The quiet between us stretches through the short ride. In the safety of a familiar space, his posture finally relaxes.
“Want help with your hoodie?” I ask.
“Sure,” he mutters. “It’s getting a bit warm.”
As I ease the clothing off, my hands skim the solid lines of his shoulders and back, the heat of him seeping through the fabric. His scent—warm and unmistakably him—wraps around me. It’s completely innocent and yet not at all. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. Even if he can’t see me, I feel like he does right now.
“Everything okay?” I mumble.
Teddy blinks, lips parting. His tongue swipes briefly across his top lip and I track the movement. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“Think you can make it to the bed on your own?”
“I want to try at least.”
I steady the wheelchair as he rises, his movements slow but determined. Once he’s settled on the mattress, I pull the sheets up. “Rest up for a while.”
Teddy goes quiet, his breathing evening out as sleep claims him in a matter of seconds. Outside, snowflakes spin and drift, weightless against the darkening sky. I linger, pretending the only storm worth noticing is the one unfolding beyond the glass.
16
TEDDY
DECEMBER 20
The hot water does little to loosen the stiffness in my still aching body. My muscles feel like they’ve been cemented in place, but showering is at least an attempt at feeling human after another episode of pain last night. Steam curls around my face, dampening my hair and clinging to my lashes. For the first time since getting here, I’m doing this alone. There’s no nurse hovering, guiding hands or voice telling me where to step. Just me and a body that still doesn’t feel like mine.
My mind drifts toward a method of relief I’ve missed while stuck here. Not the bottle or the women. The one I turned to when I needed to burn through stress, forget a bad day, or when I was horny and wanted to feel good without finding a hookup.
I drag my palm across my chest, tracing muscles that feel less pronounced than before. The skin is sensitive, bruised in places and tight in others. I wince when a sore spot catches me by surprise. Every inch is familiar in theory but foreign under my own touch.
With one hand braced on the cold tile, the other trails over my stomach, a slow drag downward. My breath catches, hesitation locking me in place. The medical smell of the hospital soap combined with the knowledge that a nurse is waiting outside makes my skin crawl.
Not Ivy, though. It’s one of her colleagues on duty today. Still, my mind reaches for her anyway. I imagine her steady, gentle touch and the faint coconut scent that always seems to linger after she adjusts my pillows or checks my IV. It clashes with the sterile reek of this place. I wish it were her outside the door. Not because of what I want to do, but because she makes all this shit feel less clinical.
With her, I might actually relax. Okay, maybe the idea of touching myself with her just outside turns me on a little too. The unfiltered thought sends a hot jolt through me, a rush I haven’t felt in weeks. My hand drops lower on instinct, brushing over the base of my cock, fingertips sliding toward my piercing, another slow drag proving how wound-up I am.
I wonder once again what Ivy looks like. I’ve built a version of her in my head—warm eyes and a teasing half-smile. The more I picture her, the tighter my body coils. It’s been a long time since someone held my attention without even trying. Maybe I’m starved for a real connection. Maybe it’s actually her.
I blow out another breath, leaning my forehead against the cool tile. Thinking about her makes the moment too real somehow. Reducing the one person who treats me well to some made-up image makes me feel like an asshole. She deserves better than my restless curiosity. Using that image to get off feels wrong like I’m crossing a line she didn’t ask me to.Well, fuck.
The sweet release I craved only seconds ago is now tangled up in conflicted thoughts, killing whatever fragile spark was flickering. I let my hand fall from my cock, huffing out a frustrated breath.
Turning my back into the spray, I will it to wash my sour mood down the drain. The warmth should comfort me, but all I feel is hollow once again. I wonder when I’ll be able to touch myself without flinching. When pleasure won’t taste pitiful or feel like a betrayal of what I’ve survived. My body truly feels like it doesn’t belong to me anyway, more a loan from a stranger.
Perfect. Can’t even jerk off without tanking my own mood. What the hell is happening to me?
Dr. Philip, the therapist I talk with twice a week, would be fucking terrified if I asked her about these feelings. At least I don’t think her expertise includes failed agony wanks.
After patting myself dry, I step out of the bathroom, and tell the nurse waiting outside that everything’s fine. He jots something on my chart and walks out, leaving me alone with nothing but my own irritated thoughts.
I’m about to get into bed, when a vibration from the tray table catches my attention. Without thinking, I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Teddy, sweetheart,” comes the voice I’ve avoided for weeks.
I’m tempted to hang up, but the damage is already done. “Mother.”
“Oh, Teddy, you sound tired. Are they taking good care of you?”
