“You began choosing me without memory.”
His hand slid to the back of my neck.
“That put me back together differently.”
“Better?”
“Stronger in some places.”
“And weaker?”
“More honest.”
I understood.
I rested my forehead against his.
“Then we stop counting what came back.”
“What do we count?”
“What we choose.”
Reid smiled.
The expression was beautiful, but that was not what took my breath away.
What mattered was that I knew it now.
Not from photographs.
Not because someone told me.
I knew the way his mouth softened before he allowed hope. The way one line appeared beside his left eye first. The way his shoulders lowered only after he trusted happiness enough to let it touch him.
Memory had given me pieces.
Love had taught me the rest.
I kissed him.
Slowly.
The kitchen smelled of bread, pears, and rain coming in from the harbor.
His arms folded around me.
I held him in return.
No rescuer.
No patient.
No past version or present replacement.
Two men standing inside the life that remained.
When the kiss ended, Reid kept his forehead against mine.
