I remember every vivid detail about that basement.

The dripping pipe. The cracks and ridges in the stone wall on my right. The pink foam insulation overhead, peeking out of the wooden beams in the ceiling. The way the sunrise cast a radiant beam of light into our dungeon, magnifying all of the little dust particles in the air. I tried to count them one morning, but the light kept shifting and I’d lose track.

I remember the Daddy Long Leg spider in the cobwebbed corner that never seemed to move. I thought he was dead until I caught the tiniest twitch of one of his thin legs. I wondered how long he could go without food.

I bet he wondered the same thing about me.

I remember the gaudy, floral wallpaper in that moldy bathroom and the way it peeled from every corner, revealing decayed walls and water damage. I recall looking in the dusty mirror, not recognizing the man reflecting back at me.

Cora.

I think about the way she chewed on her lip while we played ‘Twenty Questions’ to pass the time. She took the game seriously, like she was up for the grand prize on a cheesy game show.

I remember the golden glints in her emerald eyes that seemed to fade which each passing day.

I recall the occasional smile I would pull out of her. They felt so magical—so beautifully out of place. Her smile was the closest thing I felt to being rescued over the course of those twenty days.

I remember the goosebumps on her skin when I’d gently caress her cheek, or her hip, or her thigh, trying to bring as much tenderness to the moment as possible. It’s just the cold, I told myself. But sometimes a small sound or squeak would accompany the goosebumps and she’d give herself away.

It was only three weeks, but it’s burned into every cell, every vein, every tainted pocket of my soul.

Forever.

And so is she.

I break down the following Saturday morning and send her a text message.

Me: Can we grab coffee? We should talk.

I pace back and forth through my living room in just my sweatpants, staring at my phone screen and scratching the back of my neck, noting that I really need to get a damn haircut.

She reads the message fairly quickly, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for a shut down.

Cora: I suppose. But only because I’m standing at your front door right now.

I blink at the response, processing her words.

Well, shit.

I jog over to the front of my townhouse, pulling open the door to reveal a bundled-up Cora, sprinkled with snowflakes, her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drift downward as the icy wind blasts me, and I remember that I’m shirtless.

She brings her gaze up from my naked chest with a sharp swallow. “You forgot your shirt.”