Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Ophelia

It’s been a long day. After getting myself together this morning, I joined Keane and his team of therapists. They were running him through a series of evaluations to test his strength and capabilities. It didn’t matter that we already had a stack of paperwork from the hospital; they insisted on conducting their own assessments.

Dr. Farrow, Lang’s cousin by marriage, was here to oversee everything. He handed me the report once they finished. His prognosis was cautiously optimistic: Keane could be walking within six months and possibly playing music again by the end of next year.

I wanted to believe him, but it sounded too good to be true. Dr. Farrow had shared a personal story about his own husband who had been in even worse shape years ago and made a remarkable recovery—though he never regained his memory. The neurologist with him had been more reserved, explaining that Keane’s memory couldn’t be fully assessed until his speech returned.

For now, his diet is limited, but today I was told to introduce something more substantial. That’s why I’m here in the dining room, ready to help him navigate this next step.

The room is quiet, save for the soft clink of utensils as I cut the grilled chicken into smaller pieces. Across the table, Keane sits stiffly, his posture nothing like the relaxed confidence I remember. His hands rest in his lap, twitching faintly as if they’re trying to remember how to move, how to grip, how to be. But they don’t. Not yet.

I glance back at the plate, forcing my focus to stay there. I’ve done this before—helped someone through recovery. I spent years caring for my dad after his treatments. But this is different. This is Keane. The man who once held my entire world together. Now I’m the one holding him, and I don’t know if I’m enough for both of us.

The fork scrapes softly against the plate as I spear a small piece of chicken. “Ready?” I ask, my voice calm and gentle, though my insides feel like they’re unraveling. I lift the fork, waiting for a signal. His eyes flick to the bite, and after a pause, he nods once—stiff, reluctant.

He leans forward slightly, his lips parting as I guide the fork to him. It’s such a simple action, one most people wouldn’t think twice about, but for Keane, it’s a battle. He chews slowly, deliberately, his concentration etched into every movement. His hand twitches again, fingers curling faintly, but when he tries to lift his arm, it trembles and falls back into his lap.

My stomach tightens. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. And it’s tearing me apart.

“You’re doing good,” I murmur, the words spilling out before I can think. I don’t even know if he hears me, but I have to say something. I have to let him know he’s not alone, even if he can’t respond.

Keane’s jaw tightens as he swallows, and his eyes meet mine. I see it all so clearly, the frustration and humiliation. He shifts in his chair, his movements rigid with anger, his lips parting like he wants to speak. But no words come.

The low groan that escapes him feels like a punch to my chest. It’s progress, I tell myself. He can make a sound now. That’s something, right?

I glance out the window, trying not to show how much this is hurting me. I hurt for him, for the man who’s always been fiercely independent, now reduced to this. His throat works, his brow furrows, and I know he’s trying so damn hard, but his body refuses to cooperate.

I grip the fork tighter, fighting back the sting in my eyes. I can’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him. He doesn’t need my pity.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, setting down the fork. I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over his hand. His fingers twitch beneath mine, the tremor faint but there. “It’s okay, Keane. You heard the doctors and therapists. It’s about patience and hard work.”

He turns his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the table. His silence feels deafening, the tension between us thick with everything unsaid.

I glance at his hand, limp on the table, an idea sparking in my mind. Shifting closer, I gently lift his hand, curling his fingers around the fork. His hand feels heavy in mine—stiff and unyielding—but I guide him, helping him lift it toward the plate.

His breath hitches, low and rasping, and I freeze, meeting his gaze.

“Just try,” I whisper. “You don’t have to get it right. Just try.”

His brows pull together, his frustration warring with something deeper. Keane Stone has never been the kind of man to lean on anyone. He was always the one people leaned on, the one who held me together when I was falling apart. And now? Now the roles have flipped, and I can see how much it’s killing him.

I guide his hand again, and this time, he lets me. Together, we lift the fork, slow and unsteady, until the piece of chicken reaches his lips. He takes it, chewing carefully, and when I release his hand, it falls back to the table with a soft thud.

“You did it,” I say quietly, injecting as much encouragement into my tone as I can manage. “See? That’s progress. Maybe tomorrow we’ll try finger food. You like pizza—only cheese, no crap on top.”

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think I see something flicker there.

“You remember pizza?”

