Morning light exposes everything they avoided acknowledging.
She expects regret. Instead, she finds clarity.
They sit across from each other, coffee untouched, tension still coiled between them. He doesn't reach for her. Doesn't pressure. He waits.
"If this happens again," she says, steady, "it's because I choose it."
He nods. "And if you say stop, it stops."
No contracts. No clauses. Just agreement.
That night, when he touches her again, it's different. Slower. Intentional. He watches her reaction closely, as if memorizing every breath, every hesitation.
It isn't passion that overwhelms her.
It's the respect.