Like she knew all along we’d somehow end up back together and I would. Helplessly.
She had her follow-up appointment today. Just one more review to check on her physical and cognitive recovery. I only know because Molly mentioned it in passing when she brought a psych patient to the hospital after her patrol and then spent some time in my office with me. She said that everything looked good with one exception. Her memories from the last few months are still gone.
And I’ve come to terms with that.
I’ve decided that I want Regan to fall in love with the man I am now, not the unsure, broken version of me who married her for a property and swore I’d never marry for love. Because now, I’m not hesitating. I know what I want.
I pull up a movie on the screen, then head to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses. But just as quickly I stop myself and set the second glass back in the cupboard.
I haven’t had a drink since her accident. Haven’t wanted to. That night changed everything for me. In that moment, I decided I wasn’t going to bethatguy anymore. The one who let his emotions and insecurities get the best of him. The one who let alcohol—something my father had wielded like a weapon for years—come into play in any emotionally charged situations.
I take full responsibility for what happened. Drunk or not, I didn’t need to hit my dad. I didn’t need to push Regan away and ruin what was otherwise a happy wedding day for us. I could have handled things differently, allowed her to stay and talked things through. And I’ll carry the guilt of what happened after that night for the rest of my life. So, I take just a single glass to the couch and wait for her because the thought of alcohol no longer sounds appealing.
A few minutes later, she finally comes downstairs, and—Jesus.
She’s wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt withWhitewood Creek Egg Farmsteadstretched across the front and a pair of knee-high socks. That’s it. Her bare legs are on full display, smooth, toned and begging to be touched.
I don’t even try to stop myself. I’m looking. I’m desperate for these little glimpses of the woman that I used to be able to hold, and I’m wondering with every step she takes if she has shorts on and panties underneath it.
“Wow,” I murmur as she rounds the couch and plops down next to me, tucking her feet under her butt.
“What?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“You just… you look beautiful.”
She blushes as she takes the glass of wine I poured and brings it to her lips. “It’s a simple t-shirt, Hayes. Nothing crazy.”
I try not to lean in, but I can’t help myself. I inhale the scent of her, soft, light, and honeysuckle, like her soap. Clean and warm. Familiar. It makes me smile, full on dimples on display.
She notices. Her pupils widen slightly as she stares at my lips then my eyes.
“It’s not asimplet-shirt to me,” I murmur. “You’re beautiful in it.”
She swallows a little harder, like she’s suddenly forgotten how to respond, then lowers her glass. “Thanks.” She pauses then clears her throat. “You’re not drinking?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She doesn’t press, but I wonder if she knows why. If she does, she hasn’t said anything yet. The past few nights, I’ve made her dinner and poured a glass of wine before I head into work, andI haven’t had a single sip. We’ve fallen into this quiet routine of easy conversation, laughing, talking about our days and catching up as friends. But I haven’t made a move. I haven’t wanted to push her, and I’ve been enjoying getting to know her on a deeper level that we didn’t have before.
She’s started opening up to me more, letting little pieces of herself slip into our late-night conversations. Stories about Mr. and Mrs. Mayberry have come out, bits I’d heard before but that hit differently now. She’s also shared her dreams about the wedding business she started. There’s this soft hope in her voice when she mentions it, like she’s still figuring out if she’s allowed to want that again.
I’ve told her more about my own past too—what it was like growing up with Seth and Scarlett, names she doesn’t remember meeting but still listens to eagerly. I’ve talked about the circuit days, shared about Samuel and Vanessa again. About who I was before all this.
It’s been easy between us. Comfortable. Casual in the way that makes it feel like we’re actually dating, getting to know each other as we are now, not who we used to be or who we were supposed to become. And somewhere along the way, I noticed something: I’m not scared. Not even a little. All the things I used to think would make me bolt haven’t even made me flinch. And maybe that’s how it’s always been since she walked back into my world.
And then there’ve been nights where I’ve left for work before the sun came up and gotten home after midnight, bone tired, only to find her already asleep and the house quiet. Curled up under the quilt in her room or on the couch downstairs like she was waiting for me, hair a mess, breathing soft. And it’s killed me every damn time to pass her and keep walking. To close my own door when everything in me wants to crawl into bed with her and just… bethere. Hold her. Breathe her in. Whisperhi baby, I missed you.Let it mean something.
And I’ve seen the way her eyes follow me when I work in the barn, when I move around the house, hell, even when I eat. I’ve caught her checking me out more times than I can count, and thank God she hasn’t mentioned Declan since that first conversation when I asked if he’d kissed her.
I don’t know if she’s made time to see him on the nights I’ve been at work, but every morning when I get home, she’s here. And if she’s in her room, her door’s cracked open just enough for me to peek in and make sure she’s okay. I like to think she does that for me.
“So, what movie did you pick?” she asks, shifting the conversation.
“Uh—” I glance at the screen. “Love in Disguise.”
Truthfully, I don’t even remember picking it. Not when she smells like that, not when she’s curled in close, pressing into my side like she wants me to hold her.
Does she want me to hold her?
