Arrival (Ch 10)

Wherein a first visit kindles desire that transforms, and two lovers are laid open to the exquisite ache of being truly seen...and its consequences.

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The train doors hissed open into the crisp evening. Eva stepped down onto the platform, the muted roar of departing engines fading behind her. She pulled her coat tighter and scanned the crowd spilling toward the station exit.

Harold stood near the edge of the lot, framed by the wash of a street lamp—tall, composed, collar turned up against the brisk breeze. The coat lent him a kind of quiet gravity, but his smile undid it.

She walked toward him, the wheels of her roller bag clattering softly against the pavement. She let the handle go and stepped into his arms. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he bent and pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

Eva leaned back, eyebrows arched. “That’s how you greet the woman you can’t stop thinking about?”

Harold smiled, then leaned in and found her mouth. The kiss was tentative at first, then warmer—the kind of heat that suggests promise rather than urgency. When they finally broke apart, her breath ghosted the air.

She smiled, slow and knowing. Harold chuckled, took her bag, and offered his hand. Eva laced her fingers through his as they walked toward the car, footsteps blending with the wind and the clatter of departing trains.

The drive was short—fifteen minutes—but enough to remind Eva how long it had been since she’d left the city. Nearly two months, maybe more.

Spring unfurled in earnest now—green tips on branches, buds in hedgerows like secrets still debating bloom. The roads glistened from earlier rain, puddles reflecting the headlights like muted stars.

They talked easily as they drove.

“The meeting with my boss went nothing like I expected,” Eva said. “I’m being put up for promotion to Senior Tech Director.”

Harold turned to her, stunned, then grinned and squeezed her hand. “Eva, that’s incredible.”

“I’ve been working towards it for three years,” she said, eyes shining.

He squeezed her hand again. “Only two meltdown notes today. I take it the good news was distracting?”

Eva smirked. “Very. But I appreciated your responses. Even the heart-eyes emojis.”

Harold laughed. “Too sappy?”

“No,” she replied. “Just sappy enough.”

He glanced over and caught her watching him—not with pride or affection, but something that curled heat under his collar.

She raised one brow, amused. “Eyes on the road, please. I have no intention of dying before I get that title printed on a business card.”

He snapped his gaze forward just in time to veer around a low median.

“Shit,” he muttered, both hands gripping the wheel now.

Eva laughed and rested her hand on his forearm. He flexed without thinking. Her head turned slowly. She curled her hand around his bicep, and he flexed again, slightly more than before.

An impish grin spread across her face. “I pray thee, gentle mortal,” she purred, “flex again.”

Harold burst into laughter. “Oh my God, I know that reference.”

“Mine hand is much enamored of thy strength,” Eva continued with mock solemnity, giving his arm a playful squeeze. “So is mine eye enthralled to thy—” her eyes dropped briefly then raised again “—girth.”

He laughed harder, eyes watering. “Eva—please, stop. I can’t think straight, much less drive straight.”

She leaned back with a smirk and mercifully withdrew her hand, though not before brushing his cheek with her fingertips.

Minutes later, Harold pulled into a semicircular drive fronting a house nestled in shadows.

“Here we are,” he said, parking beneath the porch overhang.

He retrieved her bag while Eva stepped into the crisp night, taking in the house’s silhouette. Not quite a mansion by Greenwich standards, but certainly grand. Three gables crowned the roof, soft light glowing through leaded windows set in limestone trim. Porch lanterns spilled gold across the entry, highlighting hand-hewn railings and a double door of dark wood with arched insets.

She waited as Harold crossed to her, shoes crunching on gravel. Bag in one hand, he offered the other, and they climbed the steps together.

Inside, the foyer opened with quiet elegance. Cream-paneled walls framed a grand staircase with a polished mahogany banister curving out of sight. To the right, a formal parlor opened behind a wide archway—soft upholstered chairs, a fireplace trimmed in carved stone, and a gleaming baby grand piano. To the left, French doors opened on a study: shelves lined the walls, a leather chair beside a brass lamp, and the faint scent of old paper and lemon polish.

