Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Six: The Thunder That Broke Us Open
The rain came without warning.
One moment, Paris was a painting of soft grey light and whispered promises. The next, the sky cracked open—a violent, relentless downpour that lashed against the windows like a warning. The hotel suite, which had felt like a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.
I lay on the bed, still in his shirt—the one I'd stolen from his suitcase, the one that smelled like him. My hair was spread across the pillow in tangled waves. My lips were pursed in a pout so pronounced it was almost a weapon.
He was on the phone.
Again.
He'd been on the phone since we walked through the door. Since he'd pressed me against the wall and kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Since he'd pulled back, his eyes dark with something that might have been guilt, and murmured, "I need to make a call."
That was an hour ago.
An hour.
I watched him pace the length of the room, his voice low and urgent, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was beautiful—he was always beautiful—but right now, I wanted to throw a pillow at his head.
The rain drummed against the windows, a steady, insistent rhythm. The sky was the colour of bruises, purple and grey and swollen with unshed tears. It was romantic. It was tragic. It was everything a Parisian afternoon should be.
And we were wasting it.
He ended the call.
I watched him set the phone on the nightstand, watched him run a hand through his hair, watched him turn toward the bed. His eyes found mine.
"Angel."
I looked away.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, smell the familiar scent of sandalwood and rain.
"Angel, look at me."
I didn't.
"Angel."
"I'm not talking to you."
"Then just listen."
"I'm not listening either."
He sighed. It was a heavy sigh, the sigh of a man who was tired of fighting, tired of running, tired of trying to hold together a world that kept trying to tear itself apart.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You're always sorry."
"I'm always making mistakes."
"You're always on the phone."
"I'm always trying to protect you."
I turned my head, just enough to glare at him.
"From what?"
"From everything."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
I turned away again.
The rain fell. The thunder rolled in the distance, low and menacing. The room grew darker, the shadows deepening in the corners.
"Angel." His hand touched my shoulder. "Please."
"Don't."
"Angel."
"I said don't."
I pulled away.
I curled into myself, pressing my back against the headboard, drawing my knees to my chest. The shirt rode up my thighs, but I didn't care. I was cold. I was angry. I was tired of being second to a phone.
He watched me for a long moment.
Then he stood.
I heard him walk around the bed, heard him settle on the other side—his side, the side he always slept on, the side that still smelled like him. The mattress dipped under his weight.
"I won't cuddle him tonight," I muttered to myself. "Not if he comes to the bed. Not even if he begs."
He didn't beg.
He just lay there, on his back, staring at the ceiling.
The thunder came again—closer this time, a deep, rumbling growl that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The windows rattled. The lights flickered.
I flinched.
I couldn't help it.
I'd always been afraid of thunder. Even before the hospital. Even before the amnesia. The sound of it reached something deep inside me, something primal and terrified.
He didn't move.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my heart pound against my ribs.
The thunder came again.
I whimpered.
Still, he didn't move.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "I'm sleeping. He can sleep too. I don't care."
I turned my back to him.
The room was dark now—the rain had swallowed the last of the daylight, and the clouds had swallowed the stars. The only light came from the faint glow of the streetlamps outside, filtering through the curtains in pale, watery stripes.
I closed my eyes.
The thunder came again.
I shook.
And then—
His back was to me.
I could see him in the dim light—the broad line of his shoulders, the dark fall of his hair, the way his hand rested on the pillow where my head should have been.
He was facing away from me.
I stared at his back.
The pout returned to my lips.
"Fine," I thought. "Fine. He can sleep. I can sleep. We can both sleep."
I didn't sleep.
I lay there, staring at his back, listening to the rain and the thunder and the distant, steady beat of my own heart.
My hand moved.
I didn't mean for it to. It just… reached.
Across the divide between us. Across the no-man's-land of hurt feelings and unspoken words. My fingers brushed his shoulder blade—just a touch, light as a whisper.
He didn't move.
I pulled my hand back.
The thunder came again.
I reached again.
This time, my fingers found his arm. I traced the line of his muscle, the curve of his elbow, the warm skin of his forearm.
He turned his head.
Just slightly. Just enough for me to see his profile in the dim light.
