In truth, I’m a little dizzy. Not from exhaustion, but from the sharp burst of pain after Harris’s tirade sent me tumbling off the couch. My head hit the floor before I could catch myself. Heat and a dull ache had bloomed over the still-tender bruise, but then the gruff, angry voices from my nightmares sent me into a panic so deep, nothing else mattered.
I tick off the symptoms Dr. Reyes told me to look out for. Nausea? No. Light sensitivity? No. Neck pain? No. Memory loss…I stifle a laugh. I’ve got that in spades. But it’s getting better, not worse.
If the constant thrum hasn’t faded by morning, I’ll say something. But for now, AJ has enough to worry about.
As my husband moves about the kitchen, I close my eyes. A memory slips between my fingers, warm as the sun and smelling of cinnamon.
I’m leaning against the counter, only wearing one of AJ’s t-shirts, rumpled from sleep, while he ladles pancake batter onto a griddle. I can almost feel the heat of the pan, taste the syrup, and feel the velvet of his lips against my neck.
Basking in the warmth of the memory, I’m unprepared when icy fingers crawl over my skin. Harsh, lemony soap. A windowless room. Only a bed and a desk and…a book.
Leather. Something burned into the cover. I can’t see it. I don’t want to see it. Not tonight. Not ever again.
My chest tightens. I shove the room and everything in it back into the dark where they belong, and focus on those delicious pancakes—and the equally delicious man who was making them.
We move through the motions of bedtime, through the rituals we’ve developed since I came home. AJ helps me take off my bra and steadies me so I can put on my pajama pants. I could probably do it on my own now, but when AJ’s hands mold to my waist and I stare up into his blue eyes, the full force of his love hits me in a way I desperately need.
All the new skincare products Parker bought me are lined up on the bathroom counter. By the time I finish applying the ones marked “nighttime,” AJ has changed clothes and is turning down the bed.
Crossing the room, I lose focus for a second, dizziness hitting me like a slap, and I stumble.
Shit.
I catch myself quickly, and when AJ turns, I’m mostly steady again. He offers me his hand, and my heart skips a beat. He’s been my rock for a week now. Held me as I’ve cried. Tied my shoes. Cut my hair. And he’s done it all like it’s the most natural thing in the world to him.
In the middle of the chaos tonight, I knew I was finally ready to kiss him—really kiss him. Not a casual brush of my lips to his neck or the press of his to my forehead, but the kind of kiss a husband and wife should share. The kind I know we used to share, even if I don’t remember them.
Placing my fingers over his, I let him help me the last few steps to the bed, then drape my arms around his neck.
His hand lifts to my cheek, warm fingers sliding into my hair.
My breath catches, but I don’t pull back. I lean into his palm, tilting my face toward him, drinking in the rough heat of his skin against mine.
His thumb brushes my jaw, slowly, deliberately, and I press closer, closing my eyes for a heartbeat before daring to open them again. He’s watching me, searching for hesitation. There isn’t any.
I curl one hand around the nape of his neck, holding on like he’s the only steady thing in the room. My chest grazes his, the whisper of contact sending a shiver through me. With a soft sigh, I press my forehead to his and let the last of my fear slip away.
When I finally close my eyes and lift my mouth a fraction closer, I know he’ll understand. I’m ready.
The first touch of his mouth to mine is gentle. Brief. Light. But even so, I find something I’ve been missing since I woke up in that lonely clinic more than a week ago.
A piece of myself.
I lean in, chasing his lips so he can’t pull away. Our kiss deepens, and I taste his sigh, minty from his toothpaste. Heat crackles between us, embers waiting to explode into flame.
I want more. More of his solid weight against me. More of his skin under my fingers. More of the sound of his breath catching as my fingers curl around the back of his neck.
Behind my closed lids is another kiss from a lifetime ago. Another bedroom. Smaller. But the same quilt. The same scent—AJ’s aftershave mixed with my perfume. The same steady, bone-deep certainty that we belong to one another. That we always will.
Too soon, AJ pulls back, his forehead resting against mine. “God, Grace. I want you,” he manages, his voice ragged. His arousal strains against my stomach, hard and hot. My core aches, though fear prickles along the back of my neck.
I want him. All of him. But…what if…I can’t? What if whoever took me stole not only my memories, but this too?
AJ shakes his head softly. “It’s too soon.”
He’s trying to convince himself as much—if not more—than me. I swallow my disappointment, knowing he’s right.
“Tonight…the memory of us all being together at Christmas…” I press a light kiss to his lips. “In those few seconds, I remembered loving you.”
