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He’s alive. There’s a visceral pleasure to it.

The smell of salt on his skin too. God, it feels good to be this close.

The rest of the world tries to fade away, but I stay strong. I stay on mission.

“We can do that later,” he says.

“I’m not joking,” I say.

He nods in a way that can only mean one thing: I know. “Do you think I sit around staring at old pictures, telling myself you curse the day you had to betray me?” His voice says he doesn’t.

But the hurt in his dark eyes betrays him.

He does ask himself if I ever loved him.

How much it hurt me.

The truth is, I try not to think about him. I try to live without regret.

And I don’t regret it. Not exactly. It went down the way it had too.

But I do wish it could have been different. That I could have had more time with him. Or made it easier.

“Okay,” I say. “One hour like old times for one hour of brutal honestly. Deal.” I offer my hand.

He shakes. “How do you want to start?”

“Will you look at me like you used to?” I let my hand fall until it’s close to his.

My fingers brush his. His brush back.

He looks at me with confusion in his eyes. Like he doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know what this is.

I don’t either.

I only know I need it. And that’s enough. I close my eyes and run my fingers over his.

He brings his hand to my cheek, runs his thumb over my chin. “What happened back there?” he asks.

“Can we save that for your hour?” I say. “Right now, I just want to feel safe.” My voice is all vulnerability. Because we are pretending this is old times. Because this might be the last time.

I might have to kill him over whatever is on that laptop.

I rest my head on his shoulder. Breathe in the scent of his skin.

Lime and mint and Matteo.

Is there anything better?

“Can we go to bed?” I curl my fingers into his neck.

He lets out a soft groan, like he’s as hungry for my touch as I am for his.

He’s different now.

Even more compelling.

“I’d like to have my way with you,” I say. “If you’re up for that.”