Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
The nurse looks between us, sensing something heavy. “Sometimes familiar language can help stimulate recall,” she says quietly.
Kelly’s cheeks warm slightly. “Do you… call me that a lot?”
I shake my head. “Used to.”
“Why did you stop?”
Because I walked away from you. Because I didn’t think I deserved to call you anything that sounded like affection. Because you were slipping through my fingers and I told myself it was safer to let you go.
I force myself to look at the wall, not at her. “Things changed,” I reply.
She seems to sense the weight behind that and doesn’t push.
The doctor comes in then—a short man with silver-framed glasses and a calm, patient voice. He checks her vitals again, scans her chart, explains that the amnesia is likely short-term.
Likely. That word pisses me off.
“Her scans look clean,” he continues. “No internal bleeding, no fractures. She’s lucky.”
Lucky. My fists clench so tight my nails bite into my palm. She’s lying in a hospital bed, covered in bruises, terrified, with a chunk of her life missing and he calls that lucky?
Kelly breathes out a shaky sigh of relief, and I bite back my frustration. Let her hold onto that hope. She needs it.
“Do you remember anything from the accident?” the doctor asks her gently.
She frowns. “I… remember a truck. Then it hit me.” Her voice cracks. “Twice. I think, maybe not.”
I freeze.
Twice. That wasn’t an accident. That was deliberate.
My blood runs cold.
The doctor nods sympathetically. “Trauma often blurs the details. It’s okay to let the memories come back on their own.”
But she looks at me—not him—eyes glossy, searching. “It felt like someone wanted to hurt me,” she whispers.
My jaw locks. Everything in me goes still. She’s right. Someone did want to hurt her.
And they will pay for it. Mark my damn words.
The doctor excuses himself, promising to return once the neurologist arrives. The nurse adjusts Kelly’s blanket, dims the lights, and leaves us alone in the quiet room.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
Then she licks her lips nervously and says, “You really cared that I was hurt.” Cared.
Past tense.
My throat burns. “Of course I do,” I respond.
“Why?” Her voice is so small, so afraid to ask.
Because I love you, sunshine. Because losing you is the one thing that would break me clean in half. Because even when we weren’t speaking the same language emotionally, you were still the best part of my day.
But I can’t say any of that. Not when she doesn’t know me. Not when I’m the idiot who broke things off instead of claiming what I knew was mine.
So I give her the truth she can handle. “You matter,” I share softly. “More than you think.”
Her breath catches. Then, in a whisper: “I wish I remembered.”
The words gut me. She lifts a hand slightly—hesitant, unsure—and for a second I think she’s reaching for me. My heart lodges in my throat.
But she stops herself and lets her hand fall back onto the blanket. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” I tell her. My voice is low, steady, the opposite of what I feel inside. “This isn’t your fault. What happened to you—someone else did that.”
Her eyes widen. “You think it wasn’t an accident?”
I shouldn’t tell her. Not yet. But after everything she’s been through, I can’t lie to her again. “I don’t know for sure,” I explain. “But I’m gonna find out.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to understand who I am beneath the leather and tattoos and anger. Like she’s trying to decide if I’m someone she can trust.
God, I wish I could give her something easy. A smile. A memory. A promise that doesn’t come wrapped in danger.
Instead she gets me, and I’m nothing but a pile of problems and sharp edges.
“I feel like I should know you,” she mutters after a moment. “Like something in me recognizes you, but my brain won’t catch up.”
That hits me harder than anything else today. My voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe it will. When you’re ready.”
She nods faintly, eyes growing heavy as the pain meds begin to take hold.
I watch her fight sleep, lashes fluttering, her breathing slowing. She looks fragile in a way that makes every cell in my body go protective and violent at the same time.
A nurse steps back in. “She needs rest.”
I nod once. But I don’t move. “Sir,” she says gently, not unkindly, “visiting hours are about to end.”
Kelly murmurs, half-asleep, “Don’t leave.”
My heart lurches.
The nurse sees it. Softens. “You can stay until she’s fully asleep. Five minutes.”
I nod again.
Kelly’s breathing deepens, her brow smoothing, her fingers loosening their grip on the blanket. I stand there in the dim light, watching her chest rise and fall, memorizing every breath like I’m scared it might stop if I blink.