After You Were Mine

by Sara's Girl

Why do I have to relive how we fell apart, just because you don't remember? **Slash** Nick/Greg. WMTDB pearoast. COMPLETE.

4. Stop

After You Were Mine part 4 – Stop – by Sara's Girl

– Push me, and watch me break for you -

You stand frozen, fingers gripping the painted wood of the doorframe now, your reaction to my involuntary moan cutting across your face and ensuring that I cannot drag my eyes away from you. Your whole body is stiff, coiled, with emotion – I cannot decide if it is fear or anticipation – but whatever it is has taken control of you. The tension hums in the air and I wonder, through the fog circling in my head, which of us will be the first to break it. I am half-lying, half sitting now, propped up on my elbows, tension restricting my breathing. I keep my eyes on your face, because it's beautiful, ethereal, and because I think I know what I will see if I only dare to look for your body's physical reaction to me. I'm not feeling daring right now, I'm feeling petrified. Exhilarated. Breathless.

It amazes me how I can go from utter confusion to complete certainty in a heartbeat, when it comes to you. I suppose it's because sometimes you are the man I knew and loved for all those years, and I understand you, even if I often cannot predict your next move; the rest of the time you are a new person, a new Greg Sanders that I am unfamiliar with, and he is the person that unnerves me the most. I am grateful that I do not have to think about why that is, for the moment, because you have let go of the doorframe and you are walking, slowly, gracefully towards the bed.

I am the one frozen to the spot now, because you are standing right next to the bed, looking down on me, and suddenly, I have never been more afraid. My discomfort is exaggerated by the fact that you are standing over me – reflecting the balance of power between us in this moment. This moment in which you have walked right into the centre of the only space in the apartment that does not contain any of your things. The only room that you have not entered, by mutual silent agreement, since you started living here again.

This room, by definition that it was once ours, is now mine. It has become my place to retreat to when this whole thing gets too much. My space to secretly lie down, close my eyes and remember how things were. In this room, I thought I was in control, but my trembling hands, hidden behind my back, tell me that I am not. Conflict rages in the pit of my stomach as I try to steady myself. You gave up your right to have power over me in within these four walls. You gave it up when you walked out, and the thing is…I am ashamed, frightened and thrilled that all you have to do to take it back from me is stand there.

Your arms hang limply by your sides and your eyes pin me to the bed, making me feel incapable of moving or even breathing outside of the low, shallow gasps that drew you into the room in the first place. Not knowing what you are going to do is intoxicating, and I feel unsteady with it.

I want you out of my room. I want you back in the armchair where you belong. I want you in your own apartment where I cannot see or hear you. I want you to stop looking at me like that.

I want you.

My entire body is alive with it as your eyes travel over every bit of my exposed skin, and the feeling that floods my veins as you lean closer to me and I prepare to relinquish my control – that feeling is relief. I didn't expect to feel relief. I had anticipated fear, regret, pain and a myriad of other negative emotions, but relief was never on my list. You are closer now and it's only a matter of time before you are touching me, and once you have done that, your strong, slender fingers curling around my wrist or threading into my hair, you know I will be lost.

Do you even realise how you are able to do this?

This is my final coherent thought as the mattress shifts next to me and you are sitting down on the edge of the bed, achingly close. You are not touching me yet, but the sheer amount of heat pouring from your skin ensures that you do not need to. You look away, unexpectedly, dropping your eyes. I watch your fingers twist nervously around each other as your hands rest on your bare knees. I feel an unfamiliar pull in my chest to see those slender fingers clench and shake, because I'm accustomed to seeing them so confident when you used to touch me, so sure when lifting prints or handling dangerous chemicals. There is nothing sure about your posture now, I realize, now that you are close enough to touch. It feels as though if you looked at me, you might just break and shatter into a thousand pieces, and I am conscious that the power no longer rests in your hands. It is not in mine either, but free-floating around the room, daring one of us to reach out and grab it. To use it to close this tiny but impossible distance between us.

"Hey," I whisper, finally, and watch you gulp hard and close your eyes.

