I pulled back, but Pierre tried lingering a little too long for comfort on that sudden kiss. I helped pull him up and set him on the bed like you would a child who had scraped their knee.

“Stay there,” I commanded, leaving the room. I made my way to the kitchen, trying to find the only remedy I knew that could cure anything from a broken heart to getting a hole in your favourite sweater. I started boiling a pot of tea. Drinking the tea didn’t matter, but the process of making it was a whole different story.

I poured Pierre a cup, and brought it to him. He didn’t say anything, but he held the warm mug in his hands and closed his eyes.

“Elizabeth never made me tea,” he said after a moment of silence.

“Tell me about Elizabeth,” I requested, sitting next to him on the bed, “Why did you marry her if she hated you?”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he said sternly.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” I answered.

“You,” he said quietly, “Do you love me?”

I had no way of answering that.