Intimacy returned to our lives not as a conquering army, but as a shy, native species re-emerging after a long winter. It was tentative, easily startled, and all the more precious for its fragility.
The first true touch happened on a Tuesday. We were in bed, back in our shared room for a few weeks now. We had a new ritual: reading before sleep. It was safe, parallel play. That night, I was deep in a novel, and he was reading some industry journal. Our legs were tangled comfortably under the duvet, a point of contact that had become normal, neutral.
I felt him shift. He closed his magazine with a soft sigh and set it on the nightstand. I kept my eyes on my book, but my senses were suddenly hyper-alert, focused entirely on the space he occupied.
"Maya?" His voice was quiet in the lamp-lit
