The cottage feels too quiet without Eliot's sarcasm echoing through the rooms. I've been sitting by his bed for what feels like days, waiting for him to wake up. The infirmary wanted to keep him, but Margo insisted he'd want to be home when he finally opened his eyes. Home. The word catches in my throat because a home without Eliot doesn't feel like much of a home at all.

His hand is warm in mine as I trace the lines of his palm, a habit I've developed to keep myself grounded during the endless waiting. Margo has been a constant presence too, though she just left to give us some privacy after Eliot finally stirred awake. There's still a vulnerability in his expression that I've never seen before, a raw openness that the Eliot I know usually hides behind layers of wit and deflection.

"Peaches and plums, baby," he'd said with that smile that always makes my heart race, squeezing my hand like he never wants to let go. The reference hangs in the air between us, a secret code from a lifetime we shared that somehow wasn't real... except it was real to me. It was real to both of us.

Margo's words echo in my mind: "Is this about that whole weird alternate timeline you two lived out? Where you like, fell in love and grew old and died together? Cause I thought we were past that."

Eliot's eyes meet mine, serious now, all trace of his usual humor gone. "So did I," he admits quietly, his thumb brushing across the back of my hand. "And that's where I screwed everything up."