He frowns. “That soon?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He grits his teeth, turning away.
“I can’t afford too much time off, especially once the hospital bills start rolling in.”
He sighs. “I know. I’m just… sorry, I’m tired is all.”
He’s right. We both need sleep. I look toward the back door, trying to find the motivation to walk across the yard to my bed, but Fletcher reaches for my hand.
“Stay with me tonight?”
His tone makes my heart ache, as if he needs to be near me as much as I need him.He can’t really want this, can he?
Fletcher kisses the back of my hand. “Please? I want to hold you, Vince.”
We go to his room and strip down to our underwear, then climb under the sheets. The cool mattress is the softest I’ve ever been on, and I sink into it like a cloud.
Fletcher curls up next to me, arm across my chest. I exhale hard. Finally, the weight of the last day and a half slides off my shoulders, and I feel like I can breathe.
I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through all this without him. The hospital, the doctor visits, or hell, even the last two months. Fletcher has been a steady rock through everything, supporting me. Just as he promised.
But every rock has a breaking point, and I’m worried this will eventually break him.
Fletcher kisses my shoulder. “I can hear your mind spinning.”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
I roll to my side and pull him against me. “Nothing. Just go to sleep.”
His head nestles below my chin, our legs tangled.
We’re both asleep within minutes.
****
Things return to normal fairly quickly.
Fletcher returns to work the next day, and I return to my standing post at Graham’s Bar.
The façade of hiding my illness is gone. Everyone knows I have MS now, but to my relief, everyone is treating me the same… except for one small—very big—thing.
There is a padded barstool by the door when I get there.
Declan hadn’t asked if I needed or wanted it. It just appeared before my shift. But the relief in seeing it nearly brought me to tears. I still don’t know how long I’ll be able to do this job, but Declan’s willingness to accommodate me means everything.
I test the stool with a careful shift of my weight before the doors open, like if I don’t acknowledge it too much, it won’t turn into something bigger. It’s solid. Unassuming. Easy to lean against without actually sitting, which feels important for some reason. I rest a hand on the back and take a breath.
I had been dreading coming in today, assuming people would fuss. But aside from a few brief “I’m so glad you’re okays,” everything is the same. Same bar. Same scuffed floor. Same faintsmell of citrus cleaner and spilled beer that never quite goes away.
It’s beyond comforting. I need the familiarity.
I can do this.
The early crowd trickles in—just a few regulars looking to get an early start to their weekend. They don’t even notice the barstool. Hell, they barely notice me, which is how it’s always been. Muscle memory takes over. I scan the IDs of anyone appearing under thirty, stamp everyone’s hands, and listen to the tones of voices, stepping in before arguments can break out.
