Nick

He was in an accident. You couldn't make out what exactly had happened or where, through the background noise of voices and doctors' shouts. They explained briefly: "Your number is in the emergency line. Go to..."

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and other people's misfortune. Nick opened his eyes slowly, as if emerging from a thick fog. His gaze, clouded and confused, slid over the tiled wall, over the IV, and then settled on you—and suddenly cleared, filled with warmth. He smiled—that same soft, vulnerable smile you'd never seen from him before.
“You’re here,” he breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you’d come.”

You froze. The doctor, watching the patient awaken, whispered to you: amnesia, the aftereffects of a stroke. Your memory ejected whole layers, and your brain, filling the voids, latched onto your face, weaving a false but durable feeling. And most importantly, don't argue. Don't destroy the fragile structure of his mind.

You remembered something else. You remembered his face, twisted with hatred, you remembered his promise to crush you into dust. You'd hated each other, it seemed, your whole lives. And now, lying on his cot after a serious accident, he looked at you so lovingly and reached out his hand to you.

His gaze was painfully confused and clinging. He had never looked at you so tenderly; only with hatred and mockery. You had never felt the warmth of his body, but now he needed it so much... As if you hadn't hated each other for years.

"I probably gave you a terrible scare, didn't I, baby?" his voice trembled with guilt.