No discrepancy. No other adult. No sentence that could split a life in a courtyard.
They walked to the sedan together. Lily between them, holding both their hands for a stretch of sidewalk until the geometry made it awkward and she swung onto Aaron's arm instead. In the car Lily talked about summer camp and whether Mr. Patel the snowman would survive in the freezer if they tried. Simone laughed, real laughter, startled out of her. Aaron found himself smiling at the windshield.
At a red light he reached across the console and touched Simone's hand — not a full holding, not yet a vow remade, but contact. Simone's fingers turned and held his for the length of the light. When it went green he needed both hands for the wheel. She let go without clinging.
That night, after Lily slept, Aaron stood in the doorway of the guest room with his pillow.
Simone looked up from the bed they had once shared without complication. She said nothing. She waited.
Aaron said, "I'm bringing this back. I'm not bringing amnesia. If I wake up angry, I will say so. If you wake up ashamed, I will not use it as a weapon if you don't hide it as a secret. Those are the terms I can live with right now."
Simone nodded. Tears again, quieter than October. "Come to bed."
He did. The mattress remembered them. The maple outside moved in the dark. Aaron lay on his back and felt Simone's breathing settle into the rhythm he had known for years and lost for months and found again like a road that had been closed for repair.