“Fade”

by Ann K

For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author’s notes at the end of chapter 6.

Fanfiction by Ann K

Chapter Three (3/6)

I.

The rain fell steadily against the window, a comforting sound, one that brought with it so many memories. She was still, her eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain. It was soothing, and gently melodic, and she pulled the covers closer to her chin. It was not morning yet, she could tell, even without opening her eyes. Darkness permeated the room, without a hint of dawn.

She knew she was not alone. She could hear his steady breathing, but could not summon the energy to open her eyes and seek him out in the darkness. Instead, she imagined him, just as she saw him last night, after so long apart. His hair was longer, traces of gray at the temples. He was thinner, which was remarkable given that he had always possessed a leanness about him, which she assumed came from the fact that his body devoured whatever energy he produced.

When she saw him, sitting on the bar stool, shouting at someone walking out the door, she knew it was Mulder before he even turned back around. It was the curve of his ear beneath his overgrown hair, and the way he sat on the stool, one boot hiked over the side, ready to pounce at the slightest notice. She catalogued her memories of him, trying to recall a time when he was truly relaxed, and she was not surprised to realize they were few. He was always looking over his shoulder, always waiting. For something, for someone.

She wondered if he had been waiting on that bar stool for her for the past nine years, while she had been raising their son alone, never knowing what happened to him.

Scully finally gave in, opening her eyes, and was greeted with the sight of Mulder sprawled in the chair by the window, the dim of the streetlights coating him in a soft glow, patterned by the steady rain. His long legs stretched under the desk nearby, and his head rested to the side, on the worn back of the chair. She sat up so she could see him better, pulling the pillow close to her chest.

He looked older, more tired, even when his face was slack from sleep. But he was Mulder. She knew every detail of his face better than her own, even after all their time apart.

She did not question why he was here with her in this motel room. She knew, somehow, that he figured out to bring her here after she fainted at Joe’s, just as she knew he would stay with her until he was sure she was alright. But what truly frightened her was the memory of his face when she said his name. Later, it would haunt her nightmares, and dance in her daydreams.

He didn’t know her.

He wasn’t evasive, or ashamed, or happy, or frightened to see her. Instead, he was curious, but looked back at her blankly when she called to him. It was her worst fear, which now stared back at her in six-foot-one reality, sleeping in a dingy chair in yet another godforsaken motel room.

She moved toward him, drawn to him, as the rain continued to fall. She knelt at his feet and gazed up at him, unable to draw her eyes from his face. The room was silent, except for rain and the sound of her heartbeat. It was just she and Mulder, again, locked away from the insanity of the world outside. Despite everything, he was still the most beautiful sight she could ever have hoped to see.

“Are you okay?” His voice was gruff from sleep, but she was not startled to see him staring back at her, earnestly, his eyes clear and shining in the darkness.

“I am. Thank you for bringing me back to my room. I'm sorry I fainted.” She couldn’t remember the last time she fainted, not counting the moments when she was pregnant with Will. She couldn’t have picked a worse time, hazily remembering with chagrin Mulder’s surprise as she fell into his arms. Come to think of it, maybe she couldn’t have picked a better time.

He only nodded, sitting up to look at her better. “Not a problem. You seemed really tired, and I found the motel room key in your pocket. I hope it’s not a problem that I stayed. I wanted to make sure you were feeling okay.”

She expected nothing less from him. She nodded, “Of course it’s okay, Mulder. I've got so many questions to ask you.”

At the sound of his name, he shook his head. “You called me that before, in the pool hall. I was trying to tell you then, but that’s not my name. You must have me mistaken with someone else.”

She was not mistaken. It was Mulder, but she bit her lower lip uncertainly and asked anyway. “What is your name?”

“It’s Will. Will Lyon. But everyone calls me Lyon.”

Oh, god. Fate laughed at her, daring her to put together the tantalizing pieces. She stared, her eyes wide, at Mulder, who said he was not Mulder, but Will, but insisted he be called by his last name. She angrily wiped away a wayward tear, refusing to lose her composure again. She nodded her head curtly, not sure of what to say.

Before she could speak, he slipped down on the floor next to her. It was so natural, his lanky frame settling next to her body. He was warm, and she instinctively closed her eyes to savor his touch. “I’m sorry. I really am. You seemed so certain I was this Mulder you were looking for. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind being that man, if he was that important to you. But I’m not. My name is Lyon, not Mulder.”

