“What?”
“The day of the accident, I thought I lost you.”
His voice stayed quiet.
“Then you woke and looked through me. I told myself your survival was enough.”
“It was.”
“Yes.”
He touched my cheek.
“But grief doesn’t vanish because gratitude is larger.”
I held his wrist.
“Every time you remembered something, I got back a piece I thought was gone.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because what if I never get all of them?”
“I don’t need all of them.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I thought I did at first.”
Honesty roughened the confession.
“I thought if I was patient enough, good enough, careful enough, you would wake one morning and everything would return.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He pressed his thumb over my mouth.
“I stopped waiting for that.”
“When?”
“The day you asked me on a first date.”
I smiled.
“That was a good date.”
“It was.”
“You entered the chorus early.”
“Tradition.”
Reid’s gaze moved over my face.
