“He will,” she says, her voice filled with a fierce conviction. “I’ll help him. It’s possible. He’s Keane Fucking Stone, and he can make it.”
The way she says it, like it’s an unshakable truth, stirs something in me—if I’m really the guy she’s talking about, then maybe there’s more to me than this shell lying in a hospital bed. Maybe there’s something worth fighting for, worth clawing my way back to. Her belief feels like a thread pulling me back.
“Of course you’ll make sure he recovers. I believe in you,” the man says, his gaze softening as he looks at her, like he knows just how much this matters to her. “And we’ll do this together. I’ll have my agent and the lawyer look into the guardianship, see what needs to be done so we can get him out of here. We’ll expedite his transfer to Portland.”
Portland. The name tugs at something buried, a flicker of familiarity that lights up a corner of my mind. Portland . . . it’s not far from home. Seattle. The thought surfaces, clear and insistent, one of the only things that feels real. Seattle is home. I can almost see it—my old apartment, the quiet street outside, the gentle rhythm of rain against my window. Some memories come back so easily, while others stay locked away, stubborn and unreachable.
Why can’t I remember it all? The frustration gnaws at me, leaving me aching for more.
Then, something else emerges from the haze—a softer memory, comforting in a way I can’t fully explain. My dog. I had a dog. I reach for his name, try to picture his face, the feel of his fur—but it slips away, like sand through my fingers. Still, the thought lingers, solid and real, something that was mine, something that made sense in a life I can’t quite touch.
Chapter Nineteen
Ophelia
Talk about information overload.Trying to absorb everything the doctor just told me feels impossible—every word blurred together, ten minutes, or maybe less, spilling over with implications I can barely process. Keane might recover. Or he might not. He’ll need therapy, patience, and a place to stay—a place to call home.
Home. I thought I knew what that was, what it could be. Haydn offered to take Keane in, no questions asked, but this can’t work. Haydn is someone who lives by his routines, his carefully constructed life. I love the man, but he’s quirky as fuck and the precision on how things have to work is essential forthe game.
And no, I’m not complaining about it at all. I love who he is and because I know exactly how he is, I know this—having Keane there, the tension, the changes—could disrupt everything.
But what’s the alternative?
I’ve already given up my apartment, and it barely had space for one person, let alone . . . him.
The door clicks shut behind the doctor, and I’m still spinning, scrambling for some semblance of a plan. The nurse moves to Keane’s side, checking his vitals with quick, practiced motions, her gaze never settling on me. She checks his pulse, the IV, her face blank and unreadable as she makes a few notes, then nods politely before leaving us alone.
“The doctor will sign him out if you’re ready to take him home today,” she says on her way out, her tone casual, like this is no bigger than handling paperwork.
The door shuts, leaving me in the silence, feeling the impact of her words as they hit me. “Sure, I’ll take him home. But where is fucking home?” I mutter to myself, the frustration spilling out before I can stop it.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Keane staring at me. His gaze is intense, like he’s trying to figure me out, maybe even trying to reach across the gaps in his memory. I feel something twist inside me, a pang of guilt mixed with sadness.
“Sorry,” I mumble, approaching him slowly, the space between us feeling like miles. “I . . . I promise to figure everything out.” My voice sounds detached, thin, like it’s coming from somewhere far away.
Emotions churn inside me, too tangled to sort through. Part of me is breaking down, crying internally, desperate to hug him and make sure he’s real. But now isn’t the time for that—I’m compartmentalizing. He needs someone strong, someone who knows her shit, and I can pull that bitch out from deep within, even while the other part of me sobs quietly in the corner of my heart.
I take a steadying breath and push through, determined to give him something real. “Do you know who I am?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes stay fixed on me, but there’s no recognition, just that same searching look.
“Ophelia,” I say, my voice soft, almost pleading. “We met . . . more than ten years ago.”
Still nothing. His face remains blank, no flicker of memory lighting up his eyes.
“Twice,” I add with a small, humorless laugh, hoping something might break through the fog. “It was my first time in Seattle.”
At the mention of Seattle, his expression changes—his eyes blink, a faint reaction, something stirring just beneath the surface. A spark of recognition? Or maybe just a flicker of something he can’t quite place.
I cling to that tiny reaction, taking another shaky step forward, hope slipping into my voice. “Seattle . . . does that mean something to you?”
He blinks again, his gaze narrowing, as though he’s on the verge of understanding something just beyond his grasp. His fingers twitch slightly against the blanket, and I hold my breath, waiting, willing him to say something—anything—that might close the distance between us.
But the silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid, and I realize he’s as lost as I am. I can feel my own heart breaking,piece by piece, for the man I once knew and the stranger who sits before me now, both somehow occupying the same body.
Haydn’s low voice drifts through the crack in the door, calm but edged with urgency as he speaks to his agent and the lawyers, pulling together the logistics I should be handling myself. Guardianship, transfers, the countless details piling up in the background, details I can’t seem to focus on when everything that matters is right here in this room. I take a slow breath, pushing the noise of the outside world away as I turn back to Keane.
Hesitantly, I sit on the edge of his bed. Like I’m afraid to disturb him. Or maybe I’m afraid of disturbing the fragile hope inside me that somehow he might know me, that somehow he might start talking to me without prompting.