He blinks and I even see a faint smile. As if he’s saying duh, anyone can remember pizza. I would even add fucking before the word since that’s the way he speaks.

“Of course you remember it,” I say. “One of your favorite things to eat. The first meal we kinda shared.”

His gaze narrows, as if he’s searching for the thread I’m unraveling, and I force myself to smile, even though the memory feels like a knife lodged in my chest. “It was our first meal together, sort of. Not exactly a date—because, well, I was just the newbie intern and you . . . you were Keane Stone. Not that I knew it at the time. I honestly believed you were my competition.”

He’s looking at me as if he’s listening, but also trying to remember. “I had no idea you were on your way to becoming a rock god. Do you remember that?”

Keane blinks once. “So you remember your music?” He blinks three times in response.

“What’s that, a new thing? Like some morse code to tell me abso-fucking-lutely, but I’m foggy about it?”

He blinks once. “Progress. Maybe tomorrow when the speech therapist arrives things will start clicking better.”

He sighs and tries to move his hand, probably to run it through his hair in frustration, but he can’t do that much.

“Okay, so let’s keep going down memory lane.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but his eyes stay on mine, and it feels like permission to keep going. So I do.

“I was a sophomore in college,” I say, almost to myself now. “Nervous as hell. It was my first internship, and all the musicians recording that week were treating me like I didn’t exist. Unless they needed me to run errands. I was invisible. Except for you.”

I glance at his hands, at the subtle tension in his fingers, like he’s trying to move them more but they won’t obey. My throat tightens, but I push past it.

“You were recording late,” I say, letting the memory unfold like a movie playing in my mind. “Everyone else had gone home, but I was stuck cataloging equipment and running errands because—surprise—I was the lowest on the food chain. I was exhausted, frustrated, and honestly one coffee spill away from quitting. They promised social media training, public relationship things, and . . . well, it wasn’t Pria’s fault. She trusted her assistant would do the right thing but they didn’t.”

I lean back on the chair. “In any case, that night you walked in and said, ‘Let’s get some dinner, it’s on me for saving my ass.’” I pause, studying him, hoping for some reaction, some spark of recognition. “I thought you were joking, so I said, ‘If you’re trying to flirt, it’s not working.’ And you just grinned—this stupid, cocky grin that I’ll never forget—and said, ‘Who said anything about flirting? I’m starving.’”

Keane blinks, his brows knitting together slightly, like he’s trying to piece together the memory. My heart aches as I watch him struggle, but I keep talking, determined to help him find the pieces.

“We ended up at that late-night pizza joint a few blocks from the studio. The one with the broken jukebox and the sticky floors. You ordered plain cheese, and I remember looking at you like you were insane. I asked, ‘No toppings? Not even pepperoni?’ And you said, ‘Why ruin perfection?’”

His fingers twitch again, and this time, I know it’s deliberate. My pulse stumbles, and I bite back the tears that threaten to rise.

“You spent the whole night teasing me,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “Telling me I didn’t look like an intern, that I was way too put-together for this job. You said I’d quit by the end of the summer because musicians chew up people like me and spit them out. And I told you you were an ass, that if you thought I would let you take the job, you’re crazy. But you just laughed and said, ‘Maybe. But I’m not wrong.’”

A faint noise escapes him—soft, almost imperceptible—but it’s there. It feels like a laugh, or maybe just a breath catching in his throat. Either way, it’s enough to make my heart ache.

“You were wrong, though,” I say, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t quit. I stuck it out, worked my ass off, and made it through. But that night . . . that stupid pizza night . . . it stuck with me. Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible. You saw me.”

I swallow hard, my vision blurring as I reach for his hand, my fingers brushing lightly over his. “I don’t know if you remember any of this,” I whisper. “But I do. I remember everything. And I’ll keep remembering for the both of us until you’re ready to take it back.”

His hand flexes beneath mine, and when I glance up, his eyes are glistening, locked on me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this moment. The knot in my chest loosens just slightly, and I smile through the tears I can’t stop.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, my voice shaking but sure. “You don’t have to remember everything right now. We’ll get there. One slice of pizza, a song, and maybe a memory at a time, okay?”

A single blink. Slow, deliberate. I squeeze his hand, hoping that I’m giving him something back, some of the things he lost after that accident.

It’s not everything. But it’s something. And for now, it’s enough.