"How are you feeling, Mrs. Salvatore?" Dr. Edwards asks when he notices a blissful smile on her face.

She stays slumped on the couch, her back pressing onto the comfortable cushions, making her feel like she's floating on one of those fluffy clouds you can see during an especially nice and sunny nice, the blissful smile on her face exposing her true state of mind which is, for the first time after a long while, peaceful.

"Surprisingly well," she answers warmly, her hands crossed on her lap, the fingers of her hands intertwining with one another.

He looks at her amused, and she knows what that look means. It means that the next words that come out of his mouth will have an ability to shatter her current state of peace. So she tries to discard it.

"Do you consider that a progress?" he asks, pushing his glasses up his nose, "Or a regress?"

Those questions do not shatter her peacefulness, but they do make her think, and she lives in fear questions she derives from his questions will push her over the edge of sanity. She knows she's taking a dip in the poisonous lake of insanity, and wonders how long will it take for her to dive deep. It is not wanted, but it gives her a certain amount of freedom and emptiness she so desperately wants. It frees her from all the thoughts and questions and leaves her in silence.

And silence is good. It's fulfilling and relaxing, until it makes you completely and utterly insane.

"Both," she says after some time of thinking.

She wants to remember. She has to remember. There are too many gaps, too many questions, too many what if's.

At the same time she doesn't want to do anything to endanger her current state of happiness. Part of her wants to stay like this forever, in blissful ignorance.

"You will have to remember sooner or later," he states what she already knows.

She slumps her shoulders, and he notices her gesture. "I know," she says silently, even though there's a certain edge to her voice.

He furrows his brows. "Don't you want to remember?" he asks, somewhat displeased.

She raises her look to him and looks at him bewildered. "Of course I do."

"But?"

"But I haven't felt in ease for such a long period of time. I want to enjoy it."

"There are many things that can have effect on the easiness you feel. Everyday problems. Trying to remember is just one of those things. Maybe it doesn't even make you feel uneasy, maybe it does the opposite," he watches her from under his glasses.

"That's the problem," her eyes fill with tears which never escape, "Maybe it does this, maybe it does that."

After few seconds of carefully observing her, the doctor closes his notebook, indicating that he's done with experimenting with her behavior, and ready to give a real insight in her situation. "Unknown can often be scary. Some people find it luring, irresistible. To some people unknown is a definition of thrill."

She remembers the first time she met Stefan and how thrilling and exciting unknown felt. How every one of his moves pumped her with adrenaline as much as they scared her as well. Her wishes and desires mixed with the way he carefully planned every one of his actions.

But this kind of unknown is different. It's frightening in all its intensity. It's like dark, she knows there's something with the ability to cause her pain - but then again, it might be nothing. It might be old door cracking or wind playing with the branches outside of her window.

"There are people who fear of the unknown because its mere definition brings chills to their bones," he exhales, "Unknown," he says the word out loud like he's testing the way it tastes in his mouth. "Happiness is fleeting, Mrs. Salvatore," he licks his lips, "Memories aren't."

She squeezes her eyes shut. "Why do you treat life like that?" she asks with a sharp voice, "Like it's so fragile?"

"Ah," he gasps surprised, but delightedly, "Because it is. It is dangerous and safe, fickle and strong, easy and hard, but most of all, it's short."

Her eyes fly wide open upon hearing that. She tilts her head, "Life is the longest thing any of us will ever experience."

After her words sink in, he smiles, and once again opens his notebook. "Tell me, how does your husband feel about you seeing me?" he asks, curiosity dancing on the edge of his words.

She knits her brows, taken back by his question. "He was the one who suggested it."

He raises his look at her in surprise, but doesn't ask anymore questions about it. Instead, he asks, "Is there a special reason to why you feel such easiness?"

"No," she answers firmly, but she lies.


"I know this isn't a big turn on, or sexy at all," she says while lying on top of him on the couch in the living room, planting kisses on his jaw, "But I'm ovulating."

