The carriage rocked gently, and with it the memories loosened—soft, dangerous things she had kept folded away.
Mary remembered how it had started with excuses.
Late nights.
Shared blankets during winter.
Hands held a moment too long under the guise of comfort.
They had learned each other's shapes through absence before touch.
In quiet corners of the house, away from doors and listening walls, Isabelle would pull her close—not hurried, not hungry, just needing. Mary could still feel the way Isabelle's arms fit around her, protective and trembling at once, as if she were afraid Mary might disappear if she loosened her grip.
Their hugs lingered longer than propriety allowed.
Sometimes Isabelle would rest her forehead against Mary's shoulder, breathing her in, whispering nothing at all. Those silences had been louder than confessions.
And the kisses—
Always brief.
Always stolen.
A brush of lips behind the pantry door.
A soft, desperate press in the shadow of the stairs.
The kind that ended too soon, leaving both of them breathless and aching with restraint.
They never went further.
Not because the want wasn't there—but because fear was stronger.
Fear of being seen.
Fear of being named.
Fear of what loving like that would cost them in a world already so eager to punish.
Mary remembered the way Isabelle would pull back every time, eyes dark, voice unsteady.
"We can't," she'd whisper, even as her fingers lingered, reluctant to let go.
"Just this," she'd say. "Please. Just this."
And Mary had agreed. Always.
Because even this felt forbidden.
Because even this felt like something precious they had no right to keep.
Now, as the road carried her farther away, Mary pressed a hand to her chest, where the memory of Isabelle's heartbeat still lived.
They had loved each other quietly.
Carefully.
Like holding fire in their palms and pretending it didn't burn.
And perhaps that was the cruelest part—
Not that they never dared to go beyond kisses and embraces…
—but that those small, restrained moments had meant everything.