“So you remember Seattle,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the moment. “That’s good.” I search his face, watching for even the faintest reaction. “Your name is Keane. Keane Stone. Does that mean anything to you?”
His gaze remains fixed on me, unblinking, but there’s something in his expression—a flicker, a subtle shift, like he recognizes it. Or maybe he’s just trying to, uncertain if he’s grasping at the memory of his own name or simply understanding the label I’ve given him.
I swallow, the ache in my throat threatening to spill over into my voice, and reach for his hand, resting my fingers over his. It’s a light touch, hesitant, but it feels like everything in this moment. I need him to feel me, to know he’s not alone.
“I know this is confusing,” I whisper, my voice breaking just a little. “I know you can’t remember me right now . . . but you will. I’ll help you. We’ll figure this out together.”
His brows furrow, frustration clouding his expression, and I can almost see his mind racing, trying to catch hold of somethingreal in all the chaos. I force myself to hold back the tears pricking at my eyes; he doesn’t need me falling apart. Not now. Not when he’s trapped in his own confusion.
“Let’s start with the basics,” I say gently. “If you can understand me, blink.”
For a moment, nothing. My heart clenches, my breath caught in my throat as I watch him, waiting, hoping, almost praying. He’s blinked a few times already, but I need to know that he’s really understanding me. And then, slowly, his eyelids close and open again. Just once. But it’s enough. Relief floods through me, and I press his hand a little more firmly, grounding myself in this fragile moment of connection.
“Okay,” I murmur, a faint smile breaking through despite everything. “This is good. Let’s try something a little more complicated. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Can you do that?”
He blinks once, the movement slow, but deliberate.
“Can you remember me, then?” I ask, my heart clinging to a sliver of hope.
There’s a pause, his gaze steady on me, and then he blinks. Once. And then again. Twice.
The tiny spark inside me dims, and I feel a pang of sadness settle in my chest, raw and unshakable. I force a smile, swallowing down the disappointment as best as I can, refusing to let it show. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice barely steady. “I’m . . . I’m still trying to remember you, too. The old you. The us we used to be.”
My words stumble, breaking off as I realize how true they feel. “We were so close, Keane. You were . . . everything.” My voice cracks, but I keep going, needing him to know, even if he can’t grasp it yet. “And then I lost you. I had to let you go, learn to live again. It was hard, so fucking hard. And now, even though you’re here, it feels like I’m meeting a stranger.”
I look down, blinking back tears, the silence thickening between us. I can feel his gaze on me, feel the confusion, the pain he can’t quite express, and I wish I could pull him back to me, into some version of the life we once had. But all I have are fragments, whispers of the past, and this man lying before me—a version of Keane I don’t yet know.
His fingers twitch under mine, the faint movement making my breath catch. Slowly, painfully, his hand shifts, and I feel his fingers flex, searching for something, someone to hold on to. And then, hesitantly, they find mine, intertwining as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s imperfect, shaky, but it’s there—a quiet message that doesn’t need words. I’m still here.
The warmth of his touch floods through me. I tighten my grip just slightly, enough to let him know I feel him, that I’m here, too. For a second, my mind stills, replaced by this fragile connection between us, one I thought I’d never feel again.
I move closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, my fingers light and gentle, hoping to convey everything I can’t say. I hope, somehow, he can feel it—the depth of what he meant to me, what he still means, even now, even when everything’s different.
“Just hold on, okay?” I whisper, my voice barely steady. “Hold on to this. Hold on to me. We’ll find a way through this. We always do. Even when everything feels impossible, we find a way.”
His fingers squeeze mine faintly, the smallest of movements, but it sends a wave of emotion crashing over me. In that tiny, tentative touch, I feel something shift—a trace of the man he was, of the man he might someday be again. It’s fragile, almost fleeting, but it’s there. And I cling to it with everything I have, letting it be enough for now.
Chapter Twenty
Haydn
“Areyou sure you can do this?” Lang, my agent, asks me for what feels like the fifth time since I first called him. His voice has that familiar edge, like he’s trying to talk me down from a ledge.
“What else am I supposed to do?” I snap, my patience razor-thin. “If you’ve got some magic solution, let me know. Otherwise, shut up and just handle what I asked you to do.”
“There’s plenty of money in that trust for her to buy a house where they can live comfortably. No need to share your too-many-fucking-bedroom mansion with some stranger,” he says, not skipping a beat. “I know a place in Seattle that could help them. State-of-the-art facilities, and all the shit for his recovery. My cousin owns it, so I can pull some strings.”
“And there’s no place like that in Portland?” I ask, already knowing where this is headed.
“Sure, they’ve got a place there. Co-owned with some big-shot neurosurgeon and the best orthopedic surgeon in the country. But that’s not the fucking point,” he fires back. “The point is, it would be better for everyone if they were farther away from you. Out of sight, out of mind, Haydn. That’s what you need. You’ve got the season to think about. The Cup. Remember?”
He’s fucking insane if he thinks I’m going to let her leave. “Being away from her is not an option.”
“It should be,” Lang says, his tone sharper now, like he’s trying to cut through whatever loyalty he thinks is clouding my judgment. “The thing is, I knew them together. I saw it with my own two eyes, and man, I say this with all the love I can muster for you—you don’t stand a chance here.”
His words hit like a slap, the kind you feel in your chest before the sting reaches your face. I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to snap back immediately. Because a part of me—the part that’s spent sleepless nights imagining what Keane being alive would mean—knows Lang isn’t entirely wrong. There’s history there, years of it.
Their love might’ve been the biggest. But mine for her is just as big, maybe even monumental.
