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16
It turnsout that my own physician, Dr. Harmon, has a few mutual acquaintances with Dr. Pratcher, which seems to ease her reticence to let Ella come home.
Which is nice, but it in no way weighs into my decision.
So after her tests come back fine, I take Ella home. Dr. Harmon meets us there, giving her a once-over and making sure she indeed doesn’t have a concussion, before giving her the okay. After, I carry her up to my room, tucking her into the bed as she smiles weakly at me.
“Noel, I’m really fine.”
I smile wryly. “I know.”
“You don’t have to watch over me or anything.”
Yes, I do.
“Just try and close your eyes. Dr. Harmon cleared you for a concussion, so I want you to sleep.”
She rolls her eyes, grinning a little.
“Oh butof course, sir.”
We both stiffen when she uses that last word. Her cheeks flush as her eyes snap to mine. My lips curl at the heat in her eyes.
Later.
For now, she needs rest. I pull the covers up over her, placing my hand over hers.
“Rest, Ella.”
She makes a pouty face.
“I’m not—”
She yawns, instantly giggling afterwards. My heart surges.
“Okay, okay, fine,” she begrudges. She snuggles in, and then frowns, glancing back to where I’m perched on the side of the bed.
“Are you going to watch me or something?”
“Yes.”
She blushes.
“Okay.”
Her hand takes mine, fingers entwining as she rolls over and snuggles deeper under the covers. Her right arm crosses up to her left shoulder, holding my hand there as she starts to drift off.
And I do. I just watch her, until her breathing evens, and her back rises and falls gently.
My eyes narrow. I could have lost her.
Thinking about that hardens something inside of me. And yet, at the same time, she makes me weak. Protective and gentle by the same stroke.
I sit there for a while, until she’s deep in sleep. Quietly, I rise, stepping into the hall and immediately heading towards the gym at the far side of the house.
It’s been forever since I blew off some steam with my fists. When I was younger, there was barely a day that went by when I wasn’t sparing with Thomas or my father. Or at the very least, squaring off with a practice bag.
It’s not because I’m inherently violent. It’s because this is how I channel my fury at times—a life lesson my father drilled into me. And at the moment, after today?