A strange thought occurs to me, maybe for the first time, and though I try to brush it away, it persists. Could it be that I am somehow fucking with your head, heart and body as much as you are fucking with mine? I had not thought it possible, that I could retain any sort of power over you, and yet the evidence is sitting right in front of me, looking for all the world like all you need is to crawl into my arms like you used to. Feeling inexplicably like I am about to make the biggest mistake of all, I ask you, carefully, what you are doing here.

"Can't sleep," you state simply.

"I was asleep."

"I know. I'm sorry."

It feels as though you want to say something else, but you fall silent. Still, you do not look at me, and I gaze uselessly at your shadowy profile, lingering on the soft outline of your lips, slightly parted to release hesitant breaths, and your spidery eyelashes that flutter weightlessly as though you are fighting a constant battle between opening and closing your eyes. I both want and fear those eyes on me.

I can smell you this close up, and it drives me insane. You still wear the same cologne you wore when we met, and after all of this time, it is a smell that is just purely you. It changes subtly, depending, almost, on your mood, mellowing or sharpening according to whether you are excited or subdued, cold or warm. Your nervousness floods my nostrils, snaring all of my senses, shooting unwelcome and inappropriate electricity to my cock. We have to get out of this room, immediately, because whether you know it or not, you are looking down at my protective chalk circle and reaching out to smudge its edges with fingers that do not tremble or hesitate. I know what those fingers can do. There is a whisper inside my head, gently but insistently urging me.

'Talk to him'. It is Catherine's voice, and it does not belong here with us.

In one swift and less than graceful movement, I throw back my sheets and swing my legs onto the floor, relieved to feel cool floorboards under my feet and to take just a moment with my back to you to gather myself.

"Coffee," I hear myself announce to the room as I stride out of it, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. I do not turn to see if you are following me, or if you have looked up, but head straight for the kitchen. Something catches my attention as I walk past the living room, something I do not place immediately but simply pile on top of the tangle of uncertainty seething behind my eyes. I am halfway into the kitchen before I unravel it and stop dead, resting hands on the doorframe for a split second before turning slowly and retracing my steps.

I stare at your chair. It is lighter in here; you never did care much for the blackout curtains. You liked to feel the sun on your face. It was a constant battleground when we slept together. You would slip out of bed when you thought I was asleep and tug the curtains open. Sometimes I would bite my lip and just allow you to slide back into my arms, even though it meant I could not sleep. Other times I would open one eye and demand that you closed them again. You always did, too, when I asked, and the next time you did it I would pretend to be asleep again. It is easy for me to forget the small, insignificant sacrifices we made for each other every day. There were many of them, and the recollection feels like tiny pinpricks against my skin.

Pinpricks that intensify into a prodding, reaching sensation as my fuddled brain registers what I am looking at. Your blanket is draped over one arm of the chair and the rough, red cushions are flattened in places from the weight of your body as you tried to sleep. It is not that, though, that draws my eyes. It is the creased blue garment that is spread untidily across the seat and back of the chair; wrinkled and stretched from being slept on, pinned under or wrapped around your body. I recognise it immediately as mine, because you bought it for me. It is a soft, fine knit zip-up sweater that you gave me a couple of years ago, back when you were still attempting to get me into colours other than black. Despite my eye-rolling at the time, it is a favourite, even now, and I now realise why I have not seen it in my wardrobe for some time.

I lean on the back of the sofa for a moment, fingers gripping reassuringly worn leather, and fight down the flood of questions about why you would want to sleep with my sweater, because those same questions are stinging my eyes. It is nothing, and it is everything, and I wish I had not seen it, because it makes it so much harder to go on telling myself that you do not love me.

"Doesn't really smell like you any more," you say suddenly, and I know you are standing right behind me. How do you always know exactly what I'm thinking? You have lost none of your intuition. Your words make me stand up a little straighter and my heart is hammering. "You left it on the back of the couch…a couple of weeks ago, and I…" Your voice grows softer with every word until it fades completely.

