“The day I found you.”
His expression changed.
I wrote it at the top of the page in uneven capitals.
THE DAY I FOUND REID.
My vision blurred.
I blinked until the letters sharpened again.
Reid’s hand covered mine.
“You didn’t lose me.”
“I lost everything.”
“Not everything.”
“I know that now.”
I closed the journal.
Fatigue dragged at me.
“Will you stay?”
“Yes.”
“Not downstairs.”
“Here.”
“Can you work at the table?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you watching me sleep.”
“I never watch you.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I monitor your breathing.”
“That is worse.”
“It is medically responsible.”
I shifted onto my right side.
Reid rearranged the cushions and placed one beneath my braced arm.
His care did not make me feel like a burden.
Not then.
It felt like another language I was beginning to learn.
