Weeks in the world of two suns stretched out in a strange, steady rhythm that no longer felt alien. Sophie and David had settled into their cramped apartment: his books towered on the shelves, her boxes of cat food and toys cluttered the corner. David lectured at the university, sometimes bringing home stacks of essays he marked with theatrical grumbling. Sophie sank deeper into her work at the shelter—the cats adored her, and the volunteers joked she'd soon start purring herself.
The visions still came—brief flashes during their intimacy, always at the peak of her climax: a cramped room with a flickering oil stove, a shoreline under a violet sea, an ice rink high in the mountains. David experienced them through her, like sharing a film reel burned into the fabric of reality. They had even grown used to it. The visions became almost routine.
And yet the worlds still called. Their colors, their danger, their promise. David could feel how Sophie longed for them. Sophie could feel how ready he was for another leap.
So they decided…
"Sophie," he murmured one night, "tell me your fantasies. Let's try something you secretly dream about. Maybe it will stir the same intensity as in the car. Maybe it will open a door."
She lowered her eyes, embarrassed, lips curving in a hesitant smile.
"I want you to watch," she whispered, "while I… pleasure myself with pieces of ice."