He reached over to touch her chin lightly, turning her face to his. His touch crumbled what was left of her resolve, the dogged tenacity she was somehow holding together since she drove away from Washington now falling apart. To their mutual horrors, she began to weep, softly at first, then loud sobs which seemed to echo around the room.

He never flinched. Instead, he gathered her into his strong arms and rocked her gently back and forth. She was reminded of how she would comfort Will when he awoke from a nightmare, and how strange it was to be in his arms again. Her memory served her well, but the reality was so much better. And, in that instant, her face pressed against the hollow of his neck, the pulse of his heartbeat steady beneath her tears, she didn’t care what he said his name was. She knew who he was.

Scully drew back from him, and, without hesitation, leaned forward to kiss him, his lips wet from her tears. He sat very still, not moving, accepting her touch, as she deepened the kiss, tasting him, the familiar warmth comforting her. She had never forgotten. She traced the outline of his face with her fingertips, and ran her hands down his neck to rest of his chest. He groaned, and then pulled away from her.

“Stop it.” It was his voice, but it was not spoken with anger. It was tinged with frustration, and regret.

“Mu—,” she began, stopping herself. “Lyon,” she said instead, simply, the strange name feeling foreign on her tongue.

“I'm not who you think I am, and I'm sorry for that. You're beautiful, so beautiful, and I want nothing more than to take you into my arms and make you forget this Mulder, whoever he is. But it wouldn’t be fair to you, or to me.”

She grasped for the words, trying to make him understand. “Lyon, you are this man. He's been gone a very long time, but I would know you, him, anywhere. Someone gave me your picture, and I knew it was you. I never forgot your face, or your voice, never—”

He jumped to his feet, abruptly, and she looked up the long distance to his shadowed face. “I don’t even know your name,” he said.

He could have said nothing less to break her heart, and she felt his words as a physical pain in her chest.

The rain measured the seconds before she spoke. “It’s Dana, Lyon. Dana Scully.” Another long moment, and then, “Following our penchant for last names here, you called me Scully.” He had to remember. Mulder had spoken her name a million times, in anguish, humor, frustration and passion. He spoke it uniquely, in his own way, a soft emphasis on the first syllable. “Tell me you remember my name.”

She walked over to him where he stood by the window, silent. “Tell me that you remember my name,” she said again, urgently, willing him to say the words that would make this all okay, that would bring back what she was so frantically searching for. He wanted to. She could tell by the deep shadows of his eyes, and the way he paused before he answered.

“I’m sorry, Scully. I want so damn badly to say yes, to make you happy, but I can’t. I never saw you before last tonight, before you walked into Joe’s.”

She was stonewalled, staring at an impasse that she dreaded, but never fully expected to materialize. And then he spoke again, trying to make things better, but making them that much worse. “You know, Scully, had you given me the chance, I might have asked you to dance with me last night. I don’t normally ask women to dance, but there was something about you.” He was sincere, the slight flush on his cheeks physical evidence of what his admission cost him. “I'm attracted to you. You have to know that,” he added. But she couldn’t accept his words, not when there was so much more at stake here.

“Fox Mulder was my partner,” she said, turning to face the wall so she would not have to look at him as she spoke. She studied the print on the wall, a landscape portrait of the Texas hills, probably mass-produced somewhere in China. “We worked at the FBI together for seven years, and then he disappeared. He was taken while investigating a case in Oregon. He’s been gone for almost nine years.” He walked up behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her skin.

Tell me you remember, she silently chanted. Remember me, she willed, remember our time together. Remember how much I love you. “Right after he disappeared, I found out I was pregnant.” The sharp inhale of breath was his.

“His son?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. She whirled around, angry, pounding her fists against his chest. “You are Mulder. I'm not wrong. I've looked for you for years, and I can’t let you walk out that door. I can’t lose you again.”

