I gave him another ten minutes, then knocked softly on the bedroom door. "You okay in there?"
"Fine."
The flatness in his voice said otherwise. I opened the door slowly, found him sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The shoulder brace made his posture lopsided, one side higher than the other.
"Headache?" I guessed.
"Everything ache." He didn't look up. "My shoulder, my head, my stomach. Even my teeth hurt."
I crossed to the bed and sat beside him, careful to leave space between us. "That'll pass. Your body's adjusting."
"How do you know so much about this?" He finally looked up, eyes red. "Vincent said you weren't trained for this."
"I'm not. Not officially." I picked at a loose thread on the quilt. "My dad... he had his own issues with pills after a work injury. Before he died. I was young, but I remember what it looked like."
Cord's expression shifted, some of the defensive anger draining out. "I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." I shrugged. "But I remember how he'd get when he was trying to cut back. The sweating, the irritability, the way he couldn't sit still."
"So you're saying I remind you of your addict father. Great."
"I'm saying I've seen this before, and I know it passes." I met his eyes. "And my dad wasn't an addict. He was hurt and scared and using what was available to cope. Same as you."
Cord was quiet for a beat, then stood and moved to the small window. Night had taken over completely, turning the glass into a dark mirror. "I don't know how to do this, Dusty. How to just... sit with everything I'm feeling."
"You don't have to figure it out all at once."
"But I do. Because in a couple of weeks, you're leaving for Marfa, and I need to get my shit together before then so I can—" He stopped, jaw working. "So I can make decisions about my actual life."
The reminder of my departure sat heavy between us. Three weeks. Less than that now. The gallery opening, the new life I'd been planning for seven years. Should've been exciting, but standing in this dim bedroom with Cord looking lost and exhausted, it just felt... complicated.
"One thing at a time," I said. "Right now, let's just focus on getting through tonight."
He turned from the window, and in the shadows I could see how exhausted he was, etched into every line of his face. "What does getting through tonight look like?"
"Honestly? Probably not sleeping much. Maybe some breathing exercises when the anxiety gets bad. Trying to rest even if you can't actually sleep."
"Sounds miserable."
"Probably will be." I stood, moving toward the door. "I'll set up on the couch so you can have space—"
"Don't." The word came out fast, almost desperate. Then, quieter: "I mean... I'd feel better if you were close by. In case..."
He didn't finish, but I got it. In case the panic got too bad. In case he needed someone to remind him this was temporary, that he wasn't alone in it.
"Okay," I said. "Let me grab my stuff."
The bedroom was exactly what you'd expect from a fishing cabin, with wood paneling, one small window, and a bed that took up most of the floor space. The quilt looked handmade, all blues and greens like someone had tried to capture water in fabric.
We got ready for bed without much talking, taking turns in the tiny bathroom where the water pressure was more of a suggestion than reality. When Cord came out wearing just sweatpants, torso bare except for the shoulder brace, I focused hard on arranging my pillow and not noticing the defined muscles of his abdomen.
Professional. This was professional. Just helping a friend through a rough patch.
When we climbed into bed, the mattress dipped in the middle, rolling us closer than I'd planned for. Our shoulders touched, and Cord went rigid beside me.
"Sorry," I mumbled, trying to keep some distance without falling off the edge. "The mattress is pretty shot."
"It's fine." His voice sounded tight. "Not like we haven't been closer."
