The next morning, I felt good. Or as close to good as I’d come in weeks. The kind of morning where I convinced myself I could do more than I should—stand a little taller, walk a little farther, pretend I wasn’t afraid. The talk last night about the accident, about everything, had dissolved much of the weight in my chest, but not enough to take a full, deep breath.
I woke up sore, a little raw, but determined. Determined todosomething, to prove that I wasn’t as breakable as Adrian seemed to think.
So when we started the walking drills in therapy, I pushed. Harder than I should’ve.
The floor came up fast. Not a crash, not even much of a stumble—just enough to send a bolt of pain up my leg and a hot flush of humiliation down my neck.
“Easy,” my therapist said gently, steadying me by the elbow. “You okay?”
I nodded, though the answer was debatable. My pride hurt worse than my body.
The gym echoed with bright encouragements from the other side of the room. Someone else’s therapist counted reps, another patient clapped for a win that wasn’t mine. I focused on breathing, on the twitch in my thigh easing as I found my footing again.
Usually, by now, I’d hear Adrian’s sharp inhale, the scrape of his chair, or the command for someone tohelp him.But not today.
When I looked over, he was in a seat by the wall, posture tense, one leg bouncing like a live wire. He held a magazine halfway to his face, but I saw his death grip on the edges, his knuckles white and rigid. The man hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.
And I loved him for it.
I took another breath, nodded at the therapist, and pushed through the next set. Every step burned, but it felt like a minor victory. Not just mine, but his too.
When I finally risked another glance, Adrian was peering over the top of his magazine. Our eyes met for half a second. His expression flickered with pride, worry, and restraint, all tangled up.
And before I could stop myself, I smiled. Just a little.
For once, he’d let me fall. And somehow, that small act of hisnotinterfering hit harder than the fall itself. He was killing himself to give me the trust and independence I needed. That felt more like love than anything else he’d done.
The ride homewasn’t as tense as usual.
“The therapist said you did well today.”
I huffed out a small laugh. “Pretty sure I face-planted.”
“Yeah,” he said, and I heard the smile in it. “But you got back up.”
I turned to look at him, taking in his profile—tired eyes, day-old stubble, that furrow between his brows that never quite left. He looked older than I remembered. Softer somehow.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the throb in my leg had settled into something dull and bearable. Inside, he helped me onto the couch and fetched water, pain meds, and a blanket—quiet efficiency instead of nervous fussing. Then he sat beside me.
“You want to put something on?”
I nodded. He picked a movie, some mindless comedy we used to quote to each other, and we watched without speaking. Halfway through, my head found his shoulder. We stayed that way until the credits rolled.
He turned to me then, quiet. “I didn’t help you up today.”
“I noticed.”
His throat bobbed. “It killed me not to.”
“I know.”
He let out a shaky breath that sounded like a release. “But I think… I think you needed to know you could.”
I didn’t say anything because the truth sat too heavy in my chest. He was right. I did need to know. And I needed him to trust that I could. So I reached for his hand. It was a simple thing, a brush of fingers, finding purchase. His breath caught, like he wasn’texpecting it.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“For what?”
