"I called Beth this morning." He looked almost embarrassed, color rising in his cheeks. "I wanted to get something right."
My heart ached again, but it was a good feeling. He was trying. Even without memories, even without context, he was actively trying to know me again.
"That's very sweet," I managed.
"I prefer 'strategically romantic.'" He lifted his mug with his good hand. "I'm told I used to be smooth. I'm trying to recover that along with everything else."
"Who told you that you were smooth?"
"No one, actually. I'm hoping that if I say it enough, it'll become true."
I laughed, and the sound seemed to surprise us both. The tension that had been building dissolved into something warmer, easier.
"Tell me more," he said, leaning forward. "About that first coffee date. What did we talk about?"
So I told him. About the awkward small talk that had given way to something deeper. About the phone call from Dr. Patel that had sent him spiraling. About the way he'd pulled back, built walls, tried to protect me from something I didn't yet understand.
"I was an idiot," he said flatly.
"You were scared. There's a difference."
"A small one." He squeezed my hand. "What happened next?"
"I showed up at your door with a casserole."
"You did not."
"Beth's mother's lasagna." I grinned at his expression. "Very small town, and you’re not exactly hard to find. You didn't stand a chance."
"I believe that." His eyes crinkled. "You're extremely determined when you want something."
"I wanted you."
Our conversations always found their way back here somehow. The word ‘chemistry’ didn’t do it justice. His gaze dropped to my lips for just a second, barely a heartbeat, before snapping back to my eyes.
"Charlotte—"
"We should go to the river," I said quickly, before I could close the distance and kiss him right there in the diner. "There's more I want to show you."
The air was cold, the late autumn wind cutting through our jackets. We stood under the oak tree where we'd had our first kiss at seventeen, where he'd tried to push me away just weeks ago, where so much of our history, both remembered and forgotten, had unfolded.
"This is where it all started," I said softly. "Both times."
Miles looked around, his brow furrowed with concentration. I could see him searching, reaching for something just beyond his grasp.
"I feel like I should remember this," he murmured. "Like it's important."
"It is important."
"Tell me."
So I told him about a few weeks ago, standing in this exact spot, the cold biting through my coat, listening to him list all the reasons I should walk away.
"What did I say?" His voice was quiet.
"You told me I deserved someone whole. Someone who wouldn't forget my name."
He flinched. "That was cruel."
