Page 112 of Healing Eleanor

“You are so weak,” Nik chuckles.

I know he’s drunk and that I shouldn’t take anything he says to heart. But still… that word. Weak. It leaves a hairline fracture in my heart. My voice comes out soft. “That’s not very nice.”

His head lolls in my direction.

Before I go back to wrestling with his stubborn shoe, he catches my hand in his much larger one, stilling me. His eyes are heavy and unfocused, but he manages, “I—” He hiccups, “I meant to say you’re so beautiful.”

Goodness, he’s really drunk. My face burns anyway. “Um.” I clear my throat, scrambling for safer ground. “Why are your shoes tied so tight?”

“Louie.”

I tilt my head. “Louie? You mean your dog?”

He sloppily nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Remember—he loves shoes.”

I shake my head, muttering, “Of course.” The stubborn knot gives way after one last tug, and I wrestle his first shoe free. Triumph surges through me.

“Victory,” I whisper under my breath.

Nik snorts, eyes still half-closed. “You’re stronger than you think, Elenochka.”

That nickname does something to me. My chest coils, and I quickly busy myself with his other shoe so I won’t have to look at him. This one comes off a little easier, and I set both shoes neatly by the wall.

I sit back and stare. Without his usual composure, or the stern lines of coach or the teasing grin he sometimes wears, he looks almost boyish. His messy hair flops over his forehead, his long frame sprawled carelessly on my living room rug. Vulnerable, human, and just as breakable as I am.

I pull the tie on my robe a little tighter, too aware of the quiet between us.

“Do you think you can manage to get to my couch?” I ask. Couch is a generous term for what I have. It’s more of a glorified futon, but it’s all I can offer. I can’t bear leaving him on the floor, though I’m not strong enough to lift him again.

He lazily nods. “I can… crawl.”

I move the coffee table out of the way, bracing myself.

Very messily, and even more awkwardly, he army-crawls toward the couch. With a few nudges and some guidance from me, I get him somewhat settled. He’s far too big for it. His legs dangle halfway off, arms sprawled over the sides.

I grab an extra pillow and tuck it beneath his head. Just as I reach for a blanket, his arm shoots out and clumsily wraps around my hand. “Don’t go,” he slurs.

I freeze, my pulse acting like a trapped bird. His grip is weak but insistent, like he’s clinging on to something steady in a world that spins too fast.

“I… I’m right here,” I reply softly, sliding onto the floor beside the couch so he won’t have to let go. The cold from the hardwood seeps through my pajamas, but I don’t care.

His eyelids droop, but his fingers twitch around mine. “Stay… please,” he mumbles, voice barely more than a whisper.

I swallow, trying not to let the lump in my throat betray me. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper back.

For a moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the snow tapping against the window. Even in his drunken, slurred haze, there’s a tenderness in him that cuts through the fog of anger, fear, and worry that’s been weighing me down for weeks.

I gently brush a strand of hair from his face, careful not to startle him. His hand squeezes mine again, and I don’t want to let go either.

“Your hands are so soft, Elenochka,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

I stiffen. “I, uh… use lotion.” I grimace.

He isn’t flirting—he’s drunk— but I can’t deny the effect he has on me. It feels more than just a coach and athlete.

He brings my hand to his nose and inhales. “They smell good too… you always smell good. And you look—goodness you always look beautiful. I can barely concentrate half the time.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast I have no hope of hiding it. I’m grateful his eyes are closed. “Oh.” My voice wobbles. What do you even say to that?