Chapter 3: "I Remember Everything About You"

Sophie's POV

I'm discovering that living with Ethan is easier than I expected.

The first morning after the wedding, I wake up to the smell of something cooking. I stumble into the kitchen and find him already at the stove, maneuvering his wheelchair around like he's done this a thousand times.

"You cook?" I drop into a chair at the table, still half-asleep.

"Basic stuff." He slides a plate in front of me. Scrambled eggs and toast, nothing fancy, but it looks good. "Had to learn in the military."

Right. He mentioned that.

I take a bite of the toast. It's perfectly crispy, just how I like it.

"This is good."

Ethan smiles. "You still like it a little burned."

I freeze mid-chew.

"You remember that?"

"I remember everything about you."

My heart does this weird stuttering thing. I duck my head, hoping he can't see my face turning red, and shove more toast in my mouth.

By the third day, I've fallen back into my old routine. Working late, skipping dinner, coming home exhausted around nine.

Then Ethan texts me: Can you come home earlier tonight? I'm making dinner.

I stare at my phone. My first instinct is to say no, that I have too much work.

Instead, I type: Okay.

I walk through the door at six-thirty to the smell of beef stew simmering on the stove.

"You didn't have to do this." I set my bag down and watch him adjust the heat, one hand on the wheelchair, the other reaching for the pot. "Ethan, seriously. You don't need to push yourself."

"I wanted to." He looks up at me, and there's something soft in his expression. "And you need to eat properly. Soph, you've lost weight."

I glance down at myself. He's not wrong. I've been living on coffee and whatever I can grab between meetings.

"Sit." He nods at the table. "Try it."

That night, we talk more than we have in years.

About Europe. About the military. About everything we missed.

It feels like being kids again, staying up too late talking about nothing and everything.

Except now there's a table between us.

And a contract.

On Saturday, I push Ethan to Central Park. The leaves are starting to turn, yellow and orange against the blue sky. Couples walk past us, families spread out on blankets.

"Remember?" Ethan says suddenly. "We flew kites here when we were kids."

I stop walking and look out at the open lawn.

The memory hits me hard. Eight years old, running across this exact grass with Ethan pulling me by the hand. Our kite soaring higher than anyone else's, both of us laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

"You remember that."

"I told you." He turns his head to look at me. "I remember everything about you. You like strawberry ice cream. You hate cilantro. You're scared of the dark but pretend you're not. When you're angry, you bite your lower lip."

Heat floods my face.

"You're very observant."

"You matter to me."

He says it so simply. Like it's a fact, not a confession.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Later that evening, I fall asleep on the couch watching TV. When I wake up, I'm in bed with a blanket tucked around me.

I sit up, confused and groggy. How did I get here?

I walk out to the living room. Ethan's still up, some documentary playing on the TV.

"Did you... carry me?" I gesture vaguely at the bedroom. "How did you—I mean, with your legs..."

He looks almost embarrassed. "I used the wheelchair to get you to the bedroom. Then I just... it took some effort to lift you onto the bed."

Guilt twists in my stomach. "Don't do that. Just wake me up next time."

"No." He smiles. "You were sleeping so well. You looked peaceful. When do you ever look that relaxed?"

I want to argue, but I can't.

Because he's right.

When was the last time I slept that deeply? No work anxiety, no family pressure, no lying awake staring at the ceiling.

I just... fell asleep next to him.

And it felt safe.

The next night, I take a shower and walk out in my slip dress without thinking. I head straight for the kitchen to grab water from the fridge.

"Still up?" I ask, noticing Ethan in the living room with papers spread across his lap.

"Working on some contracts." His voice sounds strained.

I grab a bottle and turn around. That's when I notice his hands. They're gripping the armrests of his wheelchair so tight his knuckles have gone white.

"You okay?"

"Fine." The word comes out clipped. "Can you—just go back to your room? I need to focus."

"Oh. Sure."

I head back to the bedroom, but something feels off about the whole interaction.

Inside, I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Silk slip dress. Thin straps. The fabric clinging to my body.

Oh God.

My face burns.

He saw me. Of course he saw me.

And the way he was gripping that wheelchair...

Was he trying to control himself?

Does that mean he's attracted to me?

I shake my head.

Stop thinking about it.

The next afternoon, I'm walking into my architecture firm for a meeting when I run into James in the lobby.

James. My ex-boyfriend. The guy I stupidly said yes to right after graduation when I was confused and lonely and trying to prove I could move on from my past. Took maybe three weeks for him to show his true colors. Three weeks of his condescending comments and backhanded compliments before I called it off.

Fucking perfect.

"Sophie." He looks me up and down with that same smug expression I used to find charming. "Heard you got hitched. To the wheelchair guy?"

"None of your business."

"Come on." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "It's for the money, right? The Morgan family must've made it worth your while. I get it. I just thought you were better than that."

"Back off, James."

"What, did I hit a nerve?" He's enjoying this. "Or are you actually pretending this is real? That you're in love with someone who can't even stand up—"

"Shut your mouth." The words come out hard and sharp.

James just grins wider. "Wow. Defensive. That's cute."

I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his opinion when I see movement behind him.

Ethan's wheelchair appears at the entrance.

He came to pick me up from work.