His smile tilted, faint but real. “You lost.”
“Thanks for the medical insight, Doctor.”
“Anytime.” The small exchange loosened something tight in my chest.
The door opened, and a small group filed in—clipboards, badges, polite smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.
“Good morning, Mr. Hawke,” one of them said. “How are you feeling today?”
I blinked at her, trying to form words. My tongue thickened. My brain lagged several beats behind. “Tired,” I managed, voice catching. “Sore.”
“That’s normal,” she said brightly, already turning to the monitor. A resident started talking about my vitals, something about oxygen saturation, about “improving post-sedation response.” I caught maybe half of it before the rest blurred into static.
They talked around me, over me, using words I’d once understood but couldn’t seem to hold on to now—perfusion, trauma protocol, cerebral edema. It all melted together until only the rhythm of their voices remained. I didn’t even realize I was staring at the ceiling until Adrian spoke, low and certain, answering questions on my behalf.
It was the tone I knew from his shifts in the ER—steady, measured, absolute. The doctor’s voice.
Not my husband’s.
I felt his hand brush mine, a small anchor in the fog. I clung to it, letting him speak for both of us.
They finished their assessment, left instructions about scans and medications, and said they’d be back later for rounds. Someone told me to rest. Someone else adjusted a line in my arm. Then they were gone, and the door clicked shut.
The solitude left behind grew bigger than the room itself.
But as the minutes passed, reality crowded in. Words likerecoveryandrehabandfollow-upcircled my head like vultures. I’d overheard them mention “neurology consult,” and “PT eval.” There would be scans, appointments, maybe even therapy to learn how to breathe without pain again.
“How long…” I swallowed hard. “How long am I going to be here?”
Adrian hesitated, the way he did when he was switching between doctor and husband. “They’ll keep you another week, maybe two. After that, outpatient rehab, cardiac follow-up, physical therapy. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
We.The word should have comforted me, but instead it made something flutter uncertainly in my chest. “I’ll need to… find someone to drive me, I guess. My parents might?—”
He cut in gently. “I already talked to them. They’ll help, but I’m handling your appointments. Cardio next Wednesday, ortho consult Friday, PT evaluation after discharge. I’ll coordinate with the rehab team about home care and equipment.”
I blinked at him. “You’ve… already done all that?”
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Started while you were asleep. It keeps me from falling apart.”
I tried to smile, but my throat burned. “You don’t have to?—”
“Yes, I do.” He said it quietly but firmly, eyes locking with mine. “I almost lost you, Eli. You don’t get to tell me I don’t have to help.”
I wanted to argue, to ask if he was helping because hewantedto or because he feltobligated.But the look on his face stopped me cold. Adrian’s face mirrored his feelings—raw, sleepless, terrified, and still somehow certain.
So instead I said, “Okay.”
He exhaled, shoulders sagging with relief. “Good. Then it’s settled.”
But when he turned to check his notes, I watched him—my husband, my almost-ex-husband—methodically arranging the details of my recovery as if he could rebuild me by sheer force of will. Every phone call, every reminder, every scribbled note felt like proof of something I didn’t know how to name.
I didn’t know if he was saving me or saying goodbye.
He was planning, handling,managing—the same way he always had. But then what? What came next after my discharge, after I’d settled into home?
At what point does he hand me back the signed separation papers? Over dinner one evening? When we’re lying in bed again, pretending we’ve found normal? On our way to therapy?
When was the other shoe going to drop?
