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I slip my phone back into my purse and keep walking.

There's another painting waiting on the easel back at the estate, though. Not the Villefranche one. A new one. The man in the doorway. The one I keep trying not to paint and somehow keep painting anyway. Broad shoulders. One hand braced against the frame. Watching.

Everett has started doing that in real life too. Standing in the studio doorway with a cup of coffee while I work, as if five quiet minutes watching me paint is a reasonable use of a billionaire CEO's morning. He doesn't say anything. Just drinks his coffee and watches like I'm something worth being late for.

I hate that it works on me.

No. That's a lie. I love that it works on me, and that's so much worse.

Because here's the thing I keep not saying out loud, even to myself.

I don't know when this became love. I really don't. There wasn't a moment. There wasn't a lightning bolt or a grand realization or some dramatic scene where I collapsed into his arms and the music swelled. It was more like... I kept waking up and he was already there. Already making coffee. Already texting call me after like my day belonged in his schedule. Already building things, like art studios and apartment add-ons, and acting like I was the unreasonable one for being emotional about it.

I keep thinking about France. About his hand on my back walking through the village. About the way he looked at me in the museum like I was the thing worth studying. I keep hearing him say I see it about my painting, like it was obvious. Like everyone should see it.

I keep feeling his mouth on my neck in the studio, his hands on my hips, his voice in my ear telling me to think about him every time I sit at that table.

And I do. God help me, I do.

I am so hopelessly in love with my husband that it's almost embarrassing. Almost. If I'm being honest, I blew past embarrassing about three weeks ago. Now I'm somewhere in the vicinity of completely pathetic and weirdly okay with it.

"Aria?"

I stop.

Dr. Patel is standing in the doorway of his office, tablet in one hand, reading glasses pushed up into his hair like he forgot they were there.

"Do you have a minute?"

My stomach drops. Nothing good has ever started with do you have a minute in a hospital hallway. That's up there with we need to talk and I have some thoughts about your bangs.

I follow him into the office.

"I wanted to update you on your father's progress," he says, settling into his chair. "Overall, he's improving faster than we projected."

I want to feel relieved. I do feel relieved. But I've been through enough of these updates to know there's always a but coming, and Dr. Patel doesn't disappoint.

"Recovery still isn't linear," he adds. "He had a rough patch while you were away. A day of more confusion than usual, some fatigue, a little regression. Nothing unusual for where he is. And he recovered from it well."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Okay. Not perfect. But okay. I'll take okay. Okay is a damn miracle compared to where we were six months ago.

"What does this mean long-term?"

Dr. Patel lowers the tablet slightly. "I don't think your father will recover every memory or every function exactly as they were before the accident. That may not be realistic."

I nod. I know. I've known for a while. Knowing doesn't make it easier to hear out loud.

"But independent living is starting to look possible," he continues. "With support, check-ins, and ongoing therapy. A year to eighteen months feels reasonable now."

I blink. "A year?"

"Possibly sooner than we thought."

A year. He could be out in a year. Having coffee in the morning and reading his books by a window and being Henry again — not a patient, not a room number, not the man in 4B. My dad. Living his life. In the apartment with the wide doorways and the big windows and the PT gym connected to the studio so he could do his exercises and then come watch me paint.

Because that's what Everett built. Not just a room. A life.