I switch the bedside lamp off and sink into the comfortable dark, sleepiness washing over me. The silence feels warmer now, softened by the quiet sound of his breathing.
“Goodnight, Lily,” he murmurs.
“Goodnight, Brandon.”
I’m smiling as sleep takes me.
44
Healing Notes
Brandon
I wake to the faintest touch, her delicate fingers tracing warmth against my hand. I know it’s nothing more than sleep-drift, yet each soft brush sends a small tremor over my skin and sets my heart stumbling.
She’s facing me, half-asleep. I stay completely still, terrified of startling her. God, she has no idea. One feather-light touch and my composure almost gives way.
A sliver of dawn light filters through the blackout curtains, pale and fragile.
I let myself breathe it in, just once.
I have to leave for work soon. Getting up would be the sensible thing, but a few stolen minutes seem impossible to give up.
Waking like this…I wish it could be every morning.
The thought lands with a muted ache. She’s injured and vulnerable. Whatever this is, it can’t be anything more—not right now.
I swiftly force my mind back into order.
Just a few more minutes, then I’ll go.
When I finally slip away, padding quietly down the hall, I go with the regretful knowledge that this tender closeness was a one-off, no more than a fleeting moment, no matter how fiercely I wish it to be more.
Except later that night, as I’m about to settle on the sofa, Lily asks me to join her again. It’s a simple, wonderful request that she continues to make, night after night, and I go without hesitation, pretending our new evening ritual is nothing even while every part of me aches at the comfort of it.
At night, as we lie in my bed in the soft hush of the cottage, more often than not drifting to sleep holding hands, I can feel us threading together in ways I dare not hope for.
***
We settle into a routine of mornings that begin with Lily curled near me in sleep, my thumping heart betraying me long before I’m fully awake. It’s a sleeping arrangement I’ve already grown accustomed to, as natural as breathing out and breathing in.
She heals slowly as the weeks pass, her limp less pronounced, her laughter coming easier. There’s gentle domesticity to how we spend our days: morning coffees, reading in the afternoons, shared meals with the family, a glass of wine—just the two of us—at the kitchen island before bed.
I know she’s healing. I know that. But lately, as her spirits brighten, I’ve begun noticing her in another way.
Not that I wasn’t drawn to her before, but it was easier then to tuck that longing away; to focus on what she needed. Now…it’s different.
My eyes trace her figure as she sits on the barstool, gracefully cradling a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Endless blonde waves tumble over her shoulders, trailing down to hint at the curve of her waist. I catch myself staring at her mouth, her eyes, the delicate line of her throat—too easy to picture my lips beneath her jawline, pressing slow kisses as I breathe her in.
I try to follow the thread of conversation, lulled by her melodic voice, but I’m aware of how close she is, of how my body has turned towards her without instruction, knee angled in, shoulders aligned, every part of me yearning to slide off the stool, place my hands on her waist, and pull her to me.
I want her.
I want to make her mine—and I want her to choose me back.
The thought consumes me. She’s unravelling me, thread by thread.
I rein myself in. Her dangling foot in the cast is a visual reminder that she’s hurt. Lately, it feels like the only thing keeping my restraint intact.
