My legs shook when I stood, like they’d forgotten how to hold me. The walk from the parking garage to the elevator felt like an eternity. Each step took more effort than the last.
By the time we made it inside the penthouse, I was leaning on Michael completely.
“Easy,” he said. His arm was solid around my waist. “I’ve got you.”
I let him guide me toward the bedroom. My body felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with tired. Like gravity had gotten stronger and my muscles had forgotten how to fight it.
“I need to shower,” I said when we reached the bed.
“Maybe you should rest first. You can shower later?—”
“No. I need to shower now. I can still smell that place on me.”
Hospital smell. That antiseptic, sterile scent that seemed to cling to everything. My hair, my skin, my clothes. I could feel it even though I’d changed into clean things before leaving.
Michael was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. Let me help you.”
I wanted to say I could do it myself. That I wasn’t so weak I needed help washing my own body. But standing there, feeling my legs tremble with just the effort of staying upright, I knew that wasn’t true.
“Okay,” I said.
He helped me to the bathroom and turned on the water. Tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting until it was right. Steam started to fill the small space.
“I’ll be right outside the door,” he said. “If you need anything?—”
“Stay.”
The word surprised both of us—but the thought of being alone made my chest tighten.
He nodded. I caught the relief in his eyes like he’d been hoping I would say that. His hands were gentle as he helped me out of my clothes. His eyes stayed focused on what he was doing, not on my body, and somehow that made me feel less exposed. Less vulnerable.
The hot water felt like relief when I stepped under it. It washed away the hospital smell, the feeling of sterile sheets and cold rooms and beeping machines. I closed my eyes and let it pour over me, soaking my hair, running down my back.
Michael stood just outside the glass door. Close enough that I could see his outline through the steam. Close enough to reach me if I needed him. Far enough to give me the illusion of privacy.
When I was done—when the water had finally started to run cool and I’d scrubbed my skin until it was pink—he was therewith a towel. Wrapped it around me. Helped me dry off with the same attention he’d shown before.
He’d laid out clean pajamas on the counter. Soft cotton that smelled like our laundry detergent instead of hospital. Like home, whatever that meant anymore.
“Better?” he asked when I was dressed.
“Yeah,” I said. “Thank you.”
We moved back to the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed while he disappeared into the bathroom again. When he came back, he had my medications. More pills than I remembered there being before. Or maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention.
He handed them to me one at a time with water, watching like each pill was a lifeline.
Then he set the glass on the nightstand and sat down beside me.
The silence felt different now. Less heavy. More like waiting.
“Tell me,” I said, pulling my knees to my chest.
He looked at me. “Tell you what?”
“What happened.” I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them. “The seizure. All of it. You said you’d explain when we got home.”
He took a breath and let it out slowly. His eyes were fixed on me as he spokes.