“Come on,” Harold said. “I’ll show you to your room.”

She followed him up, fingers trailing the banister. At the landing, he turned left down a hallway lined with crown molding and coastal watercolors.

The guest suite was quiet and spacious. A king poster bed stood centered, its dark frame carved in gentle scrollwork. Ivory linens, a muted blue throw folded at the foot. Two armchairs over by the windows, looking into the darkened yard.

Harold placed her bag on a wooden luggage rack inside the open closet.

Eva crossed and opened a second door—revealing a bathroom as well-kept as the rest of the house. Marble tile underfoot, a pedestal sink in matte gold, a glass-walled shower trimmed in brushed nickel. A soaking tub sat beneath a bay window where moonlight pooled faintly on its rim.

Harold appeared in the doorway. “Extra towels are in the hall closet. Pillows too, top shelf.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable, but soft.

“You hungry? I made butternut squash soup earlier, I could heat some up pretty quick.”

“I could eat,” she said, then smiled. “But I’d rather have a drink.”

Harold grinned. “That we can arrange.”

He walked back into the bedroom. “Come on, then.”

Eva shook her head, smiling. “I’m going to change first. I’ll be down in a bit.”

He paused, taking her in. “Find me in the salon. It’s the room with the piano.”

When his footsteps faded, the house seemed to exhale around her.

In the salon, Harold crouched before the fireplace, turned the brass key, and watched as the gas caught—blue first, then orange, until the flames licked up into steady amber tongues. The warmth spread quickly, chasing the cool of his wait at the station from his bones.

He crossed to the bar cart, shelves gleaming with bottles like stained-glass windows: Macallan Rare Cask, Carpano Antica, Blanton’s. He hesitated, then reached for the bourbon. Two fingers, then three. He poured vermouth for Eva—her velvet-sweet preference—and set the glass aside.

The fire had found its rhythm now, a soft symphony of crackle and breath. Harold carried both drinks to the generous armchairs flanking the hearth. He set hers down and sank into his own, the bourbon warming his palm before it touched his lips.

The first sip unfurled through him—smoke, oak, a faint burn that softened as it lingered. He leaned back, half-watching the flames, and let his mind drift.

He thought of her laughter in the car, that ridiculous mock-Shakespeare: I pray thee, gentle mortal, flex again. He smiled despite himself, the words replaying in her voice—half scholar, half siren. He loved that about her, the way her wit curled around intellect and desire alike, never letting one eclipse the other. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure he could forgive her for casting him as the ass.

The bourbon pressed its warmth deeper. His thoughts slipped from her words to her hands—the circle of her fingers around his arm, the gentle squeeze that startled him. It had been nothing, really. And yet it hadn’t.

He frowned faintly at the thought, a warning whisper rising in the back of his mind: Don’t fuck this up. He took a deeper sip and felt the warning dissolve in heat. What remained was her hand—warm, deliberate, wordlessly claiming—and the quiet, insistent rhythm of a much deeper muscle answering back.

A low creak interrupted his thoughts. Eva stood in the doorway, firelight brushing her frame. A wine-red robe clung to her, sash tied loose at the waist. Black stilettos gleamed like dark punctuation in the firelit room.

She stepped forward, unhurried, the hem of her robe whispering along her thighs. As she rounded the chairs and came to stand between him and the fire, Harold felt the room tilt—the heat from the hearth was nothing compared to what he felt now with her before him.

Then, wordlessly, she let the robe fall.

The silk slid off her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine. She wore sheer black thigh-highs, cinched with garters that clung to her hips like an invocation. The rest of her was bare.

Harold nearly lost his grip on the glass.

Eva drifted closer, each step measured and magnetic. The fire crackled its quiet applause. He couldn’t move. He could only stare, transfixed, as she approached like a secret he hadn’t dared speak aloud.