I couldn't see his eyes. But I saw his lips curve—just a fraction, just enough to know he was smiling.
He was smiling.
The bastard was smiling.
I yanked my hand back.
"Angel," he said.
"Shut up."
"Angel."
"I'm not talking to you."
"Your hand was on my arm."
"I was adjusting."
"Adjusting?"
"The blanket. It was crooked."
"The blanket is at the foot of the bed."
"I was reaching for the blanket."
"You were reaching for me."
"I was not."
"Your fingers were tracing my arm."
"I was—"
"You were pouting."
"I was not pouting."
"You were pouting, and you reached for me, and now you're pretending you didn't."
I sat up, glaring at him in the dark. "You're insufferable."
"You're adorable."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"I—"
The thunder came.
Loud. Close. A crack of sound so violent it seemed to split the sky in two.
I screamed.
I didn't mean to. The sound just… tore out of me, raw and terrified, and before I knew what was happening, I was across the bed, my arms around him, my face pressed to his chest, my body shaking.
"Tete—"
"Shh." His arms came around me, pulling me close, holding me tight. "Shh, Angel. I've got you."
"The thunder—"
"I know."
"It's loud—"
"I know."
"I'm scared—"
"I know." He pressed his lips to my hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Angel."
I clung to him, my fingers fisted in his shirt, my heart pounding against his.
"Why didn't you hold me?" The words came out muffled, broken. "I was scared, and you didn't hold me."
"I was making sure you were safe."
"You were on the phone."
"I was on the phone with a doctor."
I pulled back, just enough to look at him. His face was shadowed, his eyes dark, but I could see the worry there. The exhaustion. The guilt.
"A doctor?" I whispered.
"A specialist." His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn't felt fall. "In fertility. In prenatal health."
My breath caught.
"You wanted children," he continued. "You wanted a baby. Our baby. And I—" He swallowed. "I wanted to make sure you were ready. That we were ready. That your body was healed and your mind was strong and your heart—"
"Tete."
"—was whole. I wanted to make sure you were whole, Angel. Before we brought a child into this world. Before we became parents."
"You were on the phone," I said slowly, "making me a doctor's appointment?"
"I was on the phone, making us a doctor's appointment." His hand slid from my cheek to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Both of us. You're not the only one who needs to be healthy. You're not the only one who needs to be whole."
"Tete."
"We'll go together. When we get home. We'll see the doctor, and we'll get tested, and we'll talk about what it means to be parents. What it means to bring a life into this world."
"You want this."
"I want you." His forehead pressed to mine. "I want you healthy. I want you happy. I want you to have everything you've ever dreamed of, even if you don't remember dreaming it."
"Tete."
"I love you, Angel." His voice cracked. "I love you, and I'm sorry I was on the phone, and I'm sorry I didn't hold you, and I'm sorry I made you feel like you were alone."
"You're here now."
"I'm here now."
"You'll stay?"
"I'll stay."
The thunder came again.
I flinched.
But this time, his arms were around me. This time, I wasn't alone.
"Tete."
"Hmm?"
"I'm still pouting."
"I know."
"I'm still angry."
"I know."
"But I'm also grateful."
"For what?"
"For you." I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "For making me a doctor's appointment. For wanting to have a baby with me. For being scared with me."
"I'm always scared with you."
"You hide it well."
"I've had practice."
I smiled.
It was small. Unsteady. But it was real.
"Tete?"
"Yes, Angel?"
"I love you."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I do." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I know, because I love you too. More than I've ever loved anything. More than I ever thought I could love."
"Even when I'm pouting?"
"Especially when you're pouting."
"Even when I'm angry?"
"Especially when you're angry."
"Even when I steal your shirts and run barefoot through the streets of Paris?"
"Especially then."
I laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound swallowed by the rain and the thunder and the warmth of his arms.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. We'll see the doctor. We'll get tested. We'll talk about what it means to be parents."
"And?"
"And I'll stop pouting."
"Liar."
"I'll try to stop pouting."
"Better."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
The thunder rolled.
The rain fell.
And in the dark, in his arms, I wasn't scared anymore.
I was home.