"Sounds dangerous."
"It is." She squeezes my hand. "But it's also important. And it means I get to stay."
The door opens and Dr. Patel appears, tablet in hand. "Mr. Ashworth, good to see you awake. How's the pain level?"
"Manageable."
"Good. I've been reviewing your labs and the latest imaging. Everything looks stable. No signs of infection or complications." He checks the monitors, then makes notes on the tablet. "We'll keep you overnight for observation, but barring any setbacks, you can be discharged tomorrow morning."
"What about physical therapy?"
"You'll need to start range of motion exercises in two weeks. Three sessions a week minimum for the first month." Patel's expression turns serious. "This is critical, Mr. Ashworth. The nerve damage from your original injury combined with this new trauma means you're looking at significant rehabilitation. Compliance with the therapy program will determine whether you regain functional use of the arm."
"And flying?"
Patel hesitates. "That's a conversation for your physical therapist and the FAA examiner. But I'd be lying if I said this doesn't complicate your medical clearance."
The words settle heavy in my chest. Not a definitive no, but close enough to feel like one.
"Understood," I say.
Patel leaves after checking a few more things, and Cara watches me with concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I mean it. "The flying would have been nice. But it's not everything anymore."
"What is everything?"
I look at her, really look at her. This woman who saved my life, who chose to stay when she could have left, who sees the broken pieces of me and wants me anyway.
"This," I say simply. "You. Us. Whatever we're building here."
Her smile is soft and real. "Good answer."
The next morning brings discharge paperwork and strict instructions for wound care. Cara helps me dress in clothes Zeke brought from my place, moving with careful efficiency when my shoulder protests. The sling they've fitted me with is uncomfortable but necessary, immobilizing the joint to promote healing.
Zeke waits in the hallway, keys to his SUV dangling from one hand. "Ready to blow this popsicle stand?"
"More than ready."
The drive back to Glacier Hollow is quiet. Cara sits beside me in the back seat while Zeke navigates the winter roads with practiced ease. Mountains rise on either side, snow-covered peaks catching the morning light. The landscape is brutal and beautiful in equal measure, unforgiving to those who don't respect it but offering grace to those who understand its rhythms.
"You're staying at my place until you're mobile," Zeke says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Guest room's ready. No arguments."
"Wasn't going to argue."
"Good. Because Sadie's already planning to mother hen you, and you don't want to get on her bad side by being difficult."
Cara's hand finds mine, fingers threading together. Warm. Real. Anchoring me to this moment and this choice and this lifeI'm building in the shadow of mountains that don't care about medical waivers or lost careers.
Glacier Hollow appears through the trees. Small. Familiar. Home in a way that has nothing to do with where I grew up and everything to do with where I've chosen to stay.
Zeke pulls up in front of his house, where Sadie waits on the porch with the kind of expression that suggests she's already mentally cataloging everything I'll need during recovery. But it's Cara I'm watching. Cara who chose to stay. Cara who's looking at the town like she's seeing it with new eyes.
"You sure about this?" I ask quietly.
She turns to me, and the certainty in her expression is answer enough. "I'm sure."
Sadie’s already fussing before we're even out of the vehicle. Zeke mutters something about being bossed around in his own house. Cara's hand tightens in mine.