When she reached him, she placed a hand on each armrest, leaning in—her face inches from his, her breasts swaying, brushing the air between them. She lingered there, poised and watching, until his lips parted not in speech, but wonder.

Then, with feline grace, she lowered herself—one knee, then the other—onto the rug. Her legs spread in a languid V, hands resting on her thighs, palms down.

She held his gaze for a long, pulsing moment, basking in the awe written on his face. Then she lowered her eyes—not shyly, but with reverence.

A dull pounding stirred at Harold’s temples. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t breathing. He inhaled sharply, then exhaled rough.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice dry. “This is awkward. I didn’t have anything planned for tonight.”

He took a sip of bourbon, but it did little to steady him.

Eva’s voice slipped in, smooth and composed. “Just follow your instinct.”

Harold set the glass down and gripped the arms of the chair like ballast. His eyes locked on her—devouring every inch, again and again, as though a single look could never be enough.

“We’ve never done a scene on the fly,” he said, sounding almost apologetic.

“Then maybe,” Eva replied coolly, “it’s time we popped our improvisational cherry.”

Each syllable struck him like a spark, the plosives bright and deliberate. It set his skin alight.

“Eva…” he murmured, voice uneven, “I can barely think right now.”

“Start small. Focus on my voice. What part of me do you want to touch first?”

He latched onto her words like a lifeline. They grounded him, and his mind was drawn inevitably to her mouth. He reached out, brushing her lips. They parted, soft and yielding. An invitation.

He accepted. Two fingers—first to the knuckle, then deeper. Her lips closed around them, her practiced tongue circled and explored, unhurried. He moved gently, testing pressure. Her throat responded: she adjusted subtly, opening to him.

Then—without warning—he withdrew and brought his hand down sharply across one breast.

Eva gasped, but held position. Her spine arched deeper, chest presenting, gaze still lowered.

Harold’s voice settled into command. “Thank me for opening your throat.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said without hesitation, “for opening my throat.”

His voice dropped. “Who does your throat belong to?”

“My throat belongs to you, sir.”

“And your lips?”

“My lips belong to you, sir.”

He hesitated. “And your words, Eva?”

She exhaled shakily. “My words are your words, sir. My breath is your breath. My sighs, your sighs—”

Another strike, harder, across her other breast. Eva’s inhale broke sharply.

Harold’s restraint was unraveling, but his control was not.

“Did I ask about your breath?” Harold asked, calm. “Or your sighs?”

“No, sir,” she said. “You did not.”

He leaned forward, voice silk over steel. “You spoke out of turn. And you will be punished.”

Part of him suspected she’d baited him—elaborated on his question just to earn this. He didn’t care. She was exquisite like this: composed, trembling, almost feral beneath the polish. He was lost to it.

And worse—she had crafted it.

She wore exactly what he’d once described over text: stockings, garter belt, heels. Nothing else. His fantasy made flesh. She knew what it would do to him.

She was directing the scene. Or nudging it at least, teasing it, steering from the passenger seat. Backseat Dom’ing. The brat’s revenge.

Harold blinked hard, shook off the haze, and reached forward—both hands on her nipples, twisting slowly. She squirmed but he ignored it. The physicality helped him think.

He needed to take the reins back.

“Wait here,” he said, voice low and sure.

He strode from the room and headed up the stairs. From his closet he retrieved a blindfold of slate silk, and the soft, weighty length of a leather tawse. When he returned, she was still in the same position.

He stepped behind her and tied the blindfold snug behind her head. Her breath shifted—eager, not afraid. Then, almost absently, he picked up the glass of vermouth and lifted it to her lips.

She inhaled deeply. Sighed.

“Drink.”

She lifted the glass with both hands and took a slow sip. Then another. When she handed it back his fingers brushed hers. She licked the taste from her lips—deliberate, slow. His groin tightened.

He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to focus.

“Your punishment,” he said, stepping back into his power, “is a game. Whether it pleases or maddens remains to be seen.”

