His arm came around me slowly, carefully, as if he was afraid of doing it wrong. The hand on my back was warm and solid, and I felt the tension in him begin to loosen, fraction by fraction. We didn’t speak. Speaking would make it real, and we needed this to be small. Temporary. Ours.
For a while, we just breathed.
The hospital fell out of my bones. The monitors, the alarms, the endless decision-making faded to a low hum somewhere far away. I pressed my palm flat to his chest, right over his heart, and felt it beating — steady, stubborn, alive. I counted a few breaths without meaning to. It grounded me better than sleep ever could.
He shifted slightly, enough to press his forehead against my hair. “You’re tired,” he murmured.
“I know,” I said. I didn’t move.
His grip tightened, just a little. Possessive wasn’t the right word. Protective, maybe. Like he was holding us together until the world came back online. I thought about the therapist’s arrival, about theprosthetic waiting in its bag, about how the day would demand things from him he wasn’t ready to give.
The doorbell detonated through the house like a code blue.
I came awake mid-breath, disoriented and tangled, my cheek mashed against Desmond’s chest, my arm heavy across his ribs. For one stupid, blissful second, I didn’t know where I was. Then the sound came again — bright, insistent — and the world slammed back into place.
“Oh — shit,” I whispered, already scrambling.
Desmond startled beneath me, a sharp inhale, his body going rigid before he recognized me. “What?”
“PT,” I said, already rolling off him, feet hitting the floor too fast. My pulse skidded. I dragged a hand through my hair, which had escaped its braid and now looked like I’d been electrocuted. My mouth tasted like sleep and hospital coffee. “I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”
He blinked up at the ceiling, then at me, something like fond disbelief flickering across his face before the familiar tension settled in. “You worked all night.”
“That doesn’t mean I get to—” The doorbell rang again, longer this time. I winced. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got it.”
I tugged my sweatshirt back on, backwards at first, swore under my breath, fixed it, and bolted for the door. The therapist stood there, cheerful and terrifyingly awake, clipboard in hand, sneakers already laced for productivity. She was a little older than me, if I had to guess, a taller woman with a smile that instantly put me at ease. I returned the smile like a fraud and let her in, apologized once too many times, ushered her toward the living room I’d staged like a crime scene.
“Good morning, Mrs. Vaughn. My name is Noelle Singer. I’m excited to work with your husband.” Her smile was warm, and evenIfelt comforted by her words.
“Thank you, but Desmond isn’t my husband. We’re just—” Iwas at a loss for words, stomach doing embarrassing little flips at being calledMrs. Vaughn. “Just Anya is fine, Dr. Singer.”
By the time I turned back toward the bedroom, Desmond was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hands braced on the mattress like he was preparing to be examined rather than helped. The bag sat at his feet.
The prosthetic.
I felt my chest tighten.
“Since this’ll be our first time trying the temporary prosthetic,” Noelle said easily, following my gaze. “We’re going to take it slow.” She said it likefirst timewasn’t a loaded phrase, like it didn’t rearrange the air in the room.
Desmond nodded once. “I know.”
I stayed where I was, suddenly unsure of my place. I wasn’t the doctor here. I wasn’t the therapist. I was… something else. Something too close. I hovered anyway, a useless instinct tugging me forward.
She knelt, unzipping the bag with practiced efficiency. She talked as she worked — about sockets and liners and pressure points — but my attention snagged on Desmond’s hands. The way his fingers curled and uncurled against his thigh. The way his jaw locked as if he were holding himself together by force alone.
When she lifted the prosthetic free, it looked exactly like what it was: equipment. Pale, impersonal, all angles and intent. I watched his face as she explained how it might feel. The wordsawkward,heavy,temporaryfloated between us. He nodded at the right moments. He always did.
“Anya,” Doctor Singer said gently, glancing at me. “You can come closer if you want. Might be helpful for you to see.”
I watched them fit the liner over his residual limb, slow and careful. I memorized the way his breath hitched when the pressure changed. I noted the exact moment his eyes closed, overwhelmed. When the prosthetic was finally aligned and secured, when it was no longer hypothetical buton him, the room went silent.
“Okay,” she said with a cheerful clap. “Let’s try standing.”
Desmond’s laugh came out sharp and humorless. “Of course we are.”
He braced himself on the walker. Noelle positioned his foot — no, the prosthetic — adjusted the angles, gave calm, precise instructions. I stood just behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his back, far enough not to interfere.
“On three,” she said.
