When I finally found my voice, it came out as a strained whisper. "Dec... what happened?"
She blinked, her lips trembling. "You don't remember?"
"No..." My throat ached.
"You got shot, baby," she said softly.
Fragments of memory struck me like glass shards—Mira's mother's face, the gun, December's scream and my pulse spiked, monitors echoing the chaos in my head. I started to calm down a bit.
The doctor stepped forward, his expression professional but kind. "Mr. Ryder, you've been through significant trauma. The bullet missed your major organs, but you suffered substantial blood loss and required emergency surgery. You're stable now, but the recovery process is critical."
The details blurred, the words stretching like static in my ears—wound management, antibiotics, physiotherapy, mobility restrictions.My head spun, but December was there, pulling a small leather notebook from her bag, flipping it open with shaking hands.
"Okay," she said, her voice steadier now, though tears still clung to her lashes. "Go ahead. I'm writing it all down."
I stared at her as the doctor continued with his long list—weeks of limited movement, transfusion schedules, follow-up appointments. The weight of it pressed hard on me. Weeks. Maybe longer. I'd be vulnerable, dependent.
My chest tightened, fear and shame coiling in my stomach—until I felt her hand covering mine again and her lips brushing my skin once more, grounding me.
"Don't look at the weeks," she whispered, as if reading my mind. "Look at me. I've got you."
The doctor offered her a tired but kind smile before going through everything—medications, physiotherapy, diet, follow-up appointments—each word careful, deliberate, as if afraid to break me. When he finally left, the door clicked softly behind him, and the room seemed to exhale.
December moved closer, her presence grounding me in a way no medicine could. She leaned in, her voice low and trembling but steady enough to hold me together. "You're okay, Ryder," she whispered. "You're safe. You're here with me."
For the first time since I opened my eyes, the room felt a little lighter. The sterile walls didn't seem so cold, the air didn't feel so thin. It almost felt... like home. Her words poured over me,soft and certain, wrapping around the frayed edges of my fear. December's voice was the one sound that seemed to cut through the lingering fog of everything I'd seen, everything I'd lost. I closed my eyes, breathing her in, and in that moment, I felt the same peace I'd known in the fields with the echo of my parents' arms around me.
Only this time, that peace had a heartbeat, and it was hers.
Chapter 32: Love Reloaded
(Ryder)
I'd been home six weeks, and I'd never been on the receiving end of so much love and care in my life. Margot, Billy, and my Dec had been fussing over me like I was some precious artifact instead of a man with stitches and a scar. Especially Dec.
Every time I woke up, she was there, hovering close and brushing the hair from my forehead like it was instinct. The moment my eyes opened, she’d whisper,“You okay? Need water?”She’d moved in with me, into the apartment next to Billy and Margot’s, said it was temporary, but we both knew better. She couldn’t stand the thought of something happening when she wasn’t there.
I’d catch her on the phone with doctors, a notebook open in her lap, scribbles everywhere as she researched every single thing I ate or drank like it was a mission. When it came time for my checkups, she insisted on coming along. Even behind the wheel, her hands gripped it so tightly her knuckles went white, her jawlocked. I knew she still hated driving, but she’d never admit it out loud—she didn’t want to burden Billy or me, and besides, driving was clearly out of the question for me.
We started taking short walks whenever I felt strong enough, her arm always linked with mine, a steady weight anchoring me to the present. The air was crisp with early evening or softened by morning haze. Sometimes we didn’t speak at all, letting the quiet stretch between us, punctuated only by the rhythm of our steps. Other times, she told me about small things, the way the sunlight hit the park bench, a joke a neighbor had made, or a thought that made her laugh, and I’d listen, grateful for every word, every soft sound of her voice.
Even so, there was intimacy in those walks, a language without words, a trust slowly rebuilt in the gentle cadence of shared steps. Each time we returned home, my chest felt a little lighter, as if the simple act of moving forward together was stitching something fragile and essential back into both of us.
The second she sensed me faltering, my knees wobbling or my breath catching, she’d pivot us without a word. Yet, for all that closeness, the comforting weight of her arm around mine, the brush of her fingers against my hand, she refused to kiss me. Her lips stayed ghostly distant, a tender barrier I could see but not cross.
She still pressed soft kisses to my forehead, my hands, sometimes the top of my head when she thought I was asleep, but never near my mouth, never near my chest, never anywhere close to the wound. I know she was afraid of making it worse.
One afternoon, the light through the window hit her face just right—soft, golden, untouchable. I slipped my arms around herfrom behind, needing that closeness, that warmth I’d missed. She tensed immediately and pulled away.
“Your wound,” she said quietly, not meeting my eyes.
“Come on, Dec,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “I just… I want to hold you. Kiss you. Help, somehow. I’m tired of feeling like your patient.”
She froze mid-step. For a second, I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. Then she turned, slow and hesitant, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe what I’d said.
“Help?” she repeated, her voice breaking on the words. “Ryder, you took a bullet that was meant for me.”
I swallowed, throat tight. “That’s not—”
