“Good.”
A flicker of old instinct crossed his face.
He wanted details.
I waited.
He smiled faintly.
“I’m glad.”
That was all.
I stepped out of the car.
“I want to move back.”
His eyes widened.
“But.”
He nodded immediately.
“Separate rooms.”
“Yes.”
“No touching me when I’m asleep.”
“Never.”
“Don’t say never like it’s a grand promise. Just don’t do it.”
“Okay.”
“No medical monitoring.”
“Okay.”
“If you’re frightened about something, you tell me you’re frightened. You don’t turn it into an inspection.”
“Yes.”
“And if I say no—”
He looked directly at me.
“It means no.”
I studied him.
“Even if it hurts your feelings.”
“Yes.”
“Even if you can’t sleep.”
“Yes.”
“Even if you’re terrified.”
His voice softened.
“Yes.”
I moved back that weekend.
It was not a romantic homecoming.
There were no flowers.
No dramatic embrace.
No declaration that everything had been forgiven.
Daniel carried my suitcase upstairs and asked which room I wanted.
