With good memories

Emily stood still for a long moment.

Eli’s back was still to her, his shoulders stiff, jaw clenched. The anger had vented, but the hurt remained. Thick. Unspoken. The kind of pain that left a mark deeper than bruises.

She looked down at her hands.

Then up at the door.

And without a word, she turned… and quietly slid the bolt into place. The soft click of the lock made Eli turn, brow furrowed.

“What are you—”

But she was already moving. Calm. Quiet. Purposeful.

She stepped up to him, reached out, and with the lightest touch to his chest, guided him backward.

He didn’t resist.

Didn’t speak again.

Just let himself be pushed down into the couch. He sat with a soft thump, eyes narrowed, confused—but watching.

Emily stood before him, heart pounding, but her voice was gentle.

“You’re right,” she said. “It wasn’t fair.”

He blinked.

“You didn’t deserve what happened. You didn’t deserve to be cuffed. Or thrown in a cell. Or punched.” She exhaled slowly. “And you sure as hell didn’t deserve to have your first moment like that stolen from you.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

“Some things…” she murmured, swiping her screen, “you should get to keep.”

She tapped her playlist. A low bass beat began to pulse through the air—smooth, deliberate, sultry. Something slow enough to feel. Something she hadn’t listened to in years.

Then she propped the phone up on the counter, angled toward the room.

Recording.

She turned back toward him.

And started to move.

It was subtle at first—hips swaying, shoulders rolling to the rhythm. Her feet shifted, her hands tracing the sides of her body. The movement was muscle memory. Polished. Controlled. It belonged to a younger version of her, one who knew how to perform, how to own the room—how to make someone forget everything else.

She saw the moment it happened.

Eli’s body went still.

His bruised face didn’t shift, but his eyes—those didn’t move from her. Not for a second.

Her fingers drifted to the buttons of her blouse.

One at a time. No rush.

Click. Click.

The fabric eased apart, her bra peeking through—black, lacy, barely structured.

Not her nursing bra.

And she realized suddenly: she knew this wasn’t her usual. She’d pulled it from the back of the drawer this morning. Why?

Because she felt guilty?

Because she wanted to feel like herself again?

Because Jason hadn’t come home again—and she didn’t even remember if that made seven or eight times this month?

Maybe all of it.

Maybe none of it.

Maybe… maybe this moment wasn’t about Jason at all.

It was about giving Eli something to remember.

And as she let the blouse slip off her shoulders and fall silently to the floor, she met his gaze directly.

Not afraid.

Not sorry.

Not anymore.