She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." I tried to organize the static in my head. Something wasn't right. Something about time, about distance, about a phone call I could almost hear if I concentrated hard enough. "We haven't... how did we..."
"That's a long story," she said softly. "And you just woke up from brain surgery."
I frowned, reaching for the thought, but it slipped away like water through a cracked glass. A dull ache bloomed behind my eyes, and the fog thickened, rolling back in and swallowing whatever I'd been trying to piece together. I winced, pressing my head back against the pillow.
"Miles? Are you okay? Should I call the doctor?"
"No. No, I'm fine. Just..." I blinked, the sharp edge of the question already dissolving. The fog was warm, heavy, and it was easier to stop fighting it.
When my vision cleared, she was still there. Still hovering. Still looking at me like I might disappear. The question was gone. But she was here. That felt like enough.
"You can hold my hand," I said. "I won't break."
"You already broke." A sob escaped her, and then she was crying, not delicate tears but great, heaving sobs that shook her whole body. Her hand found mine and gripped it like a lifeline. "I'm so sorry. God, Miles, I'm so sorry."
"Charlotte—"
"I made you go running. I picked that route. I should have been beside you, not behind you. I should have seen the car…" The words tumbled out between gasps. "The doctor said the trauma could accelerate your Parkinson's. I've stolen time from you. The time we were supposed to have. I did this to you."
I watched her fall apart, and something broke out within me. Not pain or not just pain. Something deeper. The fierce, desperate need to make this stop. To take that guilt from her shoulders and throw it into the sea.
"Hey." I squeezed her hand, weak but insistent. "Look at me."
She did, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming in tears.
"This is not your fault."
"But I?—"
"No." My voice came out stronger than I expected. "A person staring at their phone ran a stop sign. That's whose fault this is. Not yours. Never yours."
"You could have permanent damage. Your Parkinson's could be worse. Your memory?—"
"Is currently full of you." I held her gaze. "The last thing I remember before waking up in this bed is your face in the morning sun, laughing at me for being slow. You know what I was thinking in that moment?"
She shook her head.
"I was thinking that I wanted to see that face every day for the rest of my life." My thumb traced across her knuckles, clumsy with the IV but determined. "I was thinking about us last week, how you had batter in your hair, and you'd never looked more beautiful. I was thinking about falling asleep on the couch with your head on my shoulder, and how I didn't want to move for three hours because I didn't want to wake you."
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but something in her expression shifted.
"I was thinking," I continued, my voice dropping, "about all the ways I wanted to kiss you when we got home. About how your coffee tastes on your lips in the morning. About the look you give me when our hands touch." I swallowed hard. "Those aren't the thoughts of a man who blames you for anything. Those are the thoughts of a man who's ridiculously, embarrassingly in love with you."
That word.Love.I hadn’t said it to her in a long time.
"Miles..." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I know this isn't how I planned to tell you. I was thinking candlelight, maybe some wine, definitely fewer hospital tubes." I attempted a smile. "But apparently my timing has always been terrible."
She laughed, between sobs and wiping her tears, but a laugh nonetheless. "Your timing is the worst."
"I know. It's a character flaw." I tugged gently on her hand. "Come here."
She leaned closer, her face inches from mine. I could see every freckle, every tear track, every flicker of emotion in those green eyes I loved so much.
"I am not going to lie to you," I said quietly. "I'm scared. I don't know what damage this accident caused. I don't know if my Parkinson's is worse. I don't know what the future looks like anymore." I reached up with my free hand, ignoring the pull of the IV, and brushed a tear from her cheek. "But I know that when I was unconscious, when I was lost in the dark, gripping sand at the bottom of an ocean, I could still hear you. Your voice. Your laugh. The memory of how it feels when you look at me. Your eyes."