His whole body stiffens under hers, she can feel the muscles of his arms, which are around her, tightening. She stops kissing him, but doesn't raise her head from the position in which it's in, "I'm sorry. I don't want to put any pressure on you. On us."

His breathing becomes hard, and she can feel it prickling the skin of her cheeks. "And I don't want to let you down."

This catches her attention and she raises her look to face him. Her eyes lock with his.

"I don't want you to get your hopes up," he says silently, holding her look with his.

She lowers her head on his chest, her chin poking his muscles, bringing her hand closer to his face, her fingertips tracing the lines of his face. "What about your hopes?" she asks gently while caressing his face.

He closes his eyes and swallows hard, making his own throat burn with the words that come out of his mouth, "Your hopes are more important than mine. Your wishes, needs, everything of yours is more important to me than anything else."

She stops caressing him and pulls her hand away from his face, "Don't say things like that," she furrows her brows, making him open his eyes, "In this relationship we're equal. And I know you, Stefan. I know you want a baby as much as I do, even though you're less vocal about it. There's no need for you to be."

The lines of his face relax and he reaches for her hand, grasping it with his. He brings it closer to his mouth and starts kissing each of her fingers separately. "I want a baby. I want a family," he kisses her knuckles, "The thing is, I want all of those things, but with you. If you weren't a part of my life, I can't guarantee that I'd want all of those things just for the sake of having them. Before I met you I didn't even think about having a family, but you made me want it. It came so naturally, having you in my life, that I realized I want kids and a white picket fence and one of those dogs that drool a lot."

She chuckles. "I know the feeling," she raises her other hand to the level of his head and pulls her fingers through his sandy hair. "You made me look at life with a different pair of eyes."

"I hate how I can't give this to you," he inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring, but she's too busy with glancing at his eyes, trying to decipher what they hide, because through years he learned how to guard himself from the rest of the world, unlike her, who can't contain her feelings, no matter how hard she tries.

He says that's one of the things he loves the most about her. The way she feels and conceives emotion, with such empathy that is close to being pure. She holds a certain vulnerability he wants, but is afraid to possess.

"Well," she bites her lower lip, a smirk forming on her lips, "You can always try," her fingers start playing with the hem of his shirt.

He grins at her. "And try I shall," he tightens his grip on her, pulling her closer to him.

As his fingertips make contact with her bare skin, her brain falls asleep and sinks into another memory.

The first night her and Stefan spent together.

It's been two months and four days since the night they met. She counted.

She also counted the number of days it took him to call her after she gave him her cellphone number. Three. As the third day was approaching to an end, she had thought he will never call. She felt a pang of disappointment. And when her cellphone rang, she felt the same rush of adrenaline she did three nights ago.

Stefan wasn't shy, but he was careful, and she came to understand that the night they met was a special, one time deal, which probably took him a large amount of strength to go through.

Through the course of getting to know him that was probably the only thing that annoyed her a little bit, but all of the other things had overshadowed that one little bit. He was careful with everything - with what he said, the way he looked at her, and where, even with those small, quick touches as he opened the door for her or pulled a chair out for her or held her jacket for her to put it on. Sometimes she had a feeling every one of his movements is carefully planned.

Which is why she initiated their first kiss, which was electrifying, and which is why they slept the first time together in her apartment, since she knew she will have to initiate the next step as well.

Feelings she developed towards Stefan in such a short amount of time terrified her. She never felt anything similar, and never knew she can. Half of the time she couldn't recognize herself.

But the other half, she was exactly who she always has been, showing him parts of herself she never showed to anyone before, parts she kept locked deep down inside where no one could find them.

After some time those two halves melted into one, and when they did, she never felt more like herself her entire life.

She could accept how comfortable she felt around Stefan, or even safe, which was quite the irony considering how she felt the night they met, but all of the other feelings were making her want to run away.

They scared her - how vivid they are, all consuming, timeless - they scared her in all their intensity.

She found herself daydreaming about his smile, especially the way he smiled when he wasn't aware she's watching. She loved them all - smirks, grins, light smiles, sharp ones, chuckles, silent laughter and the loud ones - she especially loved them when they were directed towards her.

