His eyes found mine, and I watched it happen… the recognition followed by confusion, the search for context that wouldn't come.
"Charlotte." He said my name like he was testing it. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself." I crossed the room, pulled the visitor chair closer to his bed, and sat. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a car." A ghost of his dry humor surfaced. "Oh, wait."
I laughed, and the sound surprised both of us. "Your jokes are still terrible. Good to know the brain damage didn't improve them."
"Ouch." But he was almost smiling. "Thank you for being here every day. Thank you for..." He trailed off, searching for words. "Taking care of me."
"I have."
"Could you tell me why?"
The question was genuine, curious, without accusation. He really didn't know. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve, familiar but mysterious, important for reasons he couldn't name.
"Because I love you," I said simply.
His eyes widened slightly. I watched him process it, this declaration from a woman he remembered leaving in a parking lot fifteen years ago.
"Charlotte, I..." He shook his head slowly. "The last time I saw you, we were eighteen. I was an idiot. I walked away fromyou because my father told me to, and I've regretted it every day since."
"I know."
"You know?"
"You told me. About three weeks ago, actually." I reached for his hand, the left one, free of tubes now, and laced my fingers through his. The contact sent warmth flooding through me. "You told me a lot of things. We had... we had three really good months, Miles. Before the accident."
He stared at our joined hands like he was trying to will the memories into existence. "I don't remember any of it."
"I know."
"That must be..." He gazed up at me, and the vulnerable look in his eyes made my heart ache. "God, Charlotte, I’m sorry... To have all this history I can't access. Like you're loving a stranger."
"You're not a stranger." I squeezed his hand. "You're the man who burnt every loaf of bread in his home, hums off-key, and gives me comfortable movie nights after work. You're the man who looks at me like I'm something." I leaned closer. "Memory or no memory, you're still you. And I'm still ridiculously, embarrassingly in love with you."
Something shifted in his expression, wonder replacing confusion, warmth replacing uncertainty.
"Did you say that before?" he murmured. "When I first woke up, did you say that you loved me?"
"I did."
"And I said it back?"
"You did." I smiled, remembering. "You also said something about fewer hospital tubes and better timing. Very romantic."
A surprised laugh escaped him. "That does sound like me."
"It really does."
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on my palm. The touch was so familiar it hurt, the same absent-minded gesture he'd developed over the past weeks, the one that meant he was thinking, processing, working through something complicated.
"I don't remember falling in love with you," he said finally, his voice low. "But sitting here, holding your hand... it feels right. Like my body remembers even if my brain doesn't."
"That's because it does." I brought his hand to my lips and pressed a kiss to it again. "We've done this a lot. The hand-holding. You're kind of obsessed with it, actually."
"Am I?"
