Lorraine looked at her husband, utterly oblivious to the storm he was stirring in her chest. His lips brushed against her shoulder, a warm trail of reverent kisses, while his hand swept across the dip of her waist like he was memorizing her shape.
"Why would it matter?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp with the edge of something she couldn't name.
Hope, maybe.
Hope that he touched her like this because he knew who she was. Because somewhere inside him, he recognized her.
"It doesn't?" he asked, pausing, his breath a soft warmth against her skin.
The pale light fell behind her, outlining the graceful edges of his face. That angular jaw, the slope of his nose, the faint curve of his lips were all achingly familiar. Before she realized it, her hand lifted and found his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the bone as if to say, You're real, right?
