This was what I was built for. Not the chaos of the world, not the noise of engines or the roar of wind through the valley. But this: the slow, steady discipline of keeping something precious alive.
When Bo opened his eyes again, hours later, I’d be right where I’d promised. And maybe—if he asked—I’d tell him everything I’d been waiting to say.
When I came back in from my rounds in the shop, the loft was hushed. The only sound was the click of the heating baseboard and the slow, even rhythm of Bo’s breath from the bedroom.
The rest of the world could have collapsed and I wouldn’t have noticed. Not with him here, tucked under my blanket like something I’d carried home from the woods.
I paused in the kitchen, poured two mugs of coffee, and lined up the bottles of painkillers, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories on the counter. I set everything up in a row, exact and straight, then went back to the bedroom with both cups balanced in my hands.
He was awake, eyes open, the color in his face back to something like normal. His hair had fallen into his eyes and his lips were split from sleep, a flush on his cheeks from the heat.
When I set the coffee down on the nightstand, he rolled onto his back, gaze tracking me with a focus that made the skin on my arms prickle.
“Sit up.” I didn’t mean for it to come out like a command, but it did.
He did it, no hesitation, and the blanket fell to his lap. The blue-black tattoo sleeve caught the light, and the way he flexed his hand as he reached for the mug, careful not to spill, made me want to grab his wrist and keep it still.
Instead, I handed him the pills. “Take these. Every eight hours. No doubling up, even if you think you need it.”
He popped them in his mouth and swallowed, then chased it with a gulp of coffee. “No double-dosing,” he echoed, voice rough.
“Good.” I put my own mug down and reached over, gently tilting his head to the side so I could check the stitches on his face. The urge to do more—press my fingers into the line of his jaw, hold him there—was so strong it took a second to remember why I’d started.
I let my thumb drift over the bandage, checking for swelling. He was watching me, pupils blown wide, but he held perfectly still, like he was waiting to see what I’d do next.
“Still hurts?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not bad, though. Just… sore.” He let out a slow breath, lips parted, but he didn’t look away.
I traced along the stitches again, slower, then let my hand drop. “You’ll live.”
“Lucky me,” he said, but there was no bite to it. Just a kind of dazed relief, like he couldn’t believe he was still in one piece.
I stepped back, needing space. “Come on. Kitchen. You need real food.”
He slid out of bed, careful, then stood there for a second, blanket hanging off one shoulder like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
I watched him cross the room, every step measured, and thought about how easy it would be to steer him with a hand onthe back of his neck. I wanted to test how far he’d let me go. I wanted to see if he’d let me pin him against the wall and bite down until he begged.
Instead, I poured him a bowl of oatmeal, set it on the table with a spoon, and said, “Eat.”
He did. He sat in the chair, picked up the spoon, and ate every bite without a word, eyes fixed on the table. I sat across from him, not eating, just watching the tension ease out of his shoulders.
When he finished, I took the bowl, rinsed it, and set it in the dishwasher. I kept my movements slow, deliberate, making sure he saw every part of it.
I turned and leaned against the counter. “You want to shower?”
He looked up, surprised. “You want me to?”
I nodded. “You’ll feel better. I’ll set a towel out. But don’t lock the door, in case you get light-headed.”
He stared at me for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
He disappeared down the hall, and I heard the water kick on. I counted the seconds in my head, counting how long it would take before he called for help, or needed me to steady him. He didn’t. He came out twenty minutes later, hair slicked back, droplets running down his neck and making the collar of the shirt I’d given him cling to his skin. He looked better.
But also, somehow, more breakable.
He lingered in the doorway. “You got any art supplies?”
