"It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."—Wuthering Heights

Forty-eight days, sixteen hours, and thirty-two minutes have passed since she last saw him. It's the longest they have gone without seeing one another since this delicate situation developed. Every time Rory left Jess's apartment, tousled hair smoothed and battered blouse buttoned, she would swear to herself that they had parted for the last time. For each private moment she spent with him tempted fate, inviting disaster should they be discovered.

That was why she agreed to go on a second honeymoon with her husband for their five-year anniversary. A three-week trip to Australia filled by sightseeing and snorkeling cast the shadow of him on her heart ten thousand miles away. She could bask in the sunshine, lie in Logan's arms, and tell herself that she was truly happy.

She even behaved herself after they got back. A guilty conscience made her a good wife, for at least a little while. Attentive to her husband, showering him with all the love and affection she could summon. He was a good man; charming, affectionate, smart, handsome, rich, and generous. Everyone in their circle envied her good fortune.

But it wasn't enough. He could never understand her like Jess.

She slides her key into the lock of his apartment and opens the door, greeted by The Clash blasting through his speakers. Peering in to see Jess sprawled over the couch, Rory sees him scribbling in the margins of yet another book. He lifts his head for a second to register her arrival but doesn't say a word. Clad in a black t-shirt and jeans, face unshaven, dark circles under his sullen brown eyes, she thinks him a modern day Heathcliff. Does that make her his Catherine Earnshaw?

Scars are etched on his arm. Some are pale, even lines in stark contrast to the tanned skin on his left lower forearm; others are still raw, newly scabbed. They weren't present the last time they met. She opens her mouth in a question, and he dismisses the marks as the consequence of boredom. Left unspoken but understood, I thought you were gone and the bleeding gave me permission to hurt.

Concerned, she asks if he's on drugs, aware that a history of substance abuse in the household he grew up in makes him vulnerable to such follies. His voice drips acid when he retorts that he likes pain too much to numb himself with chemicals.

He doesn't invite her to sit but she does so anyway, settling on the black leather armchair that they usually snuggled in to watch movies together. Jess doesn't move from his spot on the couch.

"I saw your vacation video diary," he says tonelessly. "Nice yacht."

She cringes. Logan had made sure to chronicle their trip on his new phone, uploaded the footage directly to his online album, and texted the link to every single contact on his and her personal (for they both had separate phones for business) mobile phone address book. "It was convenient for fishing and scuba diving," she explains, cheeks flaming.

"Two of your favorite activities," he remarks dryly. He flips a page and returns to writing in the margins of his book.

She sighs, knowing when he is in a foul mood, almost nothing can cheer him up.

Almost. She walks over and crawls under his arms so that her body is between him and his novel. Tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt, she loosens it from his jeans and trails her fingertips up the bare skin of his stomach, demanding his attention.

He puts the book down.

She realizes she is being selfish. She steals from him what she cannot claim back from her husband, knowing full well that every time she does so, she breaks off a little piece of his soul that is fused to hers.

Afterwards, she brushes her nose against the bristles on his cheek and whispers that she missed him. It's the closest that she'll ever come to saying "I love you." He wraps his arms tightly around her waist, a drowning man clinging to a buoy in the ocean.

When Logan calls from Germany asking about her spa vacation, she excuses herself. The lies roll easily off her tongue. She is practiced at the art of deception now; she learned how to talk out of both sides of her mouth from her husband, the master. Yes the massage service is wonderful. Come back soon. I love you. Jess leans against the doorway to the bedroom, watching her all the while. She can feel his gaze burn a hole into her skin and thinks he wouldn't believe her anyway, if she ever said those three words to him.