He circled her slowly as he spoke.

“In each round, you will use words to describe your desires. The more vivid, imaginative, or florid, the more you will be rewarded with tenderness. If your answer falls short—of creativity or depth—you will be struck with the tawse on a place of my choosing. Regardless, you may not move.”

He came closer.

“Any violation of stillness adds one minute of edge play. Cumulative. You will not enjoy those minutes, Eva. But you will remember them.”

She lowered her head. “Yes…I think so, sir.”

The strike came quick—another slap to her breast, sharp enough to sting.

“Not good enough,” he said. “Tell me what you don’t understand.”

Her breath caught. “I’m to speak my desires. If you approve, I am rewarded. If not, I am punished?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s correct.”

“And no matter your reaction,” she continued, “I must remain still. Even blindfolded?”

“Exactly. You must learn to anticipate. To listen. To sense.”

She nodded more confidently. “Then I understand, sir.”

“Good,” Harold said. He let the silence settle like velvet between them. “Then we begin.”

He stepped back and let the moment settle. Eva inhaled slowly. The silence wrapped around her like gauze, but beneath it, she pulsed with heat—with a need to be worthy of this attention.

“I want the rain to carve rivers down my spine,” she said, voice tentative.

Harold tilted his head. A crack erupted—leather on skin. The tawse landed across her upper back. Eva flinched inwardly but remained obedient.

“Poetic,” Harold said. “But safe. Try again.”

She took a breath, fingers tightening on her thighs.

“I want to be unstitched like a garment left too long in the sun. I want you to find the loose thread and pull until I unravel.”

His hand slid along her inner thigh—one slow stroke. Her body trembled.

“Better,” he murmured.

Her breath shifted. The pain was gone now.

“I want to linger in the corners of your mind, where your breath catches before you speak.”

Harold moved behind her and bent down. The tawse slapped against her left cheek, then the right. Eva clenched to keep still as the pain blossomed through her backside.

“Is that what you think I want to hear? Go deeper, Eva.”

Her silence lingered—not submissive, but vacant. Her shoulders tensed, breath gone thin. The change was subtle but unmistakable—the energy no longer erotic, but charged.

“I want to unlearn what it means to hold the reins. I want to feel you pry them from my hands like a burden I was never meant to bear.”

The voice that reached his ears was strange—no longer wholly hers, but something altered, echoing with a new and unfamiliar timbre.

Harold felt it then—a shift in key. He saw it in her hands, white-knuckled on her thighs—not anchoring pleasure, but bracing against collapse. The game was dissolving beneath them. What she needed now was not command, but resonance. He resolved to let the rules yield—to bend with her, and meet the moment as it changed.

His thumb brushed her cheek and traced the bottom of her lips. She struggled not to lean into it.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m tired of holding it all.”

“What does that mean, Eva?”

She shook her head. He reached forward and caught her nipple between his fingers—just enough pressure to bring her back. She drew a sharp breath, and he understood the new rule: she required that delicate alchemy of pleasure and pain to keep her balanced on the narrow edge between confession and collapse.

“Eva,” he said softly, “You can say it.”

“Because when I let go, “ she admitted, words trembling, “I lose the edges of myself—the jagged ones that slice my peace to ribbons. But—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “—if I stop holding everything together, I’ll dissolve. And no one ever loves what can’t keep its form.”

This was not fantasy; it was revelation.

Harold stepped back. “Who told you that?”

Eva’s voice wavered.

“Greg,” she said. “And others. Not in words. With choices. All the ways they nudged me to be…easier.” She shuddered again. “Less.”

Harold dropped to one knee.

“You are not less. Not now. Not ever.”

“Yes I am.” She shook her head, eyes wet behind the blindfold.

He moved without thinking. The tawse snapped again, each breast struck cleanly. Eva gasped but stayed still. Eva gasped but did not move. Harold sank to his knees before her, aware of the risk in bending the scene to his own ends. Still, he could not resist the pull of it.