It was a stalemate, a no-win situation for them both. His tortured eyes reflected his pity, his empathy, his desire for her, yet they showed his confusion, his genuine bewilderment at her ultimate certainty that he was Mulder. “Will Lyon,” she finally said, her last defense crumbling, her desire extinguished. She felt hollow, an empty shell. “Yes,” he managed, holding onto her hand as the rain slowed to a drizzle and the first hint of dawn emerged. “My name's Lyon, Scully. And I'm so sorry I couldn’t make it what you want. I sure as hell have never worked for the FBI. I’ve never even known anyone named Mulder.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. She couldn’t process a thought beyond the fact that she had finally found Mulder, and she was about to lose him again. He was walking out the door, and she couldn’t do a thing to stop him.

“I've got to go,” he said, his voice heavy with regret and an emotion she couldn’t identify. She nodded dumbly. She knew she should say something, anything to make him stay, but she felt lost, paralyzed with defeat. He handed her the folder and the bag sitting by the door. “You had these with you last night. They seemed important to you.” He leaned over, his hands tracing the outline of her jaw, wiping away the tears she didn’t even know she was crying. Hesitating, he kissed her, and it was Mulder, and something else. Something new.

As he walked away from her, out into the drizzle, she managed to speak the words that were pounding in her head. “Don’t go, Mulder,” she whispered. “Don’t go.” But he was too far away to hear her, and he did not turn around.

He sat in his truck for some time before he drove away, yet Scully remained, standing in the open door, staring as the photograph of Mulder, of Lyon, slipped from the folder in her hands and fell onto the sidewalk, into the last of the rain. 

II.

Lyon didn’t drive to the ranch that gray Friday morning. He didn’t join the other men for their ritualistic Friday breakfast at the town café, nor did he stop in at the station for a hot cup of coffee. Instead, he drove, away from town, away from the ranch, away from the redheaded woman in the motel room whose tears haunted him. She called him Mulder, and she was convinced he was that man.

His life had been simple enough. He was an only child, born late in life to older parents. While they were both dead and had been for years, they had given him a stable upbringing. They instilled in him an appreciation for the land, of hard, honest work. His father insisted the entire family was at church every Sunday. Lyon still detested wearing a tie and sitting still for long periods of time, a remnant of his childhood. But he admired his father for his principles and his beliefs, and was grateful to be his son.

Adolescence was a blur, flashes of basketball games and awkward Friday night socials and drinking beer with the guys in the cemetery on the edges of town. He spent most of his adult life traveling, working on one ranch or another, until he ended up with the Wilkins. It was a small, family ranch, but he found the stability he needed. The memories of the last few months of his life were the most clear, but he supposed that was because, for the first time since the death of his parents, he found a comfortable environment, one where he was respected. He did his job, and that was always enough for him. 

But the death of his parents, while so long ago that the once sharp edges had dulled, left him teetering on a dangerous abyss. He had no family. He didn’t trust himself, so he suppressed his emotions. He was withdrawn and reclusive because he was frightened of what he could become if he wasn’t. He was frightened of unleashing his anger because he didn’t know if he could control it. He was frightened of loving someone, anyone, because they might ultimately leave him.

So Will Lyon was a man with acquaintances, not friends. Colleagues, not family. One night stands with women whose names he soon forgot, not the accepting embrace of a woman who truly loved him.

How could this woman, who seemed to Lyon to be a perfectly rational and reasonable human being, be so convinced he was someone else? He couldn’t come up with an answer for that. When he saw her at the bar, it was lust that attracted him, for she was beautiful. She was also a strange combination of strength and fragility, and he wanted nothing more than to protect her. He had sat in his truck in the motel parking lot for sometime, watching her figure silhouetted in the door, and tried to shake the feeling that leaving her was a mistake. She was exquisite, and he wanted her, but her heart obviously belonged to someone else.

He blinked, seeing the familiar pasture rise on his left, trying to figure out how he ended up at the ranch. He remembered driving away from town, and then shook his head, attempting to clear the hazy cobwebs away. Too many memories, and those only got you into trouble. He preferred to keep the past where it belonged, behind him. Lyon supposed driving to the ranch was instinct. It was home, for the time being. Then why were all his instincts calling him back to the motel on Main Street?

Larry Wilkins’ figure appeared from the barn as he drove down the driveway. He flagged him over, and Lyon got out of the truck, his legs stiff from an awkward night’s sleep. In all honesty, he didn’t think he got much sleep at all. Most of the night he spent staring at Scully, the rain-streaked moonlight through the blinds casting delicious shadows over her face.

