“You’ve always got me, Em. Every part of me.”

“You’ve got me too.” Tentatively, I reach out and touch his bare stomach, right over the skull tattoo. His muscles contract under my touch, and I’m shocked at how hard his body is. “I want to shush this guy. Make him stop screaming for you.”

“I want you to feel like you belong here with me, Em.”

“I’m starting to.” I slowly move my hand up the middle of his chest, over his pec, and to his shoulder. His skin is smooth and warm.

I nearly melt when he turns his head to kiss my hand on his shoulder. Earlier, he said he misses my touch, and I wonder how I used to touch him. Like this? More sexual?

I don’t know.

“Ya know, I’ve never played board games with anyone else,” he says, and it slowly sinks in. He didn’t do that with pre-accident Ember. “That’s an us thing. Just me and you. And I love it.”

I smile. “I do too.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” I admit. “The whole memory thing sorta mentally exhausts me.”

Standing, he pulls me up to my feet and leads me over to my bed.

“Do you want me to stay with you while you sleep? Maybe play some guitar for you?”

Biting my lip, I turn away from the bed. “No.” I inhale a deep, nervous breath. “I want to sleep with you…in our bed. If you want.”

He did say he wanted me in our bed, but that could mean so many different things, and maybe sleeping next to each other wasn’t quite what he meant.

“Really?” he breathes. “Are you sure?”

I nod in the dark. “Yes. I want to try.”

“Look what you’re doing to my heart.” He places my hand over his chest, and his heart thumps rapidly against my palm.

“You do the same to me.”

“Do I?”

Copying his gesture, I take his hand and lay it over my heart. “See?” I say. “You make my heart feel like it’s going to beat out of my chest.”

“I think I can make you feel a lot more than that, Em.” His sensual tone, and his warm hand over my breast does exactly that. My core radiates with a heat that burns down to my inner thighs. “In fact, I think I know exactly what you need right now.”

I gulp. “You do?”

He leans closer, nudging his face into my hair to drag his lips across my ear. “Ice cream,” he whispers. “You need ice cream.”

I laugh as my body shifts from sensual tension to suddenly craving ice cream.

“I think you’re right.”

Grabbing my hand, he winks at me, and we sneak downstairs, laughing like little kids on our way to the dim kitchen. We fill dishes with scoops of creamy vanilla ice cream, and he crushes vanilla wafer cookies to sprinkle on top.

“Do you want a cherry?” he asks, opening the fridge and pulling the small jar out.

“Yes.”

He unscrews the lid and pulls a cherry out by its stem, then holds it in the air between us.

“C’mere,” he says in a low, husky voice.

When I step closer, his eyes shine with mischief.

“Open your mouth.” He holds the cherry closer and gently places it between my parted lips.

I bite it off the stem and chew it slowly while he watches me intently.

“You have the sexiest lips,” he says, leaning down for a soft kiss. “I love watching you talk and eat.” After he puts a cherry on each of our sundaes, he puts the jar back in the fridge. “Is that weird?”

I shake my head as I pull two spoons out of the cutlery drawer. “No. I like watching you sometimes. Like when you play guitar. I like how your fingers move. And the muscles in your arms flex. I like the way your hair falls in your face.”

“You can watch me as much as you want, baby. I’m yours, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” I say teasingly.

He chuckles and picks up our dishes. “Let’s go eat these in bed.”

Upstairs, he puts a romantic comedy movie on the TV, and we eat our ice cream, sitting so close our legs touch, laughing at the movie.

What happened earlier feels a million years ago.

“I like this,” I say. “Spending time like this together. I’m glad we don’t stay mad.”

He meets my eyes and contemplates that for a moment. “There’s nothing worth fighting about to the point that it takes time away from us. It’s not worth it. We lost too much time already.”

It’s late when the movie ends, and some of my insecurities creep back in as we get ready for bed. I refuse to let my mind wander off into places of bizarre jealousy. Especially after we had such a great end to the night.

This is my bedroom, and this my husband.

Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I’ll finally either believe it or remember it.