“Those are lies, Eva,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Give me the truth.”

She trembled, her mind suspended in the liminal hush between awareness and abandon.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not in control,” she burst out. “Because I’m afraid no one wants me if I’m not the one holding it all together.”

Harold reached between her thighs and parted her with two fingers, circling her clit with his thumb. The contact made her jolt, hips twitching. It should have earned a reprimand, but Harold had abandoned the original game—his focus now was resonance, not regulation.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he murmured. “But you can dig deeper.”

Eva’s breath hitched repeatedly. Her body began to tremble.

“I want—” she stammered, then stopped.

“Go on,” Harold said, barely louder than a breath, fingers still moving.

Eva moaned in protest. Her mind felt like glass in a forge, softening under his insistence. She could feel herself beginning to melt, even as she ached for his approval. The silk in her voice frayed, threads catching on something harder.

“I want to stop offering my wounds like exhibits, just to earn the right to be seen.”

Harold leaned forward and took one of her nipples into his mouth, warm and deliberate. He suckled gently—then bit down sharply. Eva jolted, her cry caught between shock and arousal, strung tight on the wire of pain and pleasure.

“Stop cloaking it in mystery,” Harold said, breath shallow. “Give me honest. Raw. Give me what’s real.”

His thumb pressed harder. Too hard.

Eva cried out—a raw, guttural sound that made him flinch. Her hands fumbled upward and tore off the blindfold. She ripped off her shoes and rose, breath ragged and face flushed. What had begun as a spark had become wildfire, devouring the air between them.

“I’m not a puzzle, Harold,” she snapped, her voice slicing through him. “I’m a person. These aren’t layers you’re peeling—that’s my flesh. Your curiosity is flaying me alive.”

Harold stood, his composure cracking. “It’s not skin, it’s armor. You’ve wrapped yourself in so many layers you’ve practically mummified yourself.”

“They’re the same!” she shouted, grabbing her robe and wrapping it around her like a curtain closing on a scene. “Skin is the body’s first line of defense against intrusion, against—” she faltered, “—against the kind of assault you’re mounting right now!”

The words hung in the air like a slap.

Harold drew a slow breath. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“But you are.” Her voice cracked. “Every question, every glance like I’m some beautiful fracture you want to fix. You call it care—it feels like exposure.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“I don’t want to be understood!” she cried. “I want to be held, left intact.”

That stopped him. Silence pulsed—thick, uneven, like a third presence in the room.

Then Harold said quietly, “You’re not intact, Eva. You’re bleeding under all that skin you call protection.”

“And that gives you the right to touch it?”

“No. But it makes it hard to pretend it’s not there.”

Eva crossed her arms, holding herself together. “I feel like I’m being punished.”

“If so, you’re the one doing the punishing.”

She frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not striking blows. I’m holding up the mirror so you can see the bruises.”

Her laughter was sharp. “How convenient. Why do you get to hold the mirror? What about your bruises, Harold?”

He stiffened, but she continued. “You think you’re this calm, objective observer—but you bleed too. You just hide it better. What pushed your wife over the edge, Harold? What did she see that finally made her walk away?”

Harold’s jaw twitched. “That’s not yours to dissect.”

“Why not?” she shot back. “You’ve been dissecting me all night.”

“It’s not—” He stopped himself, and tried again. “I’m not the same.”

“No,” Eva said, trembling, “you’re worse. At least she left. You stay and study people until they break, and then you call it compassion.”

He began to pace. “You think that’s what this is? You think I want to see you hurt?”

Her chin lifted, defiant. “I think you need to. Because fixing me means you don’t have to face that you couldn’t fix her.”

He froze, breath catching like a fault line snapping.

“You want the truth?” Harold’s voice was bare. “She didn’t leave because I hurt her. She left because she finally realized she didn’t need to hold on to what we were.”

Eva’s anger flickered, reshaping into grief.

“You talk like you’ve been haunting your own life ever since she let go.”

