“Fuck the doctor.” I pushed myself more upright, ignoring the way the room tilted. “Look at me.”
He did. And what I saw in his eyes made something cold settle in my stomach.
It wasn’t just fear. It wasn’t just relief that I was okay. There was something else in his face—something I couldn’t name, something that made my chest tight.
“Tanner,” I said, quieter now. “What are you thinking?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hands were clasped in his lap, fingers twisted together, the knuckles white.
“I’m thinking—” He paused, his jaw working like he was forcing the words out. “About what it felt like to watch them carry you off that field. I’m thinking about how I sat in that waiting room, not knowing if you were going to be okay, and wondering if this is what my mom went through every time she watched my dad play.”
His voice was steady, too steady, like he was reciting facts instead of describing the worst moments of his life.
“I’m thinking about how every time you step on that field, something like this could happen. And I just have to sit there and watch.” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t do anything, Seth. I just had to wait.”
“I know.” I reached for him, but he didn’t move closer. “But I’m okay. I’m right here.”
“This time.” The words were barely a whisper. “You’re here this time.”
I understood then. The distance he was putting between us wasn’t about anger. It wasn’t even about me, not really.
It was about Patrick. And the certainty that loving me meant accepting he might lose me too. Even if I never set foot on the field again, there were no guarantees the damage hadn’t already been done.
“Come here,” I said. Not a request.
He hesitated, then closed the distance between us. I pulled him against my side, and he came without resistance, his head finding the hollow of my shoulder like it belonged there.
“I’m sorry,” I said into his hair. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
His hand fisted in my shirt. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
“I know. But I’m still sorry.”
We stayed like that for a long time. His breathing evened out, his grip on my shirt loosening. The headache was still there, throbbing behind my eyes, but it didn’t seem as important as the weight of Tanner against me, the trust it took for him to let me hold him when everything inside him must be screaming to run.
“I need to get you to bed,” he said eventually, his voice muffled against my shoulder. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“In a minute.”
“Seth—”
“Just one more minute.”
He didn’t argue.
When we finally moved, he helped me up with exaggerated care, like he was afraid too much pressure might break something. Walked me down the hall to the bedroom with one hand on my back, steadying me. The room was already dark, the blackout curtains drawn, and I wondered when he’d done that.
I sat on the edge of the bed while he pulled off my shoes, then helped me out of my jacket. His movements were careful, deliberate, like he was memorizing each step.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked. “More water? Another blanket?”
“Just you.”
He froze.
“Stay with me,” I said. “Please.”
For a second, I thought he might refuse. I could see the war on his face—the part of him that needed to be close fighting against the part that wanted to flee before I could hurt him any more than I already had.