“Morning, Mr. Wilkins,” he offered, smoothing out his shirt as he walked over to the older man. “Lyon,” Wilkins responded, throwing a large bag into the back of his pickup truck. Lyon frowned, and asked, “Are you leaving for the day?” It was not an incredibly busy time on the ranch, the branding and weaning seasons in the spring and fall causing them the biggest headaches, but it was still unusual for Wilkins to leave during the week.

“I am. I'm headed down to Austin for the weekend, to take care of some business. I was hoping you would be able to bring the rest of the herd in from the back field so we can ship them out on Monday.” He nodded, accustomed to being in charge when Mr. Wilkins left town. While most men at the small ranch lived a transient lifestyle, one he himself had lived for years, Lyon served as a quasi-foreman, living on the ranch even during the off season. The stability was a change for him. But he was still unsure as to why the boss was leaving in the first place.

The screen door slammed shut, and Lyon looked up to see Mrs. Wilkins walking down the stairs, a small bag held in her right hand. She reminded Lyon of the grandmother he never knew, and he felt protective of her. The guys knew not to speak bad about the boss’ wife when Lyon was around. There was something about her, a genuine sweetness that drew Lyon to her. He trusted her, and that was saying a lot.

“Good morning, Lyon,” she said as she walked up to the truck, handing her husband her bag, her slight Southern accent charming to Lyon’s ears. “I’ve got to get a few more things from the house, Ellen, and then we’ll be ready to leave.” She shooed her husband away. “Fine, fine, Larry. I’ll just be talking to Lyon.”

The humid breeze picked up slightly as they stood by the truck, and Lyon was somewhat taken aback by the serious gaze he saw in Mrs. Wilkins’ eye. “So, Lyon,” she asked, “any excitement at Joe’s last night?” He wrinkled his brow, confused as why she would be asking him. They all knew what went on at Joe’s every Thursday: drinking, dancing, and brawling. “The same,” he finally offered somewhat tentatively, unsure of why she was asking.

“How about you?” she persisted. “Did you meet anyone special?”

The proverbial light bulb went on, and he cocked his head slightly to one side, answering her slowly. “Actually, I did. A redheaded woman from out of town.” That was a simplistic explanation, but it seemed to work for Mrs. Wilkins, who only nodded her head sagely in response. “You need someone to settle down with, Lyon. You need someone who will take care of you.” He bristled, despite her good intentions, but she cut off his protests with a wave of her hand.

“Let me tell you something, Lyon. A piece of advice from a very old woman. Real love, true love, only comes along once in your lifetime, if you are truly lucky. Many people never get that chance at all. I found it with Larry. I know what it is, and how special it is. But don’t waste it, Lyon. Because it won’t come back again.”

It won’t come back again. Her words had an urgency that caught him off guard, and he stood, his mouth slightly agape, trying to process the moment, when Mr. Wilkins walked up beside them. “Did you do everything you needed to do, Ellen?” he asked. She nodded knowingly, and then gave Lyon a small squeeze on the arm. “I did,” she answered, and he almost expected her to give him a conspiratorial wink as her husband turned to open the door for her.

“You know how to reach me if you need, Lyon,” Wilkins said as he slammed the door. Lyon nodded, returning Mrs. Wilkins’ cheery wave as the truck sped away from him.

He stood still for a very long time, watching the chickens amble down towards the barn, a squirrel try to open an acorn from the tree, the cats basking in the emerging sun. His awareness was painful, and he was uncertain as to what it meant. Scully was drawn to him at the bar because she thought he was someone she used to know, someone she loved. Why was he drawn to her? Why was he thinking about her, wondering if she were still standing in the motel room door, waiting for him to come back?

The morning work was a blur, and he performed his tasks with a routine, detached efficiency. He led the small group of men towards the pasture with an increasing urgency, desperate to finish the work for the day before mid-afternoon. The longhorns were slow, hesitant, as if they knew the fate that awaited them in a few days, so he rode his gelding even harder. The urgency was tinged with fear, with the knowledge that finding Scully again after she left town might prove impossible.

“Hey, Lyon. When's old man Wilkins coming back?” Mark had ridden up beside him, a slightly concerned look on his face. If Lyon could see himself at that moment, through the eyes of the men who rode with him, he would understand why. He had drifted away from them, and was there in body alone. He was cutting the herd with rote, detached efficiency. His spirit was elsewhere, and only Lyon knew where.

