The day after Ethan spoke his first words—hell, a lot of words—Rachel found herself in the middle of chaos. It was uncharacteristic for him, but not uncommon in cases like his: a full-on neurological meltdown. The scene that greeted her was right on par with the level of bullshit she'd been wading through since her life flipped itself inside out three weeks ago—ever since she'd recognized him on that gurney in Emergency.
The first thing he'd said wasn't only her name.
It was—"What the hell happened to me?"
Rachel froze mid-documentation. For three weeks, he'd been motionless, a machine keeping time for a heart that refused to remember how to beat on its own. Now those green eyes were open, glassy with confusion, fixed on her.
"You're at Mercy Hospital," she managed. "You were in an accident. You've been here for three weeks."
He blinked slowly, as if adjusting to a new language. His voice came out raspy, dry.
"Accident? What kind of—?"
"Motorcycle. Collision with a guardrail. No helmet." She steadied her tone. "You were found with multiple fractures and a head injury. You've had surgery twice since then."
His jaw tensed. "And you're…"—his gaze dropped to the white coat, to the badge—"…Dr. Maren. My doctor?"
"Yes."
Her voice almost cracked on the word. She added, softer, "Rachel Maren," because with this kind of trauma, repetition mattered.
Recognition flickered instantly in his eyes. His lips parted—disbelief, then something like relief washing through him.
"Rachel," he said, tasting her name. "You're kidding."
He tried to laugh, but it broke into a wince. "You—God. I thought I was dreaming."
"No dream," she murmured. "You're alive. That's what matters."
He ran a shaky hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers brushed the bandage at his temple. "I remember you. I remember… us."
Okay, here we go again, she thought. It cuts differently when it's your past being replayed like bad footage.
His gaze flicked over her, searching. "But everything after that gets weird. Fuzzy."
Rachel's pulse skipped. After that.
"How far back does it go?" she asked carefully.
He squinted, effort tightening the lines around his eyes. "We were at your apartment. I was supposed to meet my dad for something the next morning, and you were studying for your boards. We fought—about me not showing up to your graduation dinner, I think?" He rubbed his temple. "Then nothing. It's like someone cut the film right there."
Her stomach turned. That was the night before he'd cheated on her.
"You don't remember anything after that?"
He shook his head. "I remember the business—working with my dad in development, projects, deals, meetings… but my personal life? Blank. Like I hit delete." He looked at her suddenly, eyes wide. "Rachel, did something happen to me? Why are you looking at me like that?"
She hesitated. The air between them thickened. He doesn't remember the betrayal. Doesn't remember the woman he married. Doesn't remember that she's dead.
"You were in an accident," she repeated softly. "You sustained a traumatic brain injury. Some memory loss isn't unusual."
"Some?" His voice sharpened. "I look and feel like hell. There are machines everywhere, and you're saying I just forgot a few details?"
Before she could stop him, he threw the sheet off and tried to swing his legs over the edge. The IV line stretched taut, monitors shrieking in protest.
"Ethan, don't—"
"Why not?" He tried to stand. His muscles gave out beneath him. His knees buckled, and he hit the tile with a guttural, "Fuck!"
Two male nurses rushed in. He shoved one away instinctively; the other caught his arm, but he twisted, breathing hard, panicked.
Rachel dropped down beside him, waving the nurses back.
"Hey—hey. Look at me. Ethan, it's me. Rachel."
His gaze darted, unfocused, then locked onto her. For a moment, the fight drained out of him. His chest heaved, breath shallow, sweat slicking his temple.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," she said firmly. "Never. Okay?"
His lips trembled. "Why do I feel like you mean that?"
"Because I do."
He swallowed, eyes wet, voice cracking. "I don't even know why you're here."
"Because I was the one you saw first when they brought you in," she said quietly. "Because I wasn't going to let you die."
She didn't finish, no matter what happened between us.
Silence.
He blinked, confused. "What happened between us?"
Rachel looked down, steadying herself. "It doesn't matter right now. What matters is recovery. You hit your head hard. You need rest."
He studied her face, brow furrowed. "You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Deflect when you're hurting." His mouth quirked faintly. "I remember that."
Her throat tightened. "You shouldn't be thinking about any of this yet."
He hesitated. "Rachel, I keep seeing flashes. A hospital room—not this one. Flowers. A woman crying." He shook his head. "Was I married? Was there—someone?"
Her pulse spiked. The truth was heavier than any diagnosis. You married her, she thought. The girl you cheated with. She died two years ago.
"Yes," she said finally. "There was someone."
"What happened to her?"
Rachel took a breath. "She passed away. A few years ago."
His eyes widened. "How?"
"Cancer," she said gently. "It was fast. Aggressive. You… tried to take care of her."
He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. "Jesus Christ." His voice broke. "I don't remember her. I can't even see her face."
"You will," she said quietly, though she wasn't sure if it was a comfort or a curse.
He looked at her, eyes glassy. "Then why do I remember you so clearly?"
Because guilt had burned her name into him deeper than any scar, she thought.
He reached for her wrist, fingers trembling. "Rachel—thank you. For saving my life." His eyes filled, raw and boyish. "Don't leave me."
Her chest tightened painfully. "I'm not going anywhere."
The monitors steadied. The nurses lingered at the door until she waved them off. They kept watching as she helped him back to bed. When his head finally sank into the pillow, he caught her hand again.
"I keep feeling like I ruined something," he whispered. "Like I lost more than time."
Rachel forced a small smile. "Get some sleep. We'll fill in the gaps later."
When she turned off the light and stepped into the hallway, her knees nearly gave. Because the truth he couldn't remember was worse than any wound.
He hadn't just lost years.
He'd lost her—twice.