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He’s hiding his pain from me.

As he settles into the wheelchair, I shoulder the duffel and walk ahead of them, holding the door open.

Luca and Orien are waiting out in the hall. They stand in a loose formation, hands in pockets, voices hushed. Nobody smiles. Nobody makes jokes.

This isn’t a social call.

Orien falls into step beside us, while Luca falls back a pace. “Luca will be your driver until you buy a new car. We’ll put a guard rotation on the house until we find the guys who did this.”

Nobody argues with Orien.

On the ride home, Luca drives with both hands on the wheel, easing around corners so as not to jar Kain’s injuries. Kain sits beside me in the back, his head resting on the window, asleep.

I count the rise and fall of his chest.

Orien follows in a second car, close enough to keep other drivers from cutting between us. At our street, it peels off and parks three houses down, engine idling.

The protective rotation has already begun.

Our house is exactly as we left it. Kain’s guitar stands in its holder by the couch. My abandoned farming sim rests on a cushion. The kitchen counters are clean, the dish rack empty. Nothing has moved.

It feels wrong, somehow. As if the house should reflect what happened.

Luca helps me bring Kain inside and settle him on the couch.

He sinks into the cushions with a sigh that turns into a wince when his ribs compress.

I grab the throw pillow from the armchair and wedge it behind his left side. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he groans.

Luca gives the house a quick sweep before he leaves, telling us to call if we need anything.

In my streaming office, I open the duffel and pull out Kain’s manual, spreading it across the desk with the pills beside it. The instructions go into my spreadsheet one by one, each entry double-checked before I set the proper alarms.

It’s almost time for pain meds, which triggers the food path, so I open a food delivery app on my phone and put in an order from one of Kain’s usual places. Chicken soup, soft bread, nothing that requires too much chewing.

Delivery in forty minutes.

The phone goes back into my pocket, and I move through the house, collecting blankets and more pillows to keep Kain comfortable.

Every time he tries to pull me onto the couch, I slip away.

I fetch water from the kitchen and download audiobooks, since he can’t use screens. I bring him a notebook in case he wants to work on music and an ice pack for his ribs.

The only one we have is a small square that barely covers anything. I order a dozen more, the wide gel packs that will wrap around his whole side. They’ll be here in three hours.

The food arrives, and I bring it to Kain, along with the first round of anti-inflammatory pills. “Take these.”

Kain looks from the pills to me, his brow furrowing. The question is there, but he doesn’t ask it, just swallows them with the water.

I sit in the armchair across from him and pull out my phone, checking when the next alarm will go off to trigger his next health event.

The routine is running.

18

The doorbell rings three hours later, right on schedule, and I leave Kain on the couch to answer it.