The words landed hard, right in the center of everything I’d been avoiding. I squeezed his hand, or maybe he squeezed mine. I couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “I fucked up.”
His smile was crooked, sad. “Join the club.”
For a while, we just sat. I could hear the scrape of nurses’ shoes in the hall, the hum of the monitor, the outside world coming apart in real time, but none of it mattered. The room was just the two of us, trapped in a freeze frame, waiting to see who’d break first.
He spoke. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about us?”
I looked away. “You know why.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re the Sheriff. You’re supposed to be the tough guy. The one who never loses.”
I closed my eyes, fighting the heat behind them. “I lost you,” I said, and the words were the worst kind of true. “Your shop. I let your shop-”
“I don’t give a shit about the shop,” he said. He stood, sudden, the chair scraping back hard enough to make my ears ring. He paced once, twice, then turned back, eyes wet but furious. “I don’t care about the walls or the fucking wolf tattoo or the money. That’s all replaceable. You aren’t.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.
“I care about you, Floyd. I care that you’re lying in a hospital bed because you were too stubborn to let anyone help you.”
The accusation stung, but I deserved it. I took it in, let it settle. “You helped,” I said. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”
He made a face—anger, disbelief, maybe even hope. He sank back into the chair, elbows on his knees, and looked at me like he was trying to memorize the parts that still worked.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a monster for needing something. I just felt tired, and hungry, and full of a longing that wouldn’t let go.
He leaned forward, careful, and touched my wrist. His thumb brushed the bruises there, soft as anything, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying.
“What happens now?” he asked.
I tried to smile. “You yell at me until I get better. Then I buy you a new shop.”
His lips twitched. “Not sure I want a shop anymore.”
I looked at him, confused.
He shrugged, embarrassed now. “Maybe I just want…this.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded, and he squeezed my hand harder, as if he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
Outside, the sky had gone from dusk to full dark. The lamp on the bedside table glowed gold, softening the hard edges of the room. For the first time since I’d woken up, I didn’t feel alone.
He let go of my hand, then—slow, deliberate—leaned in. He pressed his forehead to mine, mindful of the bandages, the tenderness. His breath was warm, the leather and sweat of him overpowering the antiseptic stink of the hospital.
“I love you, Floyd,” he said. No drama, no sarcasm. Just the truth, raw and clean.
The words sat there, hanging between us. I let them sink in, then whispered, “I love you, too.”
He exhaled, a laugh and a sigh and a prayer all at once. He pulled back, eyes bright, and kissed my cheek, just at the edge of the bandages.
For a while, we just sat. No words. No world outside.
After a time, I drifted again, but this time I wasn’t running away. I let myself be held up by the weight of his hand, the promise of what came next.
I didn’t know how to fix everything. Maybe I never would. But as long as I had him, I was still alive.
And for the first time, that felt like enough.
