"I'm admiring your form," he corrected, pulling even with me. "There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." I shot him a sideways glance, my lips twitching. "Keep your eyes on the path, Cameron."
"But the path isn't nearly as interesting."
The morning was perfect, one of those crystalline late-autumn days where the air tasted like possibility. Early sun filtered through the bare trees, painting golden stripes across the packed earth. Frost sparkled on the grass like scattered diamonds, and our breath puffed out in little clouds that dissolved into the cold air.
And Miles was running. Actually running, beside me, his stride careful but confident, his breathing steady. The physical therapist had emphasized gait training, coordinated movement, and maintaining cardiovascular health.
To me, it was simpler than that. It was getting him outside, into the light, moving with purpose beside someone who loved him.
"So," he said between breaths, "this is the famous Charlotte Huston pace? The one that won the regional championship?"
"It was the 400-meter, not the regional championship?—"
"Close enough."
"And I'm pacing you, you ingrate. This is strategic slowness."
"Strategic slowness." He grinned, his eyes crinkling. "Is that what they call it when you get old and slow?"
"I am not old!" I bumped my shoulder against his, feeling the solid warmth of him through our running jackets. "I am experienced. And I could still smoke you, Cameron."
"Big talk from the woman currently being matched by a man with a neurodegenerative disease."
"You're not matching me. I'm letting you keep up."
"Keep telling yourself that."
I laughed, the sound bursting out of me, joyous and free in the morning air. This was what we were fighting for, not a life without illness, but a life full of moments like this. Teasing, striving, sharing the fresh morning air while he made terrible jokes.
We slowed to a walk at the halfway point, both of us breathing harder. Miles reached for my hand, not for support, just because he wanted to hold it, and I felt that familiar flutter in my chest, the one that never seemed to fade, no matter how many times he touched me.
"You know," he said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm, "I never thought I'd be grateful for physical therapy."
"Because of the health benefits?"
"Because it gave me an excuse to watch you in running tights."
I shoved his shoulder, laughing. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it. There's a difference."
He stopped walking, turning to face me. The morning light caught his eyes, turning them amber and gold. His free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek with that slight tremor I'd learned to love rather than fear.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For this. For making me come out here." He paused, searching for words. "For making me feel like myself again."
My heart clenched. "You've always been yourself, Miles."
"Not like this." He leaned forward and kissed me, soft and sweet, right there on the empty path with the frost sparkling around us. "Not for a long time."
When we pulled apart, I kept my forehead pressed to his, breathing him in. Cedar and cold air and something that was just Miles.