Slowly, I turn to face you and sweep my eyes over you from head to foot with a confidence that takes me by surprise. Fuelled by nothing other than your unanticipated vulnerability. I register the subtle flush to your cheeks, your downcast eyes and the way you are wrapping one hand around the opposite upper arm in a defensive, self-soothing manner. You bite your lip gently and I realise that I have not seen you do that in a long time. It is a tell of yours, an expression of rare submission. Something you would do, unconsciously, before asking me to…I throw the barriers up in front of that thought immediately, and head pounding, walk away and begin to open and shut kitchen cupboards with more force than is necessary. I feel you watching me, and I am also aware that what I'm doing is not only overkill but that you are having none of it. My deliberate movements scream out 'I am making coffee here, nothing more', and I am not sure who I am trying to convince; you or myself.

I am mildly surprised when I turn around with cups in both hands to find an empty room. I did not expect you to wait for me, of course, perhaps a little bit of me just hoped you would. When I feel a soft, drifting breeze lift the hair from my forehead I know exactly where you are, and I am instantly calmed by the knowledge. Plus, outside seems safer, neutral somehow, when compared to the heavy tension of the bedroom or the painful longing conjured up by the mere sight of my own clothing in the living room.

I tell myself that I am not slowly going insane, as I duck my head out of the propped-open window and manoeuvre myself out onto the fire escape without spilling a drop of hot coffee. It is a practised action, worn smooth by years of using the utilitarian metal structure as our makeshift balcony. There is just enough space for two to stand, or to sit, if they do not mind sitting in very close proximity, which we never did. You tried on numerous occasions to persuade me to have sex out here, and though I found it difficult in the extreme to refuse you, it was…is…a little too public for me. Anyone could see from the street and I suspect that was what excited you about it.

You are standing now, leaning out and breathing in deeply. You open your eyes and accept the steaming cup, wrapping steadier fingers around the handle. It is later than I first thought, because now the sky is streaked with orange and gold, and there is enough of a chill in the air to make the soft hairs on your forearms to stand on end.

"I always liked it out here," you smile. The tension has melted from your face. "Remember when Mrs Khan's dogs got out?"

I do remember, and I lean out next to you, smirking. I remember that you stood in that exact spot and laughed helplessly until you had a coughing fit. I remember that I watched you from the window and waited patiently for you to regain control of your breathing and tell me what was so funny. You laugh like you don't care who hears you, and it is infectious.

Remember. Remember when Mrs Khan's dogs got out? You do. That happened during our last few months together. We still laughed, even then. And you remember. I am unsure whether it is a memory you never lost, or one of the ones you have had to reclaim over the last few weeks. The urge to ask, to bring up what has become the unmentionable, is intense.

What do you remember, Greg?

Greg. After the initial incongruence, it has become more and more comfortable to call you simply that. At first I thought it was my way of trying to create some distance between us, but now…I'm not sure why but I am starting to like the way it feels on my tongue. Of all the names I have for you, it is sticking, and your reaction to it has altered. These days you just look at me, slightly askew, and I burn to ask you what you are thinking, because you have the smallest, twitchiest smile on your lips and it intrigues me.

"Greg," I mutter, experimentally, and it isn't until I feel your pause that I realise you have been talking.

"…shouldn't really keep dogs indoors anyway, it's not very humane. She had all of those little – god, what were they called? You know, like rats on a string? Nick?" You arch an eyebrow at me, and I know you have caught me not listening. I make what I hope is an encouraging sound and you continue:

"I can't remember. About the name of that dog, I mean. I remember…" you sigh, frustrated, and then change tack abruptly. "My therapist says I need to talk about what I remember. With you."

I cannot keep the surprise from my voice, and it is a welcome if temporary distraction from the fact that you have just acknowledged the unspeakable. "You're seeing a shrink?"

"A therapist," you correct, dark eyes mocking gently.

I try to think of when that could have happened. You are here all the time, or at work.

"Don't you wonder where I go when I don't come home with you? You never ask."

I nod my understanding and allow myself to swirl in a little tide of relief. Those days, when I choose not to think about where you might be. I could have asked, all along, because the answer does not cut me like I imagined it might. The relief does not last long though, because now you are going to want to talk about it. We have made an art form out of talking but not talking, you and I. This is it then. This is going to be the point at which you can tell me that you have remembered exactly why you stopped loving me, and all of a sudden, I'm not ready for it at all. I grip the cold metal bar in front of me and wait.

