“Yeah,” I reply, cracking eggs into a pan.“Picked up a thing or two.”
She frowns slightly still focusing on my movements.“I feel like I’ve seen you do this before.”
“You have.”
“When?”
I pause, spatula in hand.“A while back,” I state trying not remember how often I made her breakfast because we stayed up all night fucking and we both worked up an appetite.“I cooked for you a few times.When the opportunity presented itself.You bake all the time, I didn’t figure you wanted to spend a ton of your free time in the kitchen.”
She stares at me, something soft and searching in her eyes.“You really took care of me, didn’t you?”
My throat tightens.“Not enough.”
She doesn’t argue.She doesn’t ease the pain inside me that I let her down by saying I did.She also doesn’t say I didn’t.She accepts it at face value.When her memories come back will she relive the pain of our separation again?
Will I?
She watches me with a look I can’t decipher, a mixture of gratitude, sadness, and something that scares me because it looks too close to hope.
When the food is ready, I set a plate in front of her.
She blinks.“This looks… good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I don’t know you,” she replies honestly.“But this feels familiar.”
She takes a bite.Her eyes close briefly.A soft noise escapes her, almost a hum.
My stomach drops.
I’ve heard that sound before.
In her kitchen.
In what feels like another life.
Late nights, early mornings, the two of us pretending whatever this thing between us was didn’t matter.
Except it did.
More than either of us admitted.And now I can’t help but feel like even the good has been lost.That guts me more than anything.
She opens her eyes and gives me a weary smile.“Thank you.”
I sit across from her with my coffee, watching her pick at the meal like every movement requires concentration.
After a few bites, she sets the fork down.“Ledger?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you tell me something?”Her voice is small, almost apologetic.
“Anything.”
She hesitates.“What, what was I like?Before?”
A painful warmth spreads through my chest.