“Maybe I have. Maybe you opened the door and let the ghost in.”

The words hung between them, hot and trembling, until neither could tell who had blurred the lines first.

Harold blinked hard, like waking from a trance. “Eva…what just happened? Where did we go wrong tonight?”

She pressed her lips. “I don’t know.”

He sighed, then laughed bitterly. “This feels like that rope session—the suspension harness. Maybe we tried to leave the ground too soon again.”

“It was my fault,” Eva said quickly. “I thought we could improvise something beautiful—”

“No, Eva—”

“—that it would bloom into something magical. That we would—”

“Eva, you have to stop blaming yourself for everything!” Harold cut in.

“My God, Harold, stop telling me how to feel!” she flung back. “If I want to take ownership for something, let me. You don’t have to shoulder every burden for me!”

“I’m not shouldering them,” he rejoined. “I’m trying to keep you from tearing yourself apart.”

“Stop pretending your discomfort is care!”

Silence shattered between them.

Harold’s jaw clenched. “You think this—whatever this is—hurts only you?” His tone was clipped, almost clinical now. “You think I didn’t walk out this morning wondering what the hell I was doing?”

“Then why keep coming back?” she demanded. “If I’m such a disaster, if all I do is break things open, then why did you invite me here?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it and exhaled.

“Oh, Eva,” he murmured. “‘Oh, the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired.’”

She blinked, shocked. “What—don’t you dare quote fucking Neruda at me!”

“Why not?” Harold snapped, restraint gone. “Because he said it better than either of us ever could? Because hating me is easier than admitting we keep dragging each other to the edge and calling it transcendence?”

“Pretending?” Her voice broke. “You think this is performance? That I’m Iago to your Othello, poisoning your faith, twisting your love into ruin?”

Harold’s eyes flickered rapidly through pain, anger, clarity. “No. You’re Othello. You mistake love for threat and strangle what you can’t control.”

Eva went still. The air turned leaden.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You think I want to destroy this?”

“I think you’re terrified of it. Of wanting it. Of wanting me.”

She didn’t back down. “Maybe I am. But at least I don’t hide behind clinical diagnoses and poetry.”

He exhaled, exasperated. “You’d rather I yell like a philistine? Fine, here it is: you exhaust me, Eva. You draw lines that twist me into restraint, insisting on boundary after boundary, only to tear them away in an instant—drenching me in everything you swore I wasn’t allowed to touch.”

Eva flinched. “That’s not fair. You think I planned my meltdown?”

“I think you can’t stand still long enough to know what you want,” he said, voice low and shaking. “One minute you’re begging for distance, the next you’re pouring your heart into my hands and daring me not to drop it.”

Eva’s eyes flared. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She laughed, cold. “The Kandinsky exhibit. You split in half. I asked for no personal sharing, but you did it anyways—and I stayed. I didn’t flinch.”

He inhaled slowly, jaw tight. “That was different.”

“Different how?” she demanded. “Because it was your pain then? You talk about boundaries like they’re my fault, but you only care about them when I’m the one breaking them.”

His voice faltered. “I told you that night because I trusted you. Because for the first time in months I didn’t feel like I was talking to a wall.”

“And I trusted you, too,” she said. “But when I stopped performing, you made me feel like I’d failed some unspoken test.”

“You didn’t fail. You just keep confusing restraint with virtue.”

“And you keep mistaking collapse for honesty.”

That stopped him.

“You think I’m the villain here,” he said, voice dangerously measured, “but I’m the one trying to keep us from burning the house down.”

She stepped closer. “Then stop striking matches.”

The room buckled under everything they’d dragged into the open. Silence throbbed with things too misshapen to name.

Harold exhaled with effort. “I think we’re done for tonight.”

Eva said nothing. She bent, retrieved her heels with trembling fingers, and rose slowly, robe cinched like armor. Without a glance back, she turned and walked out.