"Don't," you urge in a whisper, and I have no idea what you are asking me not to do until I feel the warm splash on the front of my t-shirt. I blink and sense the wet slide over dry skin, taste the salt of my own tears in my mouth. I'm crying, and you have not even said anything yet. I'm ridiculous, I know that, but then this whole situation is ridiculous. I feel as though I should be able to just click my fingers and all of this will go away like it was someone's idea of a joke. As far as I know, our worst crime was not communicating, which hardly seems bad enough to warrant this. No. In all honesty, our worst crime was throwing away what we had, and reducing each other to this. Two decent, intelligent adults. One afraid to talk and one afraid to hear.

"Nicky...please don't."

Your words are soft, and yet they rip at me and I hear a small sound of pain. It takes me a few seconds to realise that I am the one making it. You are mumbling something now, incoherent and low, and I watch your lips move, part, press together and curve. Your supple mouth, your warm dark eyes, your creased white t-shirt that isn't quite big enough for you. So close now, have you moved? Have you? Have I?

And then we are kissing, and I'm not sure how it happened, but I think I kissed you first. You respond to me like you are trying to take my pain away. It's slow and desperate, and you are pressing yourself against me so hard, as though you want to force yourself though me. I'm touching your face as I kiss you, the pads of my fingers dragging on the beginnings of stubble along your jaw line. My other hand immediately goes to the back of your head, twining fingers into soft hair that I have not touched in far too long. You taste bittersweet, like coffee, we both do. Your fingers grasp at the front of my t-shirt hard, as though any moment I might disappear. The feeling of your mouth on mine is agonisingly good and it opens up a slow ache deep inside me, stretching and uncurling, liquid heat spreading over us, catching and ripping out of control.

Your lips fit mine like puzzle pieces, just the right amount of firm and yielding, allowing me to urge them open with my own so that I can lick into your mouth and trace missed but not forgotten contours with my tongue. You moan softly into my mouth and I shiver at the sound. I allow my hands to drop down to your back, eliciting a deep shudder from you as I slide flat palms over rumpled cotton and then across warm, bare skin. It's like a long-memorised dance, that neither of us has to think about any more; that it is just understood and accepted how you will kiss me, and how I will touch you. The familiarity of the dance thrills, comforts and scares me, because I'm just melting into you and I honestly do not know how to stop myself.

I knew I would be lost if I felt your mouth against mine. Every rational, cautious thought is being pushed to the edges of my consciousness too quickly for me to be able to grab for them, to hang onto them. I'm floating, being carried by gently surging water that blurs the chalk outline around me into a haze.

The sharp trilling sound startles me, once I realise it is not in my head, and I pull away from you, trying to catch my breath. You do not let go of me, though, and your lips fall, insistently, to my neck. You have this ability, still, to pull a physical response from me with every single touch of lips or fingers on my skin. Once you have touched me, I can no longer hide from you, and the part of me that is still sentient thinks that that is why you are refusing to relinquish the contact. You are hard against my thigh, and I can feel the heat of it through the two flimsy layers between us. Your touch hurts and soothes me all at once. It has been so long that I am literally thrown off balance by the intensity of the connection we have. I stumble slightly and you tighten your grip on my clothing, sniggering warmly into my neck.

"Leave it," you whisper, assuming I am going to answer the phone.

The phone. Right. I should, I know I should, because it could be work, and it could be important. I doubt somehow that Grissom would accept this as a valid excuse for missing his call. I disentangle myself from you with some effort, and climb back through the window.

"I'm sorry, Gris, but I couldn't come to the phone because I was making out with my estranged husband," I mutter to myself, hoping the words will somehow connect me back to reality, because the way I feel right now is downright unnerving. It's as though I am watching myself from outside my body, and I do not like it one bit. "Ever so sorry, Grissom," I murmur, trying to locate the ringing before it stops, "Greg Sanders was ill-advisedly kissing me senseless, and I couldn't reach the phone."

The phone is in my hand now, and my thumb is hovering over the answer button. Your short bark of laughter from the other side of the window distracts me, and I immediately look at you. You are creased and dishevelled and flushed and you look wonderful.

