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“All right.” He squeezes my shoulder and gets to his feet. “I know you worry about holding us back, but stop thinking about it. Your injuries don’t define you and they don’t matter.”
“Tell that to Cillian and all our other enemies.”
“They can fuck themselves. I know you, brother, and I know what you’re capable of.” He gives me a hard look and walks off.
I watch him go with a long sigh and swirl my drink. A thousand thoughts roll through my head, from the shape of Mirella’s ass when she demonstrates a new exercise or stretch to the smell of blood drenching concrete. I’m not the man I was before my injury, and I doubt I’ll ever be him again—but I want to get as close as I can.
My main worry is that it’ll never happen. All this hard work and worry might be for nothing. The doctors think I’ll heal and Mirella believes it’ll happen and I’ll improve, but that doesn’t mean I definitely will. That’s the nature of the human body: sometimes it doesn’t go right, no matter how hard you try. That could be me, in pain and unable to move the way I used to for the rest of my life. An old man before I’m even thirty.
I try not to let the bad thoughts drag me under, but it’s hard, and pouring a second glass of whiskey doesn’t help.
“Show me how to do that one again.”
Mirella nods and lies on her side, opening her pelvis up by raising her knee. “You should feel it in the back of the hip right here,” she says, touching herself dangerously close to her pert little ass. “It’s good for—What are you staring at?”
“You. Keep going.”
“Fynn.”
“I mean it, keep going. Lift that leg higher. Now lie on your back and—”
“You prick,” she says, getting to her feet, beet red. She glares at me angrily. “This isn’t a joke, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, but when you’re lying there spreading your legs, I just can’t help but enjoy the show.”
“It’s not supposed to be a show, you dick. This stuff can legitimately help you.” She paces back and forth, jaw working. Even in her rage, she’s still cute as hell, and I get a thrill watching her. “You keep talking about how you want to work hard and do more and improve, but then I come in here and all you do is make jokes. Crude, extremely unprofessional jokes, by the way.” She stops pacing and faces me. “You do realize I’m trapped in here with you?”
“I am extremely aware of that, yes.”
“And you keep making these sexual jokes. Have you thought about that?”
I tilt my head to the side. “No, not really.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Are you saying you’re afraid I’m going to assault you or something?”
She throws her hands up. “I don’t know what I’m saying, just that you’re a dick and I want you to quit making jokes.”
I sigh and stretch out on my back, groaning slightly when my knee cracks. “I wouldn’t make comments if you didn’t like it.”
“I’m telling you I don’t.”
“And you can say whatever you want, princess. But your cheeks turn red and you get all flustered and excited whenever I come close to you, which is often, since this whole physical therapy thing is hands-on. Do you really think I don’t notice?”
She glares at me like she wants to make my head explode with her mind. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re fucking sexy when you’re pissed.”
“That’s it. I’m done for today.” She storms away and grabs her towel from a nearby exercise machine. “Finish the stretching routine, do the leg lifts, and call it a day. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Wait,” I say, pushing off the floor. I struggle to my feet and it’s not fucking easy. My muscles scream in response just from doing something simple like trying to stand. God, how did I get like this? So fucking injured that I’m no use to my family and barely able to do simple things.
But I manage it. I get to my feet and stare at her, breathing hard. Sweat trickles down my forehead. Mirella pauses near the door, her eyebrows raised.
“What?” I ask, frowning at the look on her face. She seems almost… impressed.
“You just stood up.”
“Yes, I’m aware, I fucking did it.” I take a step forward. It does not feel good. “And you were about to run away like a child throwing a tantrum.”
“No, Fynn. You stood up. Without your cane.” She says it slowly and it sinks in past my pain and anger.
I stood up without my cane.
I bark a single excited laugh. I don’t remember the last time I stood without help—not since before the coma, that’s for sure. I haven’t been able to move without a walking aid, much less get up. And now suddenly, I stood using only my arms and legs and my damn body.
