Rita's Point Of View
I let out a sharp, stuttering gasp that sounded more like a choked sob, my fingers knotting into the fine wool of his jacket. The fabric felt expensive beneath my trembling hands, a tactile reminder of the vast distance our lives had traveled in opposite directions.
The heat radiating from him felt intoxicating, a dangerous contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned cool of the living room. My pulse hammered against my throat, each beat a reminder that this was real… he was real, standing here after all these years. Not a ghost. Not a memory. Flesh and blood and warmth.
"You... you don't know what you're saying, Charles," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of longing and fear. The words tasted bitter on my tongue, defensive walls I'd spent decades building.
