Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Ophelia

Talk about information overload. Trying to absorb everything the doctor just told me feels impossible—every word blurred together, ten minutes, or maybe less, spilling over with implications I can barely process. Keane might recover. Or he might not. He’ll need therapy, patience, and a place to stay—a place to call home.

Home. I thought I knew what that was, what it could be. Haydn offered to take Keane in, no questions asked, but this can’t work. Haydn is someone who lives by his routines, his carefully constructed life. I love the man, but he’s quirky as fuck and the precision on how things have to work is essential for the game .

And no, I’m not complaining about it at all. I love who he is and because I know exactly how he is, I know this—having Keane there, the tension, the changes—could disrupt everything.

But what’s the alternative?

I’ve already given up my apartment, and it barely had space for one person, let alone . . . him.

The door clicks shut behind the doctor, and I’m still spinning, scrambling for some semblance of a plan. The nurse moves to Keane’s side, checking his vitals with quick, practiced motions, her gaze never settling on me. She checks his pulse, the IV, her face blank and unreadable as she makes a few notes, then nods politely before leaving us alone.

“The doctor will sign him out if you’re ready to take him home today,” she says on her way out, her tone casual, like this is no bigger than handling paperwork.

The door shuts, leaving me in the silence, feeling the impact of her words as they hit me. “Sure, I’ll take him home. But where is fucking home?” I mutter to myself, the frustration spilling out before I can stop it.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Keane staring at me. His gaze is intense, like he’s trying to figure me out, maybe even trying to reach across the gaps in his memory. I feel something twist inside me, a pang of guilt mixed with sadness.

“Sorry,” I mumble, approaching him slowly, the space between us feeling like miles. “I . . . I promise to figure everything out.” My voice sounds detached, thin, like it’s coming from somewhere far away.

Emotions churn inside me, too tangled to sort through. Part of me is breaking down, crying internally, desperate to hug him and make sure he’s real. But now isn’t the time for that—I’m compartmentalizing. He needs someone strong, someone who knows her shit, and I can pull that bitch out from deep within, even while the other part of me sobs quietly in the corner of my heart.

I take a steadying breath and push through, determined to give him something real. “Do you know who I am?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes stay fixed on me, but there’s no recognition, just that same searching look.

“Ophelia,” I say, my voice soft, almost pleading. “We met . . . more than ten years ago.”

Still nothing. His face remains blank, no flicker of memory lighting up his eyes.

“Twice,” I add with a small, humorless laugh, hoping something might break through the fog. “It was my first time in Seattle.”

At the mention of Seattle, his expression changes—his eyes blink, a faint reaction, something stirring just beneath the surface. A spark of recognition? Or maybe just a flicker of something he can’t quite place.

I cling to that tiny reaction, taking another shaky step forward, hope slipping into my voice. “Seattle . . . does that mean something to you?”

He blinks again, his gaze narrowing, as though he’s on the verge of understanding something just beyond his grasp. His fingers twitch slightly against the blanket, and I hold my breath, waiting, willing him to say something—anything—that might close the distance between us.

But the silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid, and I realize he’s as lost as I am. I can feel my own heart breaking, piece by piece, for the man I once knew and the stranger who sits before me now, both somehow occupying the same body.

Haydn’s low voice drifts through the crack in the door, calm but edged with urgency as he speaks to his agent and the lawyers, pulling together the logistics I should be handling myself. Guardianship, transfers, the countless details piling up in the background, details I can’t seem to focus on when everything that matters is right here in this room. I take a slow breath, pushing the noise of the outside world away as I turn back to Keane.

Hesitantly, I sit on the edge of his bed. Like I’m afraid to disturb him. Or maybe I’m afraid of disturbing the fragile hope inside me that somehow he might know me, that somehow he might start talking to me without prompting.

“So you remember Seattle,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the moment. “That’s good.” I search his face, watching for even the faintest reaction. “Your name is Keane. Keane Stone. Does that mean anything to you?”

His gaze remains fixed on me, unblinking, but there’s something in his expression—a flicker, a subtle shift, like he recognizes it. Or maybe he’s just trying to, uncertain if he’s grasping at the memory of his own name or simply understanding the label I’ve given him.

I swallow, the ache in my throat threatening to spill over into my voice, and reach for his hand, resting my fingers over his. It’s a light touch, hesitant, but it feels like everything in this moment. I need him to feel me, to know he’s not alone.

“I know this is confusing,” I whisper, my voice breaking just a little. “I know you can’t remember me right now . . . but you will. I’ll help you. We’ll figure this out together.”

His brows furrow, frustration clouding his expression, and I can almost see his mind racing, trying to catch hold of something real in all the chaos. I force myself to hold back the tears pricking at my eyes; he doesn’t need me falling apart. Not now. Not when he’s trapped in his own confusion.

“Let’s start with the basics,” I say gently. “If you can understand me, blink.”

For a moment, nothing. My heart clenches, my breath caught in my throat as I watch him, waiting, hoping, almost praying. He’s blinked a few times already, but I need to know that he’s really understanding me. And then, slowly, his eyelids close and open again. Just once. But it’s enough. Relief floods through me, and I press his hand a little more firmly, grounding myself in this fragile moment of connection.

“Okay,” I murmur, a faint smile breaking through despite everything. “This is good. Let’s try something a little more complicated. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Can you do that?”

He blinks once, the movement slow, but deliberate.

“Can you remember me, then?” I ask, my heart clinging to a sliver of hope.

There’s a pause, his gaze steady on me, and then he blinks. Once. And then again. Twice.

The tiny spark inside me dims, and I feel a pang of sadness settle in my chest, raw and unshakable. I force a smile, swallowing down the disappointment as best as I can, refusing to let it show. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice barely steady. “I’m . . . I’m still trying to remember you, too. The old you. The us we used to be.”

My words stumble, breaking off as I realize how true they feel. “We were so close, Keane. You were . . . everything.” My voice cracks, but I keep going, needing him to know, even if he can’t grasp it yet. “And then I lost you. I had to let you go, learn to live again. It was hard, so fucking hard. And now, even though you’re here, it feels like I’m meeting a stranger.”

I look down, blinking back tears, the silence thickening between us. I can feel his gaze on me, feel the confusion, the pain he can’t quite express, and I wish I could pull him back to me, into some version of the life we once had. But all I have are fragments, whispers of the past, and this man lying before me—a version of Keane I don’t yet know.

His fingers twitch under mine, the faint movement making my breath catch. Slowly, painfully, his hand shifts, and I feel his fingers flex, searching for something, someone to hold on to. And then, hesitantly, they find mine, intertwining as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s imperfect, shaky, but it’s there—a quiet message that doesn’t need words. I’m still here.

The warmth of his touch floods through me. I tighten my grip just slightly, enough to let him know I feel him, that I’m here, too. For a second, my mind stills, replaced by this fragile connection between us, one I thought I’d never feel again.

I move closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, my fingers light and gentle, hoping to convey everything I can’t say. I hope, somehow, he can feel it—the depth of what he meant to me, what he still means, even now, even when everything’s different.

“Just hold on, okay?” I whisper, my voice barely steady. “Hold on to this. Hold on to me. We’ll find a way through this. We always do. Even when everything feels impossible, we find a way.”

His fingers squeeze mine faintly, the smallest of movements, but it sends a wave of emotion crashing over me. In that tiny, tentative touch, I feel something shift—a trace of the man he was, of the man he might someday be again. It’s fragile, almost fleeting, but it’s there. And I cling to it with everything I have, letting it be enough for now.