"We sit while doing other things. Watching TV. Eating. Planning." She tilted her head to look at me. "When's the last time we just sat together and did nothing?"
I thought about it. "Does falling asleep on the couch count?"
"No. That's unconsciousness, not relaxation."
"Then I don't know. Too long."
"Too long," she agreed. She settled back against my shoulder with a contented sigh. "Let's do more of this."
"Okay."
"That's it? Just okay?"
"What do you want me to say? You're right. Actually, you’re always right. I've accepted this about our marriage."
Her laugh was soft, vibrating against my side. "You're learning."
We sat in comfortable silence as the colors bled from the sky, replaced by the deep blue of early evening. I could feel her warmth, finally not from a dreamy distance but right next to me. The woman I'd loved for twenty years, lost for fifteen, nearly lost again to an accident and amnesia. My wife.
"Miles?"
"Hmm?"
Her voice was soft, contemplative, not heavy with gratitude, but light with simple contentment. "Thank you for choosing me."
The words settled over me like a benediction. They weren't about rescue or sacrifice or debt. They were about agency. About the decision we both made every single day to show up, to try, to love each other through the difficult times, enjoy the good ones, and live everything in between.
I pressed a kiss to the crown of her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. I thought about the lonely years before her, the empty accomplishments, the isolation of my diagnosis. I thought about the scared boy who'd walked away from her at eighteen, and the terrified man who'd almost pushed her away again at thirty-six.
"Thank you for letting me," I said.
That was it. The whole messy, beautiful truth of us. Love wasn't just choosing; it was allowing yourself to be chosen. It was vulnerability and strength woven together so tightly you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
The moment was interrupted by the gentle buzz of my phone on the side table. I sighed, reluctantly extracting my arm from around Charlotte to check the screen.
Will Steele.
"Work?" Charlotte asked.
"Will. Do you mind?"
"Take it. I'll go make tea."
She pressed a kiss to my cheek before slipping inside, leaving me alone with the darkening sky and the phone's insistent glow.
"Will," I answered. "What's on fire?"
"Nothing's on fire. Yet." His voice was sharp, intelligent, but carrying the familiar edge of a man buried in work. "I just got served with the Fuller inheritance case. The one with the corporate succession nightmare?"
"The gift that keeps on giving. What's your take?"
We talked for a few minutes about jurisdictional conflicts and competing family interests. I offered a precedent he might have missed, a strategic angle that had served me well in similar cases. It felt good to use my mind this way, to contribute something beyond my own daily battles.
"That's exactly what I needed," Will said. "I have been spinning my wheels for days on this."
"Happy to help."
A pause. Then, wearily: "Another all-nighter ahead, I guess. This client doesn't believe in business hours."
