Captain Swan-The Heart Never Forgets

CHAPTER THREE

Author notes: So I made a mistake in the previous chapter. The flashback is 8 years ago, not 5. There needs to be more time for what I have planned. The next flashback will continue where Chapter 2 left off, so also 8 years ago. Sorry for the confusion.

Emma

"Emma..."

A low, husky voice with that familiar British lilt—familiar but also distant—pulls me back to consciousness. Slowly, my eyes flutter open to meet the ocean blue ones I fell madly in love with five years ago.

Relief surges through me, a wave crashing against the shore of my anxiety when I see my husband standing by the curtain in his business attire, his suit jacket and a bag of what I'm assuming are my belongings hanging from his hand.

I manage a drowsy smile. "Killian." His name leaves my lips like a sigh that gets caught in my throat.

He's here, but he's not rushing to my side. He hovers near the entrance, hesitant, as though he's unsure of his welcome.

But why?

His dark hair is disheveled, those familiar blue eyes holding a treacherous storm. His steps echo in the room, his composure faltering. I reach out for him, longing to feel his arms around me, his warmth. Something flickers in his eyes, something akin to hesitation maybe? Like he's afraid to hurt me. But I need to feel him, I need him like I need air to breathe.

The room feels both too vast and too small. "Killian..." I repeat, his name a desperate plea.

Then, with a sudden rush of urgency, he moves to my side and enfolds me in his embrace like he hasn't held me in years. His breaths are unsteady against my skin as he buries his face in my shoulder and squeezes me tight.

My heart clenches painfully. I know he must've been terrified when he found out I had been in an accident. I know I would've been if the situation were reversed.

I cup his cheeks in my hands, feeling his familiar stubble beneath my fingertips as I pull him closer and press my lips against his with a gentle urgency. I can't help but notice the catch in his breath and how startled he seems, and when he responds, his lips move against mine with trepidation. Like he's not sure he should be kissing me. But again, maybe he's afraid to hurt me, or maybe my brain injury is making me imagine things.

When he pulls away, I look at him, really look at him, searching his face for the Killian I know, the one whose touch is home and whose smile is always a beacon in any storm. But his blue eyes are clouded over with something I can't read. There's definitely a storm brewing in them, but I don't know if it's because of the accident...or something else.

I can normally read people like an open book—I normally read him like an open book—but something seems different. Off. I just can't place it. He appears unchanged yet subtly altered, like a reflection of Killian seen through a foggy mirror. Like he's a stranger wearing my husband's skin.

He sits in the chair next to my bed, his posture rigid yet leaning forward as if pulled by an unseen force. His hand finds mine, the touch light and tentative, a stark contrast to the firm, reassuring grip I remember. The warmth of his skin seeps into mine, but it doesn't chase away the chill that's nestled deep within me.

"Hey," he murmurs, and the word hangs between us, heavy with everything it doesn't say.

I can't help but notice he doesn't say he loves me or he misses me or he has no idea what he'd do if he lost me.

The connection we're supposed to have should be there, easy and unbidden, but it's like reaching through fog—grasping for something that slips away the moment I think I've got a hold on it.