For a while, neither of us spoke.
The room smelled like wood dust and paint. The moonlight fell across the unfinished furniture, turning every rough edge silver.
Then James stood and walked to the dresser.
“There’s something else,” he said.
He picked up a small wrapped box, the paper creased at the corners from being hidden too long.
“I was saving this too.”
I took it with trembling hands.
Inside was a soft custom heating pad, shaped and sized for my legs, with adjustable settings and a washable cover in my favorite shade of blue.
I pressed my fingers to the fabric.
Months earlier, I had mentioned wanting one after a difficult pain flare. Then I had dismissed the idea because it was too expensive.
James had remembered.
“I wanted you to have comfort on the bad days,” he said quietly. “Not because I pity you. Not because I think you’re broken. Because I love you, and loving you means paying attention.”
That undid me.
I covered my face and cried harder than I had in years.
Not because I was sad anymore.
Because I had been so afraid of losing him that I had not seen him loving me in the only way he knew how—quietly, clumsily, completely.
James wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned into him.
“I thought you regretted staying,” I whispered.
He pulled back, shocked. “Never.”
“Not even once?”
His eyes searched mine.
“I regret the accident. I regret your pain. I regret every moment you thought you were a burden.” His voice broke. “But I have never regretted you.”
