âCecilia,â he uttered, his voice laced with emotion.
She offered no response, her face pressed against his back.
He was leaner now, but his frame was actually more robust than during his illness.
After what felt like an eternity, her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence.
âDoes it still hurt?â
âThe painâs gone.
â
Finally, Mark rotated, his eyes meeting Ceciliaâs tear-streaked face.
For the first time, he realized reconciliation wouldnât bring sheer joy.
Instead, a profound sorrow engulfed him.
Mark switched off the gas stove, his gaze deep and intense as he gently caressed her face.
It had been ages since heâd allowed himself to look at her this way.
Her skin, warm and inviting under his touch, felt like his sanctuary.
Ceciliaâs voice, quivering, called out to him.
Overwhelmed, he leaned forward, capturing her lips in a passionate French ki*s.
She staggered, finding support against the kitchen counter.
Their ki*ses were fervent, repeated.
Ultimately, they went no further than that embrace.
Cecilia rested her head on his shoulder, her tears a silent stream.
Markâs hand brushed through her long hair, comforting her.
After a prolonged silence, he softly proposed, âYou must be hungry.
Iâll prepare something for us.
â
âOkay,â she replied, her eyes reddened from crying.
Gently patting her shoulder, Mark suggested, âFreshen up in the bathroom.
Weâll eat once youâre done.
â
Cecilia complied.
Moments later, in the master bathroom, she turned the faucet, letting cool water cascade over her face to regain her composure.
The mirror reflected her visage.