"Then you know you need assistive devices. A walker, at minimum. Possibly a cane for around the house." The doctor looks at Mac. "She also shouldn't be living alone. Not until we're confident she's stable."
"I'm not going to some home!"
"You're not," Mac says firmly. "You're staying with me. In my guest room. Until we figure this out."
Birdie opens her mouth, then closes it. For once, she doesn't argue.
"And you're getting a walker," I add, stepping closer to the bed. "A nice one. We can decorate it however you want. But you're getting one."
"I don't need that."
"Yes, you do." Mac's voice is rough. "I can't... Birdie, I can't watch you hurt yourself because you're too stubborn to accept help."
She looks between us—Mac still holding my hand, me standing close enough that our shoulders touch—and a small smile crosses her face.
"You two are together."
Mac and I glance at each other. We haven't talked about this. About labels or telling people or what we are beyond the nights we spend tangled up in each other.
"We're..." I start.
"We're seeing each other," Mac finishes.
"I knew it!" Birdie looks delighted despite her injuries. "The way you looked at each other at the craft show. And Mac, you've been whistling. You never whistle."
"I don't—" He stops. "That's not the point. The point isyouneed help."
"I'll make you a deal." Birdie's eyes are bright with medication and mischief. "I'll get the walker. I'll stay at your place. I'lldo whatever you medical types think I need." She pauses. "But only if you two promise to actually date. Properly. None of this sneaking around. You tell people. You go out together. You give this thing between you a real chance."
"Birdie." Mac's voice holds a warning.
"That's my condition. Take it or leave it." She crosses her good arm over the one in the sling. "I'm not accepting help unless you accept happiness. Fair trade."
I look at Mac. His jaw is tight, that muscle jumping like it does when he's stressed. But when he looks at me, something in his expression softens.
"You want that?" he asks quietly. "To go public? Deal with people talking?"
Do I want people knowing that Mac Hawthorne, the gruff loner who barely speaks, is sleeping in my bed every night? That I'm falling in love with him so fast it scares me?
Hell, yes.
"Yeah," I say. "I do."
He nods slowly. Then turns back to Birdie. "Fine. We'll date properly. Now will you please just agree to the walker?"
"With flowers," Birdie says immediately. "I want silk flowers on it. And maybe some of those spinny things. Pinwheels? Do they still make pinwheels?"
"We'll find pinwheels," I promise, laughing despite everything. "Whatever you want."
The nurse, Bronwyn, clears her throat from the doorway. "I'll write up the discharge paperwork and a prescription for the pain medication. We can get you fitted for a walker tomorrow."
When he leaves, Birdie settles back against her pillows, looking satisfied despite the circumstances.
"You're a meddling old woman," Mac tells her, but there's affection in his voice.
"Someone has to look out for you, darling. You certainly won't do it yourself." She waves her good hand at us. "Now go get me one of those terrible hospital sandwiches. I'm starving, and the medication is making everything fuzzy."
In the hallway, Mac pulls me into an alcove away from the nurses' station. For a moment, he just looks at me, his hands framing my face. He kisses me properly this time, deep and thorough, right there in the hospital hallway. "We're doing this. You and me. For real."
