Page 122 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

Felicity sniffed, a small, grateful smile touching her lips as she took her glass. “Deal.”

“Deal,” I echoed.

We clinked.

I took a sip, the wine a sharp, welcome bite on my tongue.

The doorbell rang.

Three heads swiveled toward the foyer.

I set my glass down on the table. “I’ll get it.”

I opened the door and came face-to-face with Cassian.

He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, one hand braced on it. His hair was disheveled, and his chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths.

My eyes narrowed as I took in his state. “Why are you panting?”

He inhaled deeply, the sound loud in the quiet hallway. “The elevator’s out of service,” he managed, gesturing vaguely behind him with his thumb.

I glanced back over my shoulder toward Naija and raised a brow.

She paused, wine glass halfway to her lips. “I didn’t do anything,” she said, deadpan. “The elevator was like that when I got here, too.”

Felicity nodded, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Yeah, the elevator’s been out of service for the last two days. You’d know that if you’d left the apartment once in the last forty-eight hours.”

I ignored her and turned my attention back to Cassian, who was still trying to regulate his breathing. I inclined my head toward the living room. “Follow me.”

I walked into the kitchen, pulled a cold bottle of water from the fridge, and handed it to him.

He took it with a murmured “Thanks.” He drank half of it in one go.

I leaned back against the counter, slipping my hands into my pockets, and waited.

He screwed the cap back on, set the bottle down, and then his eyes found mine. Dark and intent, all traces of his earlier breathlessness gone.

I opened my mouth to ask why he was here, but he spoke first.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

I went still. “What?”

He took a single step forward, closing the distance by a fraction. His gaze never wavered. “You did nothing wrong. It needed to happen. She needed to hear everything. You needed to say it. You did the right thing. So don’t feel bad.”

My jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

But my hands curled deeper into my pockets.

He gave me a knowing look. “You are. Deep down, you’re thinking maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe you should have just swallowed it, like you always do. That it didn’t change the past, so what was the point?”

He took another half-step, his hands lifting slightly, instinctively, as if to take mine. He caught himself, fingers curling inward, and let them fall back to his sides. “But it did matter. You finally told her how much she hurt you. You gave the wound a voice. It needed to come out.”

A faint smile touched his lips then. “You did good.”

Deep inside, in a locked, tangled place I rarely acknowledged, something loosened. A single, clenched knot gave way. My hands uncurled. My shoulders dropped an inch.

In my mind, I knew I wasn’t wrong. I had the arguments, the evidence, the cold logic.