We stand there for another moment, none of us quite ready to move.
As we start toward the hallway, I catch Wyatt’s arm. “Wait. I mean—would you both stay in my room? At least until I fall asleep.”
Wyatt stops, studying my face. “You sure? We don’t want to crowd you while you’re recovering. You need space to be comfortable.”
“I’m sure.” I don’t know how to explain how desperately I’m trying to hold us together. That having them close feels like proof this is real, that we’re building something that won’t fall apart the moment things get hard. “Please.”
Chris nods without hesitation. “Okay, but if you need us to leave at any point, just say so. We have our own rooms.”
“I will.”
We make our way back to my bedroom. The bed is big enough for all of us, though Nikita complicates the arrangement. She’s sprawled across what would be Wyatt’s side, taking up far more space than a small calico cat has any right to claim.
“Demanding little thing,” Wyatt murmurs, working around her. He settles behind me, spooning against my back. Nikita relocates, climbing over his side and stretching out again atop him like he’s just an extension of the furniture.
Chris takes the other side, leaving careful space between us.
“This okay?” Wyatt murmurs.
“Perfect.”
Chris stays on his back, not quite touching. I reach over, find his hand.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him.
He doesn’t answer. Just squeezes my fingers.
We lie there in the dark, three people and a cat, pretending sleep is coming easily.
The next two days pass in a haze of medication schedules, soft foods, and learning how to be together without sex as the connecting thread.
Saturday morning, Chris kisses me awake—gentle pressure on my lips that sparks heat low in my belly despite the lingering soreness.
“Morning,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I kiss him back, deeper, until the heat builds to something demanding. His hand moves to my hip, thumb tracing small circles.
I pull back with real regret. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to want to disobey doctor’s orders.”
He goes still. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just be aware that you’re very distracting.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Distracting.”
“Extremely.”
“I can work with that.”
But he doesn’t kiss me again. Just tucks my hair behind my ear and goes to make breakfast.
When I wake from an afternoon nap on Saturday, I hear them in the kitchen again, voices low and the clink of cookware suggesting another meal in progress. The smell of broth and herbs drifts into the living room.
“You two are going to spoil me,” I call from the couch.
“That’s the plan,” Wyatt calls back.
“It’s working.”
