He finds a flashlight, clicks it on, and sets it on the table.Warm yellow light spills across the room, hitting his face.
The storm outside intensifies.
Wind howls like something alive.
I wrap my arms around myself.“This storm feels like an omen.”
“It’s just weather,” he says but his hand brushes my shoulder as he passes, a ghost of a touch that lingers long after.
I turn toward him.“Ledger?”
“Yeah?”
“Can, can you sit with me?”
He stops completely.
Just stops.
Thunder rattles the windows.
He faces me slowly, eyes locked on mine.He doesn’t blink.Doesn’t breathe.The air between us snaps tight like something alive.
He returns to the couch not cautiously, but deliberately and sits so close our hips touch this time.Not an accidental brush.Not a half-inch of space.Full contact with purpose.The warmth of him spreads through me.My heart pounds loud enough I swear he must hear it.
“Tell me what’s in your head,” he says quietly.
I swallow hard.“I’m trying to piece things together.”
“What things?”
“You,” I whisper.
His breath hitches.“What about me?”
“I keep getting flashes,” I say, closing my eyes.“More today than before.Moments with you.Your voice.Your laugh.Your hands.Your truck.Your bike.The bakery.You looking at me like I was,” I shake my head.“Important.”
He exhales sharply.
“You were,” he shares, “you are.”
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.“I don’t understand why all of that would disappear.”
“Head trauma,” he murmurs.“Time.Stress.Fear.”
“But everything I remember is warm,” I whisper.“Safe.Like I was happy.”
“You were,” he repeats.
“And you?”I ask carefully.“Were you happy?”
He goes still.So still that the storm outside feels like background noise.Finally, he speaks.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.“But I didn’t realize how much until I threw it away.”
My throat tightens.“Why did you?”
“Because I didn’t think I deserved it,” he mutters.“Didn’t think I deserved you.Didn’t want to drag you into club shit.Into danger.”