She loved making him smile, and somehow, and out of some reason, just the sight of her had an ability to make him smile.

The next thing in the row was the sound of her laughter, or when she would put a streak of her hair behind her ear, the swift way in which she enclosed her fingers around a glass, the way she moved on the dance floor, the way she walked and talked, and it wasn't long until the simple thought of her had an ability to put a smile on his face.

Or the way he touched her, in a, oh, such a delightful way. His fingertips were already imprinted on her lower back, where he would always put his hand to guide her inside of a restaurant. Her waist was next - the way he would freely lay his open palms around her waist, squeezing her slightly, guiding his hands over to her hips, but never lower, and never further.

The skin on her cheeks was softer because of his touch, and his fingers would always leave red spots on it, which would disappear in a matter of few seconds, or maybe they would sink into her body.

But her favorite, oh her very favorite, was when he tried to reach for her hand. When his wrist would linger next to hers, when he would brush his fingertips over her knuckles, slowly leading his fingertips over the length of her fingers, and her favorite part was when he would press their fingertips together because that was the time she wasn't sure where she ends and he begins. In the end, their fingers would lace around each other, and her heartbeat would become slower, and at that moment, she was best friends with peace.

His kisses were - sometimes light, like a summer breeze, sometimes hard, like an avalanche, sometimes lazy and sloppy, like Sunday afternoons, and sometimes passionate, like a fire coming your way, igniting your bones, allowing you to shine, but not burn - his kisses were her salvation.

So after two months and four days after their first meeting, for the first time she was glad he is so careful.

Because the careful way he had touched her, no one ever touched her like that. He unzipped her little red dress without flinching, looking her in the eyes all the time, allowing her to sink into him, or wanting to sink into her, she's still not sure.

There wasn't anything raw about the want and need she had noticed inside of his eyes, which was at the same time probably the first time he had allowed her to see what's going on behind those beautiful green eyes which hold all of the mysteries of her heart.

Beside want and need and passion, even a little bit of hunger, she had noticed, at that moment, unexplained fear and sadness and loss, which she thought has nothing to do with her, but in reality, it had everything to do with her.

He took off her bra and her panties, and for the first time she liked feeling helpless, under someone's else command. She doesn't even remember when he had time to discard his own clothes, she only remembers he made love to her for what it seemed to her like hours.

She remembers his kisses, sour and sweet, his touch, gentle and rough, the way he removed her hair from her face to look into her eyes, and he held her look with his like he's holding a droplet of water on his palm - the same way he had held her. She remembers him breathing into the crook of her neck, and her clinging onto him like she's holding on for dear life.

Afterwards, he had whispered to her, "You're my heart," and she knew exactly what he means by it.

She knew it's not love.

It's something more.

She sinks out of the memory and realizes some things never change - like the careful way in which he handles her, or the way his fingertips sink into her skin, leaving a permanent mark there.

His touch is a tattoo made with an invisible ink for only her eyes to see.

"I love you," she whispers to him.

He doesn't say it back. Instead, he says, "What I feel for you is so much more than love."

He takes her breath away - literally - with his next kiss.

For a moment she feels like she's floating out of her own body.

"It's like all the starts gathered into one constellation and pointed me to you, and when I finally saw you I thought of how, oh, so beautiful you are, and how you're mine, because I refused to believe my heart could ache so much over something I can't have - it would be too cruel. I saw fire burning and sea crashing against big, white rocks, and when you finally spoke I realized the voice of my thoughts is yours. You're a part of me, deepest part of me that knows me better than I even know myself, and the reason why I treat you so carefully is because you're my heart - if you break, I break as well."

"You're my heart," she whispers into his ear, but shudders, because if he ever leaves, how is she going to survive?

"No," he nuzzles his nose against hers, "You're my heart. I'm only half of yours."

She wants him to ask what he means by that, but she forgets as waves of pleasure possess her body, and she moans loudly.