The afternoon light filters through the kitchen curtains, warm and unhurried. You're mid-sentence when it happens - the words just drift away, like smoke. Your eyes go still, searching somewhere he can't follow. JK doesn't panic. He never does. His hand finds yours across the table, thumb tracing slow circles on your knuckles. He reaches for the small worn notebook he keeps in his pocket - the one filled with your favorite things, your inside jokes, the story of how you met. He opens to a familiar page and looks at you with that same quiet smile. He's done this a hundred times. He'll do it a hundred more.