He had the most delicate touch. He could ignite her with the barest drawing of his finger over her skin. With her, his demeanor softened no matter where they were. But when they were alone, in their cottage, his walls came down. He was open and playful, sentimental and passionate. He shocked her with how free he was with her.
Before.
Everything was before and after.
They were hesitant and cautious. It took time for them to open properly to one other. They'd always be rebuilding, it seemed. Over three years and a short stay in the women's wing later, they were still learning the new rules. His touch was still delicate. He could still ignite her, though she wasn't sure if she'd ever feel safe. The truth of it was her safety was secondary to his. Too often he touched her like she was delicate, but she'd grown strong.