I just hope it won’t fracture the trust Vince has started to give me. I mean, he was only starting to open up. I don’t want to jeopardize that.
In the kitchen, I pull out the casserole I made last night and reheat it in the oven.
When Vince doesn’t come up on his own, I wipe my palms on a dish towel and grab my phone to text him.
Come up for dinner. We’ll pretend it never happened.
I laugh as I set the phone down. Pretend it never happened? Yeah, sure. If I can find a way to erase it from my bloodstream.
Bones wiggles excitedly at the back door a few minutes later. I look out the window, relieved to see Vince walking up the stone path, hands in his pockets. He looks freshly showered, skin damp, and wearing soft pants that hug his perfect thighs.
But he looks relaxed in a way I’ve never seen him before. Lighter. Calmer. Almost relieved.
It’s a really good look on him.
He steps inside and closes the door. For a second, neither of us speak. Then a bubble of laughter breaks out of me before I can stop it—the kind that curls me forward and forces the air out of my lungs. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s hopeless.
“I’m sorry! It’s just… did that really happen?”
Vince tries to scowl, but a rough snort slips out of him. Then we’re both gone—bent over the counter, shoulders shaking as we wipe tears from our eyes.
“Okay,” I manage when I can finally breathe again. “Yeah, I think we can both say rescuing sex toys wasn’t in the plan here, but hey. Whatever, right?”
Vince snorts again, his cheeks flaming.
I shake my head, feeling a thousand times better. “Anyway, ready for dinner?”
We sit at the table, and I serve us plates of the reheated casserole. The normalcy feels almost surreal after everything that happened. But halfway through the meal, I can almost see the tension creeping back into Vince. The way his shoulders tighten and his eyes drop to his plate, like his mind is a million miles away.
I hate it. I hate seeing him retreat into himself.
And more than that, I don’t understand it. It shouldn’t be a big deal. So what if he used a toy? He should know I don’t care about that.
I squeeze his shoulder as I take our dishes to the sink, then pour us some wine. We move to the couch, and I open my mouth to suggest putting on a movie, but notice the way Vince has folded inward. He’s quiet. Too quiet. The weight of something unsaid presses into the room.
I set the remote aside and wait patiently.
He spins the stemless wine glass in his hand before saying, “So, I think I’ve figured out a new symptom of my MS.”
My stomach drops.That’swhere his mind is? After what happened?
“Oh?”
He focuses intently on his hands, and his voice becomes softer than I’ve ever heard from him. “I couldn’t… um, feel myself. I mean it literally. I couldn’t feel my hand around… I couldn’t feel anything except these tingles.” He holds one hand up, staring at it like it’s something foreign.
My breath catches. Is he saying he couldn’t feel his dick? Oh, man. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. To not feel the most intimate part of my body.
Vince looks miserable, even humiliated. Like admitting this makes him feel less of a man.
His vulnerability makes my heart twist.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe. “That must’ve been terrifying.”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “It was.”
I reach out without thinking, resting a hand on his shoulder. He tenses at first, then slowly eases under the touch. My thumb rubs once.
“That’s why I was using the toy,” he says quietly. “I needed… more. Something that could break through that, you know?”
