

The honesty sends a small shiver down my spine.

“Disciplined about what?”

He holds my gaze.

“Not touching you the way I want to.”

My breath stutters.

The air thickens instantly.

“That’s unfair,” I whisper.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t remember giving you permission.”

His voice softens slightly.

“And I won’t assume it.”

The respect in that answer makes my chest tighten.

“You could,” I say quietly.

“I won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not trying to win you.”

The words land heavier than anything else tonight.

“Then what are you trying to do?”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“I’m trying to wait for you.”

Something inside me shifts.

Not memory.

Not yet.

But instinct.

Because for a brief, disorienting second—

I imagine leaning forward.

Closing the distance.

Testing what my body already seems to know.

And that thought terrifies me.

Because it doesn’t feel forced.

It feels natural.

My fingers twitch slightly at my side.

His eyes drop to them.

He notices everything.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“I’m not moving.”

“I know.”

But I am.

Inside.

There’s a pull.

Subtle.

Quiet.

But there.

And I don’t know if it’s memory—

Or something new being born.

“Alessa,” he says softly.

The way he says my name—

Not Alessandra.

Not Mrs. Reyes.

Just Alessa.

Like it belongs to him.

Like it belongs to us.

My stomach flips.

“You used to look at me like this,” he says quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like you were deciding something dangerous.”

My breath catches.

“And what did I decide?”

His voice drops.

“To trust me.”

The words settle in my chest.

Heavy.

Fragile.

And suddenly—

I don’t know if I’m afraid of remembering.

Or of falling for him without remembering at all.

Because as he stands slowly—

As he steps back to give me space—

My body leans forward.

Just slightly.

Instinct.

Not thought.

And we both notice.

⸻

Because tonight—

For the first time—

I didn’t feel like he was a stranger.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.