“That’s okay,” she declares, snuggling closer. “I’ll take care of you. Kieran said I can help.”
I swallow hard at the mention of her brother.
For the past week, Kieran has been my shadow, my caretaker, my silent nursemaid, taking on the brunt of the duties. And I’ve been his equally silent patient, accepting his help with as little interaction as possible. It’s been a strange, tense dance between us.
Nora shifts beside me, adjusting the makeshift cast on her foot. She’s been wearing it all day, insisting that she needs it to “match Franny.” It’s adorable and heartbreaking and somehow makes me think about the tiny life growing inside me. Will my baby be like her? Empathetic and sweet, with a wild imagination and a heart too big for her little chest?
My hand drifts to my stomach automatically. Two weeks along now, if my calculations are right. Too early to show, too early to feel anything, but knowing it’s there changes everything. I picture myself sitting just like this someday, but with my own child cuddled against me. My heart warms at the thought.
“Nora, your cast is slipping,” I point out, and she huffs dramatically, rewrapping the toilet paper around her perfectly healthy ankle.
“It’s hard to be broken,” she sighs, and I laugh despite the ache in my ribs.
“You have no idea, kiddo.”
The door opens, and Kieran fills the frame like he always does.
My breath catches as our eyes meet briefly before I look away. He’s dressed casually in a black t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he stepped off the cover ofsome alpha fitness magazine. It’s irritating how good he looks when I feel like absolute garbage.
“Is she bothering you?” he asks, his deep voice sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “Nora, I told you Francine needs rest.”
“She’s not bothering me at all,” I say quickly, protectively wrapping my good arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “We’re having a grand time watching the movie. Right, Nora?”
Nora nods enthusiastically, sending her curls bouncing.
“We’re both broken, see?” She points proudly to her toilet paper cast. “And we’re eating popcorn and planning to go skating when we’re all better.”
A ghost of a smile crosses Kieran’s face, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. “That’s good, but it’s time for me to change Francine’s bandages. You need to run along and play outside for a bit.”
Nora’s face falls instantly. She looks down at her fake cast, then up at her brother with wide, pleading eyes. “But I can’t walk, Kier! I’m injured too!”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but a small snort escapes anyway. Kieran’s eyes flick to mine, and for a brief moment, we share a look of amusement over his sister’s antics. It feels dangerously close to normal, to how we were before everything shattered.
“Nora,” Kieran says, his voice stern but kind, “I know for a fact that you were doing cartwheels in the backyard an hour ago. Your injury seems to be miraculously selective.”
“But…”
“I’ll call you back once I make sure Francine isn’t in pain,” he interrupts, his tone making it clear this isn’t a negotiation. “You can continue your movie date afterward.”
Nora huffs loudly, her whole body sagging with disappointment. But she obediently unwraps her foot and slidesoff the bed. “Fine. But I’m coming right back as soon as you call me.”
“Of course you are,” Kieran says, stepping aside to let her pass.
“Don’t start the next movie without me!” she calls as she stomps toward the door, her footsteps sharp and deliberate, making sure we know exactly how unhappy she is.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I call after her, wincing as the movement pulls at my sore ribs.
The door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly the room feels too small, too intimate. Kieran and I, alone.
“It’s time for your pain medication too,” Kieran says softly, moving to the bedside table where there’s an array of pill bottles. “The doctor said to keep ahead of the pain rather than waiting for it to get bad.”
I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. This is how it’s been since I arrived—Kieran talking at me, explaining what he’s doing, and me responding with nods or one-word answers. The absolute minimum required to get through each day.
He opens a white plastic bottle and shakes out two pills, then reaches for the water glass he brought in. I watch his hands. I’m always mesmerized by those large, strong hands that have been so gentle with my broken body. The same hands that packed my suitcase and closed my car door when he told me to leave. The contradiction makes my head hurt worse than my injuries.
“Here,” he says, holding out the pills and water.
I take them silently, swallowing them down under his watchful gaze. His eyes are dark, intense, never leaving my face. It makes me squirm, feeling naked under that stare despite being fully clothed in soft pajamas.