“Sunday evening,” he answered briskly. “If you guys can handle the routine stuff for this weekend, I'm going to be busy with the paperwork for the Monday shipment.” Mark only nodded, and then asked, tentatively, “You alright, Lyon?”

He barely acknowledged the question, knowing that he would be, as soon as he could get the hell off this horse and back into town.

Cantering the horse ahead through the pasture, and watching his crew disperse and tackle the few odd jobs remaining for the day, he allowed his mind to wander, back to a moonlight motel room with a beautiful woman who called him Mulder. It won’t come back again, Mrs. Wilkins told him, and he knew what she was telling him. Whoever this woman was, whatever she believed, don’t let her leave.

He didn’t question how she knew about Scully, or how she was so sure they met at Joe’s. It didn’t seem particularly important. What was important, what was screaming at him in his veins, matching the rhythm of the horse’s hooves against the black Texas soil, was that Scully somehow held the key to opening up his reclusive heart, and healing his battered soul.

He’d be a fool to let her go, and, although Will Lyon knew that he could be many unpleasant things, he had never been known to be a fool.

III.

At the age of ten, she began to harbor doubts about the existence of God. She told no one, frightened of what her parents might think of her, and frightened, if she gave voice to her doubts, that would make them all the more real. So she played the role of the dutiful Catholic daughter, at least on the days where the family celebrated Mass, and as she knelt before the priest with her sister beside her, Missy’s perfume tickling her nose, she prayed to God for a sign she could believe in, for something to restore her faith.

She sat in her motel room on that gray Friday morning, somewhere in Texas, and prayed again for a sign, to restore her faith in life and love, for something to make her whole again.

The problem was, even as a child, she never got the sign she so desperately prayed for. Nothing came about that convinced her there was a benevolent God, one that cared for her and watched over her during her times of turmoil. Although she continued to practice her faith, the faith of her parents, even now, it was with a secret, half-hearted intent, the feeling that someone had disappointed her.

Maybe that was why she was sitting here, alone, she mused. Because her faith wasn’t strong enough. Because, after everything she saw, she still couldn’t bring herself to truly believe. If she truly believed Mulder was standing in her room mere hours ago, how could she ever have let him leave?

After he left, she stood in the open doorway for some time, seeing nothing, feeling nothing except the light mist of rain against her bare arms. When she finally blinked, the sun was out, and the last of the clouds had disappeared. She had no idea how long she stood there. But then she took a deep breath, and time started moving again.

She picked up the photograph from the asphalt, although, by now, it was limp at the edges and the black-and-white details of his face had begun to fade somewhat. How appropriate, she thought. I find him, in this photograph, only to have him drift away from me. She didn’t look at the photograph again as she sat it on the desk to dry.

She was barely aware of turning on the shower, the warm spray hitting against her skin. She dried her hair and put on fresh clothes, adding the barest hint of makeup, and then sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her feet up beneath her. Through the open window, she saw the signs of life outside. Yet she preferred to remain there, in that moment, in that space where she was last with Mulder.

Mulder. Will Lyon. Of all the times she had ever stared in the face of question and uncertainty, she was as sure of this truth as she had ever been. The two men were the same.

The melodic tones of her cell phone rang through the room, and she stared at it morosely, determined not to have this moment taken from her. She was desperate to preserve the tangible essence of Mulder that was still in this room, and letting anyone else in, even on the telephone, would intrude on that. But guilt began to rise a few seconds later, and she pictured Walter, or her mother, or William trying to reach her.

“Hello?” she finally answered, her voice raspy from tears.

There was laughter in the background, and she sensed William’s breathing before she heard his words. “Mom? Can you hear me?”

It was her reminder that she was a good person, she was someone’s mother, that everything might just turn out to be okay. “I can, Will,” she shouted, covering her other ear with her free hand in an effort to hear him better. “Are you having fun? How are things going?”

His voice was rich and warm, and she felt a rush of love and affection for her son, the most solid evidence she had that Mulder existed. Her tears began anew as he spoke. “Things are fine, Mom. Billy and I have been swimming, and I’ve gotten to ride everyday.”

She smiled. William could forgo any pleasure in life as long as there was a horse for him to ride. “That’s wonderful, Will. Just be careful.” The miles between them only sharpened her mothering instincts.