"Ill-advisedly?" You arch an eyebrow and I'm not sure if you are hurt or amused but suddenly I wish you had not heard that part. I had not intended for you to hear me at all, truth be told, but as usual you do not miss a thing. "I wouldn't lead with that," you add, glancing down at the phone, which has now stopped ringing. Shit.

You do not look disappointed at all as you join me in the room and pull me into the circle of your arms before I can start to think again. I'm reaching up and rubbing my thumb along your full lower lip, the sudden darkness of your eyes drowning out all rationality. I do not know who has the power right now but it certainly is not me. Your kisses are disarming, incapacitating, and I sink. Until the phone rings again. If possible, it sounds more demanding, and I daren't ignore it. You pull back a few inches, an unchecked sound of irritation jerking from your throat.

"Stokes."

"Nick? Is everything ok? You don't sound too good."

I smile grimly and try to locate my normal voice, but with you still pressed against me, fingers tracing slow patterns down my back, it is easier said than done.

"I'm fine Gris. I was sleeping, that's all. Go ahead."

I lean against you heavily, allowing your hair to tickle my nose, unable to stop myself inhaling the distinctive chemical/citrus scent of all the stuff you put on it to make it look like you have just got out of bed. Only this time you have, sort of. Grissom is speaking to me, and I realise that I have no clue what he has just said. The last I want right now is for him to start asking close-to-the-bone questions about my lack of attention, so I cast around wildly and throw out a single question, hoping for the best.

"I've just told you where it is, Nick, are you sure you're feeling alright?"

When I do not reply, he repeats the address and I repeat it too, out loud.

"1225, Moorgate Drive," you whisper against my neck. "Sorry. I thought we were all saying it."

You pull away from me and your smile is dazzling, vital, as if kissing me has restored you somehow. Maybe it has, but even as I stand there, almost touching, grinning back at you like a lovestruck teenager, I know that this was not a good idea. As you step back and surrender the last touch, cold regret is already pooling in my stomach. Because it's so very easy to be with you, and I fell into it just like I knew I would. I also know that if I thought I felt pain before, what is coming is going to be unbearable because I lost my control. I know that I'm going to push you away again. You are looking at me now as though you are about to say something momentous, and you have my attention like you always do. Your words are cut off before they are formed, because now your phone is ringing too, a song that I do not recognise filling the room.

You answer, rolling your eyes, and I go to move away whilst your eye contact is broken, because it's the only time I can do it.

"1225, Moorgate Drive," you repeat in a sing-song voice, and of course, it's Grissom.

He did not mention your name during our conversation, or at least I don't think he did. I'm not sure if he knows you are here or not, because he never asks, and I will not volunteer the information. As though sensing my hesitation, you reach out, lace your fingers through mine and squeeze my hand, just once, before releasing me. I smile thinly at you and go to get dressed, leaving you to finish your call. Whatever it is I need to do, now is not the time to do it.

XXXXX

We used to get called in early all the time, and I hated it. After a while, more often than not we would both be called in at the same time, and it warmed me that Grissom and Catherine understood that we preferred to both be working or both be at home. Not only understood that we needed time together, but acted on it without ever a word being spoken.

...'We need you at a scene, Nick, I'm sorry. Sanders too.'...

They almost always called me. You are not in the best of humours if you have just been woken up, and that they learned from bitter experience. I do not imagine they would relish the prospect of some of the things I had to do to put that smile back on your face.

I drag my clothes on with some difficulty because my whole body is resisting, and all I want to do is collapse on the bed and pull the sheets over my head. Hide from the world, and you. I'm caught between this idea and actually feeling pleased that I am being called in early. It is a distraction I can immerse myself in until I figure out how I am going to deal with this.

XXXXX

You turn on the radio as we drive and I watch you select a station that I like and you hate. I watch your hand drop from the dial to rest on your knee as you smile to yourself and turn to look out of the window.

"We can talk later," you say, and I nod slowly, because it is not a question.

