Page 153 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

My body deflated further, the last of my energy leaving in a rush. “I feel miserable.”

She gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “I don’t… know what words to use to comfort you.”

“You never needed them,” I said softly, the truth slipping out.

“What did I do then?”

“You smiled at me.”

Her eyebrows arched, a flicker of her old, dry humor breaking through. “Are you asking a woman to smile for you, Cassian?”

An involuntary, real smile broke through my devastation, surprising us both.

“Is this how you flirt?” she continued, a faint, playful challenge in her voice. “You give people orders? Be honest, you haven’t been in many relationships, have you?”

I shook my head, the smile still clinging to my lips. “No.”

She nodded slowly, a corner of her mouth twitching. “I can tell.” A small, real smile fought its way to the surface before she consciously banked it, wresting her expression back to neutrality. She took a half-step back. “Sit down.”

I opened my mouth to ask why.

She leveled a glare at me that was so familiarly, terrifyingly Alessia that my question died unspoken.

I sat.

She rounded the counter, ladled another bowl of soup from the pot, and set it firmly in front of me. Then she picked up the water bottle, filled a second glass and placed it pointedly beside my bowl.

“You’re drinking this too,” she said, gesturing at the glass with a grimace, “I’m not suffering through it alone.”

She took the stool beside me, scowled at the glass as if it were a personal nemesis, then bravely took a sip. And we ate.

Together.

After, I cleaned the dishes. I’d already stocked her fridge with easy, digestible food and left extra medicine in her bedside drawer, just in case.

We stood by her front door, my bag in my hand, the familiar weight of leaving pressing down.

Her hand rested on the door handle. She looked at the floor, then up at me. “Thank you. For taking care of me last night. You didn’t have to.”

The gratitude, so formal and distant, made my heart ache. “You don’t ever need to thank me for that, Alessia. You were sick. Where else would I have been?”

She fell silent, letting my reassurance sink in.

I took a steadying breath, needing her to understand the core of it. “Your well-being… it’s the most important thing to me. I know you might not believe it. But please… believe that.”

Her eyes searched mine, looking for the lie, the angle, the hidden play. She found none. Then, almost reluctantly, she whispered, each syllable dragged up from some deep, guarded place so softly I nearly missed it.

“Maybe… you weren’t as bad of a husband as I thought you were.”

The words hit me like a sunbeam breaking through a long winter. A grin broke across my face, wide and unguarded, the pure, radiant joy of a reprieve I hadn’t dared to hope for.

Slowly, telegraphing my every move, I leaned in. I cupped her face in my hand, my thumb stroking her cool cheek. She stiffened for a heartbeat, then, almost imperceptibly, relaxed into the touch. I pressed my lips to her forehead in a long, lingering kiss.

I pulled back just enough to stare into her eyes, my own probably shining with a foolish, undeniable hope. “You look beautiful.”

I love you.

With every fiber of my being screaming to stay, I forced myself to step back. I gave her a final, small smile, picked up my bag, and walked out into the hallway.