There was a long silence, filled with background chatter and what sounded to her like the clanging of a dinner bell, and then the question. “Mom? Have you found out anything about Dad?”

Of course he would ask. It was her sole purpose for being here. But she didn’t know how to answer that question. She didn’t know how to answer it for herself, and she couldn’t even begin to describe it for her son. How Mulder was here, but he didn’t remember her, or even what his name was, and that she had never felt as defeated or lost as she did when she let him walk out the door.

“Not yet,” she answered, the lie bitter on her tongue. But it was better than the truth, which, in this case, was something she couldn’t begin to comprehend. “I’m still looking though. I haven’t given up.” She was surprised to realize her last words were true, that she hadn’t given up.

“Uncle Walter said it might take a few days,” Will said. 

“It might,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. 

And then her son spoke the truest words of all, the ones that unleashed the barriers on her tears. “Maybe there’s hope, Mom,” he told her, and he was no longer an eight-year-old boy away for his first time at summer camp. He was her voice of reason and resolve and resiliency, and she muffled her sobs with her hand.

“I’ve got to go eat now, Mom.” She managed something intelligible in response. “I love you,” she told him, as he hung up the phone.

Maybe there’s hope after all.

And then, her prayers were answered and hope was renewed as she looked up through the open window and saw Mulder standing there, looking at her with solemn eyes. He looked tired, and sweaty, his jeans worn and dirty. He took the hat off his head when their eyes met, and brushed his hair back uncertainly. He looked like a little boy, tentative and uncertain, so much like his son, and at that moment, she loved him more than she ever had.

She didn’t remember getting up and opening the door, but then he was standing in front of her, and she reached up to put her arms around him and kissed him on the brow. He stood awkwardly, and then returned her embrace. “I wasn’t sure you would still be here,” he said, breaking the silence.

I couldn’t leave you behind again, she thought. “I am,” she answered instead. “To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure where to go.” The words sounded pitiful even to her own ears, but they were true. She could have left that morning for DC, but the thought of walking into her empty house was even worse than staying in the motel room.

He simply nodded, and she took him by the hand, pulling him into the room and closing the door behind them.

He stood there, turning his hat around in his hand. “I don’t know why I came back here, Scully. I was honest with you when I told you I wasn’t Mulder. But I've been thinking of you all day, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving town without seeing you again.”

She didn’t trust her voice, so she stood silently. “I’m here as Will Lyon, and for right now, I hope that’s enough for you. It’s all I have to give you.” She didn’t let go of his hand, but urged him with her eyes to continue. “I’ve never been very good at this, Scully. I’ve always been too busy with my own problems or my work to ever be able to offer a woman what she deserves. I don’t know that I can do that for you.”

Oh, god. He was so like the Mulder of old, yet there was a new element she couldn’t quite define. He was harder, more uncertain, more wary. But he had come back to her, for reasons neither of them could understand.

And she knew that was enough. She knew he was offering her so much more, something that his battered heart couldn’t reveal, could never put into words. She was being offered the opportunity to love again, even if Mulder could not remember their first love. She would learn later what had happened, why he was so convinced he was someone else. For now, it was enough that he had come back to her.

“I’ll take it,” she said, a small smile on her face, echoing the look on his.

“Well, then,” he said, clearing his throat, and shifting his feet uncertainly. “Not that there is much to do in town, but I'd like to take you out somewhere, wherever you want to go.”

He was so charming and endearing that her heart melted, and she was filled with love for this man. “Sounds good, Lyon. Wherever you want to take me.” And it was true. She would likely follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked her. Indeed, she already had, so many times before, even if she was the only one who remembered.

“But I have one favor to ask of you first,” he added quickly. “I came right from work, and we probably would both like for me to take a shower. Do you mind?”

She only nodded, and he went to get a small bag from his truck.

Scully sat on the bed, listening to the initial spray of the water from his shower, and then the changes as the water hit his body before landing on the tile. She imagined him, naked, standing beneath the water. While it was undeniably arousing, knowing he was so close to her, it was intimate in the simple act of trust. She breathed in, remembering their shower together after that first night, the way she tentatively parted the curtains, revealing his body, the one that she memorized so extensively the night before. The way he smiled at her, never hesitating as he extended his hand to pull her into the water, pressing their bodies together.

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