Jack washed up on the shore of consciousness very slowly. For a long time, he lay face-down in the shallows, listening to the shushing of the surf in his ears.

He couldn't work out why he felt so good. There was a steady glow in his chest, like a banked fire. The scrunched-up feeling in his stomach was gone. The knots in his shoulders had been untied. There was a – a kind of physical echo, like when you get slapped in the face, and you can still feel the shock-waves when you touch your cheek. Only this had been stronger than a slap, and the echo was not one of pain. His limbs felt long and loose, as if they'd been smoothed and kneaded and shaped by loving ha-

Oh god. Surely not.

His eyes snapped open.

She was asleep in the bed beside him. He knew it was her, even though her hair had fallen over her face, because the blankets had fallen away from her breasts, and he would have known those anywhere.

This was not a gentle way to wake up to it. He felt a lurch of joy and disbelief that blurred his eyesight. He had to bring a hand up to his mouth to keep from laughing.

There was no way – there was no way-

But it had happened. The memories poured down on him now like manna from heaven. He had been in no condition to take it all in at the time, but somehow, a small, practical part of him had been paying attention, taking notes, imprinting every detail in his memory, on the assumption that, in a few hours, the memories would be all he'd have.

He ought to think about that, but the memories were too enticing. He went over every detail until his cock was throbbing, and his heart was pounding so hard he was sure it would wake her up.

Of three things he was certain. They were the source of the banked fire in his chest. And even though he'd only been consciously aware of them for a few minutes, they had worked their way down to the bedrock of his soul. Firstly, she had wanted him. Secondly, he had given her pleasure. And thirdly, she loved him.

Points one and two were just as important as point three – in a way, they were more important, because her loving him was not really a new idea. He had known ever since – ever since last July – that she'd loved him enough to sell herself into slavery for him, although he had never known she'd loved him at the time of her loving him, which had seemed miserably unfair until last night.

Now things were still unfair, but the other way. He didn't deserve what he'd been given. He didn't deserve the clarity, the rightness of this moment. He was more himself than he had ever been – and it was OK to be himself, because he was OK, because he had satisfied her, he had been wanted by her. That was – well, it was the answer to everything he'd been feeling for the past few days. It was the reason why you could be a man, with a man's desires, without hating yourself for what other men did to other women.

He tried to get a hold of himself. What he did now was important. Last night had been grace – a miracle – and now he had to earn it. She had wanted to, and he would never forget that, but he knew an act of mercy when he saw one. She had saved his life, and now he had to make sure he used it to help her.

It was all so clear to him now. The horrible fever had dispersed, and he could see what she was – what they were together – what she needed from him.

Still, it would take some thinking about. He knew with every fibre of his being that, when she woke up, she would hate herself for being weak, for giving him false hope. He had to puzzle her out of that state, because she would just hate herself more if he was kind – and more than ever if he begged.

He had to resign himself to helping her rather than having her. Really, he wanted to help her more than he wanted to have her. It was just difficult to remember that when her breasts were on show.

He studied them for a moment, trying to talk himself down from the pitch of excitement he'd climbed to. Something was different. Very carefully, without making the slightest noise, he extracted his bandaged arm from the covers and stared at it. Then, slower still, half-afraid of what he would see – half-afraid that this would mean it was all a dream – he looked down at his chest.

Well, that was... odd.

Something to puzzle over later, perhaps. The main thing was that he kept her here long enough to explain what she had done for him last night. Of course, she would never understand completely, and probably not much in one go, but if he could just give a check to her self-hatred – if he could just make her stop to think...

It was painful and lovely at the same time when she woke up, because she did what she had always done in India. Her stomach-muscles tightened and dragged her upright. She was catapulted onto the shore of consciousness with a shuddering gasp, not knowing where she was, or whether she had to run.

And, even as he smiled fondly and thought, 'Still doing that, is she?' he wished she could feel like he did. Would she ever drift lazily onto the shore of consciousness, wrapped up in the knowledge that everything was all right?

Oh well. It was something to reach for. You couldn't have all your wishes granted at once.

He said what he had always said in India, when she woke up in this way. "Safe house, little cricket. You're among friends here."

She froze, but didn't turn. He could see the tension in her shoulders, and then a horrible, disconsolate slumping. He knew – even though he couldn't see her face – that she had closed her eyes.

"Oh no," she moaned, sinking back onto the pillows. "I wasn't supposed to do that."

"Don't worry. I probably wasn't supposed to let you."

She opened her screwed-up eyes. "Jack-"

"I know," he said, flinging back the covers and starting to hunt around for some clothes. "You're not ready yet. You can't forgive me. You didn't mean to lead me on. Why are you always in such a hurry to get to the bad bits?"

She was silent – probably stunned – but he didn't stop to look at her face. He found some trousers and started to pull them on. "Do you want coffee? I'm having some. I don't usually, but this seems like a special occasion."

He stopped, realizing that her eyes had sunk – probably against her better judgement – to the erection he had just stuffed into his trousers.

"Oh, come on," he said, half-exasperated. "I've just woken up. It doesn't mean anything." He paused for the length of a heartbeat and muttered, without meeting her eyes, "Not unless you want it to."

She laughed, and then seemed very annoyed with herself for laughing. Almost automatically, Jack took a step towards the door, as though to block it.

"I have to go," she said, hugging her arms. If she'd had fingernails, she would have been digging them into her skin.

"Of course," said Jack, which was unexpected enough to silence her again. "But have a cup of coffee first, won't you? It's cold out there."

He met her eyes and spread his hands innocently. "I'm not going to stop you leaving, mouse. I just need to talk to you for five minutes before you disappear."

"Well?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

"Not here. Over coffee. I need to wake up first." He held up a hand, even though she had shown no signs of speaking. "Five minutes, I swear."

She continued to look at him dubiously, which he decided to interpret as assent.

"I'll let you get dressed." He paused with his hand on the doorknob, and added, "Please don't try to climb out of that window. It's still icy, and I think we weakened the ledges last night."

She gave the window an appraising look. "I think I could make it."

"I'm sure you could, mouse, but why bother when there's a perfectly good front door? Five minutes, OK?"

"Jack?" she said, just as he was stepping out. He looked back, trying to be casual.

"Could you send Sarah up with some hot water for a bath?"

Relief washed over him, as if Sarah had got there already, and poured the hot water down his back.

"Of course. Yes. Right then."