–Damon–
Watching the creamy soup drip from her lips made my throat tighten. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing my wife eat—composed, graceful, precise. Blind, yes. But she never faltered. She didn't need help. She never has.
"Are you staring at me?" she asked, her eyes unfocused yet perfectly aligned with mine across the table.
"Can't I?" I leaned back, smiling like a lovesick fool. This was a scene I'd replayed a thousand times since high school—me, hopelessly in love with her. I would've kissed the ground she walked on. Hell, I did—figuratively, anyway. Though, back then, the fantasies weren't as innocent. Most ended with her naked, writhing under me.