Sofia is waiting when we pull up, and she walks beside you as she relates the details of the scene to both of us in her customary matter-of-fact tone. She is also saying something about swing shift being understaffed, and I hear the edge of irritation in her voice. They found the body in the garden, she tells us, and that is where we need to start. The space behind the house is immense, landscaped and manicured, exotic blooms cutting a sweeping path through the green. The heavy scent of freesias hangs in the air, and I can almost convince myself that nothing horrible happened here, but not quite. There is a mountain of evidence to collect and process, and I clench my teeth against the headache that is threatening. I know immediately that we are going to be here for some time, and as I set to work, I consciously deepen my breathing and pull myself into that calm focused state that is the only way.

You are at one end of the garden and I am at the other. I lose myself in my task and can all but forget that you are there, and that only hours ago you were holding me and kissing me like you never wanted to stop. I only realise it has been hours when I am forced to stand and ease the kinks out of my back, feeling it pull and crack, and feeling old. The back of my neck is positively crackling, and I instinctively look around for you in the fading light, experiencing a twinge of disappointment when the person behind me is Sofia.

"What you got there?"

She peers over my shoulder at the cigarette butt I am dropping into an evidence bag, and then glances to one side, a rare smile changing her whole face.

"Well," she adds, a warm, bitter laugh in her voice. "I wish someone would look at me like that."

Puzzled, I follow her gaze and I understand. You are crouching on the grass some distance away but your eyes are firmly trained on me as you pause in what you are doing, print tape suspended in the air. You are looking at me with a warm adoration that stuns me, because I am not expecting it, and because you make me feel as though you have reached out and touched me.

I allow myself to look at you, because you looked at me first, and because Sofia is looking too. My eyes soak up your faded jeans, half undone laces, your striped shirt under your black CSI vest and your ruffled curls that do not quite obscure your eyes. Those eyes catch mine, you smile at me, and I can do nothing but smile back, such is the rush of love I feel for you in that moment. It is instant, and it hits me with a strength that unnerves me. I am reminded how easily you can break my focus and I do not want to feel so out of control when I am trying to process a scene, but you have me. It is out of a twisted sense of self-preservation that I deliberately evoke the memory of you that hurts me the most, and at last I can look away. Remember. The kitchen. Your calm, devastating words. Your ring. It slices, as I know it will, and I grip the evidence bag hard. Remember.

I smile tightly at Sofia, because I do not have the time or the mental energy required to answer her, and after a minute or two she turns and walks away toward the house.

XXXXX

The light has faded and re-appeared again by the time we finish work. I am not certain of the time but I am wiped out. You are exhausted too, because you are talking constantly but making very little sense. We have collected and transported and analysed and theorised for so long that I can barely keep my eyes open. You are in slightly better shape, and I am reminded once again of the seven years that separate us as I lean heavily on my locker, trying to summon up the energy to walk out to the car. Your eyes are searching as you regard me over the top of your locker door and your hand slides across cool metal to caress my shoulder, just for a moment. I sigh and pull the keys from my pocket as I push off the wall of lockers and head out of the room. Impulsively, I drop the keys into your hand as I pass and carry on walking.

I never let you drive my car. Never did. I don't know if it is because I like to feel in control or because once Warrick told me you were a bad driver. I wonder for the first time if it ever bothered you. There is a strange expression on your face as you turn my key in the ignition and pull out of the parking lot. I watch you lazily through half open eyes and I know I'm drifting but I am conscious enough to recognise that you drive well. Faster than I do, but with confidence, and I feel safe.

Out of nowhere, you are thanking me in a small voice that I only just hear.

"What for?"

You exhale in a rush and drum your fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.

"For trusting me, after what I did."

It takes me a second but my eyes snap open as I realise what you are saying. Because you hit that kid with your car. You don't talk about that part of what happened much, and I ache to understand so late that it has eroded your confidence in more places than I knew. We both know that what you did was necessary in that moment, but the knowledge does not negate your pain.

"Never thought not to," I mumble, my eyelids leadlike. "Never doubted you."

Warm, strong fingers wrap around mine and I close my eyes again. We'll talk later.

XXXXX

When I wake up, I am on the couch, and I do not remember how I got there, but I'm sure as hell you didn't carry me up the stairs, so I must have been semi-conscious. I feel disoriented and glance around to centre myself. Bright sunshine is streaming through the half open curtains and you are sitting on the floor next to the couch, one arm thrown back over me protectively, the other holding the book that I have been trying to read for a long time. It is splayed open on your lap and I note sleepily that you are already halfway through it. You read at a voracious rate that leaves me impressed and envious.

