Page 30 of Yours on the Canvas

I sigh, hanging my head.

The doctor blinks, confused, and looks at Silas. “No?”

I turn to him. Silas shifts his weight, crossing his arms tighter across his chest.

“He’s not ready.”

“Silas…” I growl.

He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps talking like I’m not sitting right in front of him.

“He still can’t lift properly. His breathing is better, but not stable enough for a full shift. And he’s not going back to the café until I’m satisfied he’s healed.”

I sit up straighter. “I am healed.”

He finally turns his head, giving me that look; the one that says he’s already decided and I’m wasting my breath. The one that shuts down every argument before I even make it.

It’s also the one that makes me want to fucking throw something sharp at him.

“You’re healed enough to walk around without wincing,” he says. “Not healed enough to carry crates of milk or bend over the dishwasher.”

The doctor awkwardly steps away from us, clearly realising this is no longer his conversation.

I throw my hands up, “I’m not made of glass.”

I slide off the table, and the second my feet hit the floor, a sharp bolt of pain shoots through my ribs. I wince, only slightly, but Silas sees it.

His eyes narrow. “See.”

“That was nothing,” I snap, heat rising in my face. “I just moved wrong.”

Silas raises an eyebrow—the you’re full of shit one. He doesn’t have to say anything, the look alone is a lecture.

The doctor steps forward, clearing his throat. “If I can interrupt… Jack is cleared to go back to work. If he takes things easy, there’s no reason he can’t return.”

I smile at him, grateful that he finally found his backbone.

Silas steps closer, lowering his voice. “You push too hard, too fast…”

I hold my hand up, stopping him mid-lecture. “Please, Sol.” Using his nickname like a weapon, and it hits exactly where I need it to. I soften my eyes, and look up at him, my eyes half lidded.

“Please,” my voice, low and soft. I’m begging. I have no shame.

He softens, barely, but enough for me to see the shift, and he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jack. You can go back. Just… not today.”

The doctor looks between us again, clearly unsure whether he should add anything or just pretend he’s not witnessing a domestic standoff.

I swallow hard, frustration burning under my ribs. “I need to work, Sol. I’m going insane.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “And you will. But not until I’m sure you won’t collapse halfway through a shift.”

“How about a few hours a day.” My eyes pleading with him to agree.

Silas raises his hand to my cheek, and I lift my hand to cover his, “Please, Sol. I need this.”

He studies me for a long moment, weighing every breath I take, every twitch of pain I try to hide.

“As long as you promise me, it’s only a couple of hours a day, and no heavy lifting.”