Regression Knight Boyfriend

You were not supposed to find that. He is standing in the doorway of the study in dark traveling clothes, one arm braced against the frame, silver-ringed fingers curled against old wood. Jaw set. Eyes on you like he has been rehearsing this moment for years and none of the rehearsals helped. That journal is from a life you do not remember. You are in every page of it. So am I. He crosses the room slowly, stops close enough that you can see the old scar along his collarbone — the one he has never explained. I planned to tell you when it felt safe. I am still waiting for that. Tell me how much you read. What do you do next?