He shifted against the pillows and winced.
I rose immediately.
“The one behind your back?”
He nodded.
I placed a hand near his shoulder but waited. “May I?”
“Yes.”
I adjusted the pillow, easing it lower to take the pressure off his injured side.
As I straightened, his hand caught the front of my shirt.
I froze.
His fingers rested above my ribs.
He did not tug me closer.
He did not release me.
He simply held the fabric, as though he needed proof I could not vanish while his eyes were closed.
“I don’t want to sleep,” he said.
“You don’t have to.”
“What happens when I leave?”
“We follow the discharge plan.”
“What plan?”
“Medication, nursing visits, physical therapy, cognitive rehabilitation, mobility exercises, emergency contacts, more alarms than any person deserves.”
“You made schedules.”
“Several.”
“Obviously.”
His fingers loosened but remained hooked in my shirt.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Wherever feels safest.”
“That’s evasive.”
“The occupational therapist approved the apartment after modifications. We can put a temporary medical bed in the chart room downstairs until you can manage the staircase. Or we can use our bedroom if the rehabilitation team clears the stair lift.”
His face tightened. “The what?”
“A motorized device that secures to a chair and carries you up the steps.”
“That sounds degrading.”
