Drool is not the most dignified way to start a relationship, but it's what I've got to work with right now.
I blink awake to find myself sprawled across Emily's chest, my cheek pressed against her warm skin, a small puddle of saliva between us. Sunlight filters through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the bed. I feel her steady breathing beneath me, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, then realize she's already awake.
Emily's green eyes are fixed on me, watching with an intensity that should probably be unsettling but somehow isn't. There's something different about her this morning, a softness around the edges that wasn't there before.
"Good morning," I mumble, hastily wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Her lips curve into a smile that transforms her entire face. Without a word, she leans down and captures my mouth with hers. The kiss is deep and unhurried, her tongue meeting mine in a slow dance that makes my toes curl. There's none of the hesitation or embarrassment from before, just pure desire.
When she finally pulls away, her eyes are shining. "Good morning, Charles," she whispers against my lips.
I can't help but smile back at her. The woman who yesterday blushed furiously at the slightest compliment is gone, replaced by this confident, radiant creature who holds me like I'm something precious.
"Sleep well?" I ask, stretching slightly against her. My ribs still ache, but the pain seems duller today.
"Better than I have in years," she says, running her fingers through my hair. The casual intimacy of the gesture feels both foreign and familiar at the same time.
I shift my position, moving up so we're face to face on the pillow. "So," I say, trying to sound casual, "last night was..."
"Amazing," she finishes, her eyes never leaving mine.
The way she says it makes me pause. There's something almost reverent in her tone, like she's describing a religious experience rather than sex.
"You know," I say slowly, "I still have questions about... well, everything."
Emily's expression doesn't change, but I feel her body tense slightly beneath the sheets. "Of course you do," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "What do you want to know?"
I open my mouth to ask about the blood, about her contradictory statements, about the strange emptiness of our house, but something stops me. The way she's looking at me right now, open and vulnerable and happy, makes the questions die in my throat.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Tell me about us. How we met."
Emily's eyes light up like someone flipped a switch inside her. "Oh! I can show you!" she says, grabbing her phone from the nightstand with surprising eagerness. Her fingers dance across the screen, swiping and tapping with purpose until she finds what she's looking for.
"Here," she says, turning the phone toward me. "We were neighbors growing up. I'm actually a year older than you."
I lean closer, staring at photos I have no memory of. There we are, two kids in a suburban backyard. A small, scrawny boy with my eyes and a taller girl with Emily's blonde hair.
"You were seven here," she says, her voice taking on a nostalgic quality as she zooms in. "You wouldn't leave me alone." She laughs, but there's something tender in it. "You followed me everywhere, always asking me to play or read with you. It was adorable, really. You were completely obsessed with me."
She swipes to the next photo, and the next, and the next, showing me pictures from throughout our childhood. I'm watching a timeline of us growing up together, from gap-toothed elementary school kids to awkward preteens.
Emily caresses each image like it's made of delicate glass, her fingers tracing the outlines of our younger selves with reverence. Her eyes are practically glowing as she narrates each memory.
"This was your tenth birthday," she says, showing me a picture where a tiny version of me is blowing out candles while practically leaning against her. "You insisted I stand right next to you for every photo."
I study the image closer. Young Emily doesn't look nearly as thrilled as present Emily. In fact, her smile seems forced, her eyes showing clear annoyance as little-me invades her personal space.
"And this one," she continues, swiping to another photo, "was the summer before sixth grade. We went to the lake with our families."
In this one, I'm clinging to her arm at a beach, grinning ear to ear while she's looking off-camera, her expression somewhere between irritation and resignation.
"I was pretty clingy, huh?" I say, noticing a pattern.
Emily laughs softly. "You were devoted." The way she says it sounds like she's describing a puppy's loyalty rather than a friendship.
She keeps swiping through more childhood snapshots. The pictures feel like they should trigger something in me, a memory, a feeling, anything, but they're just images of strangers who happen to look like younger versions of us.
"This was your twelfth birthday," she says, showing me a photo where I'm opening a present while practically sitting in her lap. Young Emily's smile is strained, her body language stiff. "You told everyone I was your girlfriend that day." She sighs dreamily. "It was so cute."
I squint at the photo. "You don't look very happy about it."
Emily freezes for a moment, her thumb pausing mid-swipe on the screen. "Uhh, well..." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think younger me had trouble admitting what she wanted back then."
I can't help but laugh. "So what you're saying is, I basically annoyed you until you married me?"
Something flickers across Emily's face, a momentary frown that's gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. Her features smooth back into that radiant smile, but there's a tightness around her eyes now.
"No, of course not," she says, setting her phone down on the nightstand with deliberate care.
She shifts closer, her hands coming up to cradle my face. Her palms are warm against my cheeks, her touch both tender and possessive as she forces me to look directly into those intense green eyes.
"Do I seem like I don't like you, Charles?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.
I swallow hard, acutely aware of her naked body pressed against mine under the sheets. "No," I admit, my voice rougher than I expected. "You seem to like me very much."
The smile that spreads across her face is dazzling, almost blindingly so. Without another word, she leans forward and captures my mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. There's hunger in it, but also something else, a desperation, a need that goes beyond physical desire.
When she finally pulls away, we're both breathless. She rests her forehead against mine, her eyes closed as if savoring the moment.
"I've always liked you," she whispers. "Always."
The intensity in her voice sends a shiver down my spine. Part of me wonders if this is normal, if we've always been like this, this passionate, this all-consuming. The other part doesn't care, too caught up in the way her body feels against mine.