Page 55 of You felt Familiar

He accepted one.

His left arm remained immobilized, so he unwrapped it awkwardly with his right hand. I nearly offered help, then waited.

He managed.

The caramel was soft enough to bite. He chewed slowly, eyes half closing.

Something eased in his face.

Not recognition.

Pleasure.

A simple response that needed no history.

“That’s good,” he murmured.

“You used to buy them every Friday.”

His eye opened.

I cursed myself silently.

Dr. Whitcomb had warned me. Do not turn every preference into evidence.

“Sorry,” I said. “You don’t need the commentary.”

He rolled the remaining caramel between his fingers.

“No. Tell me.”

I held still.

“What?”

“Things I liked.”

“Only when you ask.”

“I’m asking.”

I sat in the chair near his bed.

“You liked these. You liked coffee strong enough to frighten people. You hated olives but ate them accidentally at least once a month because you never checked sandwiches.”

A faint smile appeared.

This time it stayed.

“You liked running in bad weather,” I continued. “You said sunshine made it too easy.”

“That sounds stupid.”

“It was.”

His smile deepened by a fraction.

“You liked old crime novels, terrible disaster films, and music with too much guitar. You pretended you didn’t like dancing, but that was because you were bad at it.”