Everything After That Was Ours

In a rooftop greenhouse thick with misting ferns and rain-silvered glass, a cellist and her somatic consultant share their final contracted session, one that begins with a bow skidding across a Sarabande and ends somewhere far beyond professional distance. Aurora has spent a lifetime gripping everything she loves into submission, taught by an early wound that tenderness requires a clamp, and Rowan's unhurried breath and steady gaze dismantle that certainty one millimetre at a time, without a single spoken instruction. The story follows Aurora's arc from white-knuckled control to the startling discovery that surrender is not the same as losing, and that being held can be chosen rather than endured. Readers can expect the rare warmth of desire that feels like coming home to a language you forgot you already knew.