"I made you a sandwich," you murmur without turning to me as you put the book down and stretch, allowing your hand to slide over my chest before you pull it over your head and arch contentedly. I want to reach out and touch you because this feels so right, and it is the best way I have woken up in months, but I do not. The reasons why I hold back, a multitude of them, creep in rapidly to chase my comfort away. All that we have not yet discussed hangs over my head and I have no idea what to do next.

You have other ideas, as always, and there is a determined tilt to your head as you pass me a plate and stare at me, eyebrows raised, until I eat. I could be eating anything, because my concentration is elsewhere. I'm looking at you, looking at me. You have discarded the vest and shoes, and the top two buttons of your shirt are open. You look calm, resting your hands on threadbare denim-clad knees as you tuck your feet underneath you. As soon as I set my plate down I know. You jump right in, and I don't know how I could have expected you to do anything else.

"It's like a blind spot. I can see everything around it, but it's like it's not there."

I don't need to ask what you mean.

"It was all blurry at first, the whole thing, after I woke up. All I could remember was you, that I needed you, it was like this pull...when I saw you. I remembered we were married."

Your voice catches painfully and you blink. I know you are remembering what I am remembering. Not our wedding itself, but that moment at which you woke up in the hospital and looked for the ring on your finger.

"I remembered little things, but there was just this fog over everything. When you left – " your eyes flick down for a second before returning to mine and I realise how hard I am gripping the leather arm of the couch. "When you left, I had a lot of time. Sara helped me with some stuff but she wouldn't tell me about..."

You cannot say it. The break up. The end. I can't say it either, because something invisible but heavy is sitting on my chest. You rub your hands nervously across your thighs and pause. You seem to come to some sort of decision in that instant, and when you speak again your eyes are unclouded.

"Sorry. I'm not going to drag this out. I was scared. I am scared. It's like little pieces sliding into place. Big pieces too. They all seem to know where they go, when they come back. I suppose I'll never know if I have them all. Veronica says – "

"Therapist?"

"Yeah. She says that what happened to me...when I was attacked…everything shut down, and the missing parts are what my mind is trying to protect me from. What happened to us. Though we'll never know for sure how it happens. The mind is a complicated thing, by all accounts."

You flash a nervous smile, and take a breath. It reminds me to take one too, my heart racing in response to the oxygen flooding my system after one too many seconds.

"I remembered about the arguments...a little...after you told me. But everything around the time I left is just..." You spread your hands out, palms parallel to the floor. "Lost."

I have to, and I don't want to. I have to ask you, just to hear it from your lips. I push myself upright and lock eyes with yours.

"You don't know why you left me." It is not a question, after all, but a statement, and it feels heavy in my mouth.

You shake your head slowly, and I feel like crying. Because all of this, and the little flicker of hope I was keeping locked away, is meaningless without that knowledge. Your touch, your kisses, the way you look at me these days…none of it is real without the pain that I seem to be carrying for both us. And I hate myself because I still want it, regardless. I love you, and I want you back where you belong.

Creeping, so slowly, ever closer to me as all I can do is stare at you. Your eyes are shimmering with tears that threaten to spill. You never cry. Hardly ever. Not like me. I'm reaching out as though I have lost control of my body, sliding thumbs under your eyes and encouraging hot tears to overflow onto my dry skin. Your eyes close slowly, wet eyelashes brushing against worn ridges, invisible prints left on paper-thin flesh.

When you whisper that you love me, I only just hear it, but it sweeps through me in an instant, touching places long forgotten. My eyes are burning and I close them too, closing my world down until it encapsulates nothing more than your tears on my hands, your nervous breathing and the racing of my own heartbeat.

Thank god. Yes. No. Not like this. I need it. But not like this.

Everything aches, Greg. I'm tired of being afraid.

I never stopped loving you. Acceptance is life on a knife edge, waiting. Denial is just that. It's all in this next move, and I do not dare open my eyes.

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