Muscle memory.
Instinct.
Traitorous familiarity.
It remembered him.
The way my body once responded automatically to his presence.
Even now — even after everything — that memory existed.
My mind screamed at me.
Hate him.
He destroyed your life.
He took your freedom.
He cost you your child.
But my body remained still.
Unresisting. Unmoved.
Because emotions and instinct do not always align.
His breath was uneven.
Ragged.
His pupils were dilated — darker than before.
He searched my face for something.
Forgiveness?
Rejection?
A crack in my armor?
I didn’t give him any of it.
I stared at him — expression unreadable.
“What was that?” I asked quietly.
His thumb still rested near my jaw.
For a second — just a second — vulnerability crossed his features.
I lowered my gaze.
Saw the unmistakable bulge straining against his trousers.
When I lifted my eyes again, he groaned—low, tortured—and slammed his mouth back to mine.
His hands tightened around my waist, fingers digging in.
