“A few weeks. Maybe less.”
“I know,” he repeated, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The trip had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. His face was gray, and a fine sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead.
Oliver was already there, repositioning the pillows and helping Kiernan lie back. The ease of it struck me—the way Oliver knew exactly what to do without being told.
“Where is his pain medication?” he asked me.
“My bag. I’ll get it.”
Oliver handed the dose to him, while I poured a glass of water, then helped Kiernan swallow them, with one hand cupped behind his head.
“Sleep,” I murmured.
Kiernan met my eyes, and in his was the helpless anger of a man who was used to being in control and now wasn’t. “I’ve been sleeping for days.”
“Would you like us to lie with you?” Oliver asked.
Kiernan’s jaw worked, then loosened, and he closed his eyes. I crawled on one side, but Oliver hesitated.
He looked as exhausted as I was.
“We should rest too,” I said.
“Yeah.” He stayed where he was. “I keep thinking he’s going to stop breathing,” he admitted once Kiernan drifted off. “Every time he falls asleep, I think?—”
“I know.” I reached up for his hand and scooted closer to Kiernan’s good side, and Oliver lay beside me.
The first fewdays were hard.
Kiernan was a terrible patient, as Callen had predicted. He hated being dependent, hated being weak, hated the constant reminders that his body had failed him. He pushed too hard, too fast, and twice, Oliver had to physically block him from doing things he wasn’t ready for.
“I’m going for a walk,” Kiernan said on day five, already reaching for his coat.
“No, you’re not.”
“I need air. I need to walk. I’ve been staring at these walls?—”
“You can barely make it to the bathroom without going pale.” Oliver stepped between him and the door. “You’ll collapse halfway to the loch, and I’ll have to carry you back.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“You have a hole in your shoulder.”
“Had. It’s healing.”
They stared at each other, two stubborn men who were used to getting their way. From the bed, I was half-amused and half-certain that Kiernan would try to push past and hurt himself.
He didn’t. He turned and walked over to the window. His shoulders were rigid and his eyes furious. Worse, he didn’t speak to either of us for the rest of the day.
But there were good moments too.
We eventually had dinner at the long table in the kitchen, because Kiernan refused to continue eating in bed or the suite. Millie’s cooking, simple and hearty, was exactly what we all needed.
Color slowly returned to his face, and on day seven, he managed to walk to the garden without needing to rest.
The first time he laughed—really laughed—was drawn out by a terrible joke Oliver told over breakfast.
I marked each moment like a victory.