Harold listened to the soft tread of her bare feet on the stairs—quick, staccato steps at first, then slower, quieter, as she reached the landing. A moment later, the door to the upstairs suite clicked shut.

He stood in the salon, surrounded by the residue of what had just passed: the fading crackle of the fire, the mingled scent of bourbon and vermouth, the echo of her voice still reverberating in his chest. The silence that followed wasn’t clean. It was bruised. Dense.

He moved to the fireplace mantel and braced his hands against the cool stone, as if he could press the weight of his thoughts into it. He hadn’t meant to strip her bare. He’d told himself it was care—that pushing was devotion, that seeing her clearly, even when she didn’t want to be seen, was the truest way he knew to love.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if it was just him—always trying to solve her, to hold her up like a map, searching for patterns instead of letting her simply exist?

Your curiosity is flaying me alive.

God, that had cut.

He couldn’t shake the thought that she was right. What if this fragile, thrilling, infuriating thing between them was just another way for him to feel necessary?

Harold let his head hang, jaw tight. He wanted to go upstairs, to knock, to offer some quiet, well-phrased apology that might smooth the jagged edges. But he knew better. She didn’t need a soliloquy. She needed space.

He reached for his glass and drained it in one swallow, as if the liqueur might clear his head. It didn’t.

Upstairs, Eva sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on her thighs. The fight still echoed in her bones—sharp words and sharper silences, their collision bruising in ways neither of them could name. She’d wanted to unwind tonight, to be held open and unburdened, but Harold’s way was peeling her open like fruit to be devoured, not understood.

She shut her eyes and began to breathe—slow, deliberate, yogic breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth, just as she’d learned years ago. Minutes passed before her pulse eased, her thoughts softening at the edges.

When she opened her eyes, they landed on her overnight bag.

She rose, crossed to it, and unzipped a side pocket. Her fingers found what they sought: a folded letter, worn at the creases, its corners softened by time. She lifted it carefully, as if it might bruise. She sat again and unfolded the page.

Her eyes traced the familiar lines. And then the tears came—slow at first, then faster—until her shoulders shook and a full-body tremor overtook her. Eva reached her limit and cracked open, spilling out what had been quietly poisoning her from within.

She let it move through her. And then, as quietly as it had come, it passed.

She refolded the letter, pressed the paper flat with her palm, slipped it back into the bag, and wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. When she stood again, she was at least no longer breaking.

She began her bedtime routine without ceremony, moving through it on autopilot: face, teeth, hair. When she finally slid under the covers, she reached for her book—a translation of Eros and Pathos by Carotenuto that Harold had let her borrow. She read a few pages by the glow of the bedside lamp. But her mind kept circling, snagging, slipping.

With a tired sigh, she set the book aside and took a long drink of water. The coolness steadied her—barely.

She turned off the light and burrowed beneath the sheets, pulling the duvet up like armor, as if its weight might hold her together.

Down the hall, Harold likewise lay in bed, propped against a stack of pillows, a slim anthology of Paul Laurence Dunbar poems resting in his hands. Eva had mentioned it offhandedly weeks ago, during a late-night exchange. He’d bought a copy the next day but hadn’t opened it until now.

He wasn’t a superstitious man, but tonight something in him resisted intention. So he let the book fall open where it would.

The pages parted to a poem titled Sympathy.

Harold stared at the word for a moment before reading. Slowly, silently, his eyes moved across the lines—the cage, the bars, the beat of wings. He read it again. And again.

He wasn’t a religious man either, but if he were, he might have believed some unseen hand had guided him to that page—that something larger than reason had known exactly what he needed to see.

He closed the book and set it gently on the nightstand, then turned off the light.

Flat on his back, he stared at the ceiling. The poem’s final stanza lingered in his mind, each syllable pulsing softly against the quiet, like a bird’s heartbeat beneath the palm.

The song…not joyful. Prayerful. That word settled into him like breath.

He lay there, turning it over and over, until sleep finally claimed him: quiet, and not without ache.