He’s asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, that damn frown still etched into his forehead even in rest. I don’t hesitate—I sit down in the chair by his bedside like I have for days now, curl my knees to my chest, and settle in.
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper into the silence. “No matter how hard you push me away, I’m not going anywhere.”
Days pass.
Even when he pretends I don’t exist, even when he turns his face away when I enter the room, or answers me with grunts and silence and closed-off stares—I’m still here. Because we said for better or worse, and we’re damn well going to honor that, whether he likes it or not.
He refuses to meet my eyes. Ignores my presence. And yet I stay. I will be the one thing he can count on, whether he believes he deserves me or not.
The physiotherapist visits regularly, teaching me how to massage his legs to help stimulate his circulation, how to support him without overstepping, how to coax the strength back into limbs that refuse to cooperate.
The therapist told me he has sensitivity and that’s a good sign. Recovery might be long, but it’s not hopeless.
I knew that already.
But Nate doesn’t. He won’t let himself believe it. He’s buried beneath guilt and frustration, drowning in shame. He thinks he's a burden. And I see it—I see it every time he flinches when I walk in, or when he bites back his anger at his own body.
I see it, and I still love him. Fiercely.
A rustling noise jerks me out of sleep. My neck aches from the terrible angle I’ve been curled up in, but I spring up from the armchair anyway, instantly alert.
“Nate?” I whisper, stepping closer. He’s writhing slightly, teeth clenched.
“My leg… it hurts,” he grits out, trying to sit up but failing.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, pulling the blanket off gently. The muscle is tight—cramped. I settle on the bed beside him and begin to massage his thigh, fingers working in small circles just like the therapist showed me. Slowly, the tension melts beneath my hands.
His breathing slows.
When I dare glance up, his gaze is fixed on me—soft, unsure. He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
Because if I do, I’ll fall apart. And I can’t afford that right now.
Not while he still needs me to be strong.
When he’s relaxed, he whispers, “Thank you.”
I just nod, and go back to my chair. I open my laptop and pretend to work, even though the screen is blurry with the tears I won’t let fall.
But I can feel it—his eyes, still on me.
The first real physiotherapy session is an absolute disaster.
Nathan is in a mood even before they start. His jaw is clenched, his arms crossed tight across his chest like he's bracing for war. When the physiotherapist comes in—cheerful, professional, hopeful—he shuts her down before she even opens her kit.
“I can do it myself,” he growls, swatting her hand away when she tries to guide his leg into position.
“Nathan,” I murmur, trying to soften his tone, “she’s just trying to help?—”
“I said I can do it myself,” he snaps, not even sparing me a glance.
The session spirals from there. He doesn’t want help. Doesn’t want guidance. Doesn’t want me there.
And it kills me.
Because I know that fire in him. That refusal to show weakness. But this isn’t strength—it’s fear dressed in pride, and it’s hurting him more than he realizes.
