I press the pillow harder, trying to shake the images from my mind.
It doesn’t work.
I can almost picture him in there, naked and wet, thinking about me the same way I think about him.
Fuck it.
I drop the pillow and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. We have forty-five minutes. That’s plenty of time. And if we’re a little late picking up Dad, well, I’ll think of an excuse.
Right now, all I can think about is getting my hands on Jace Cooper.
I pull into the driveway.
Jace is out of the car before the engine even stops ticking, moving around to the back with that quiet, focused intensity he gets when something truly matters to him.
He unfolds the wheelchair with practiced ease, as if he’s done this a hundred times before instead of just twice at the hospital.
“Alright,” he says, opening the passenger door. “Let’s get you inside.”
Dad grips the doorframe with his good hand and shifts slowly. The movement remains stiff, controlled in a way that makes my stomach clench because it’s such a vivid reminder of what thestroke took from him. How much he’s lost. How much we’ve lost. But still, he manages it.
Jace steadies him with one hand at his elbow, the other hovering near Dad’s back, not touching, just ready if he needs to step in. He is patient in a way I’ve never seen him be with anyone else before.
“I got you,” Jace says. “Take your time.”
Dad nods and carefully lowers himself into the chair with Jace guiding him down, making sure he’s settled before stepping back.
Watching them together does something strange to my chest. Something that makes it hard to breathe because Jace Cooper is helping my father into the house with the patience of a saint.
I grab Dad’s bag from the trunk while Jace wheels him up the path, carefully navigating the slight incline. The front door opens, and they move into the living room. Jace positions the chair near the couch, angled so Dad can see the TV, then steps back to give him space.
“I’ll put your bag away,” I say, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears as I move down the hallway to the downstairs bedroom.
I set the bag on the bed and unzip it, pulling out his dirty clothes and throwing them into the hamper.
I’m about to head out again when voices drift down the hallway.
I pause in the doorway, my hand on the frame, listening.
“Sir... thank you,” Jace says, his voice stripped of all its usual cocky edge. “For letting me stay here in your house.”
There’s a pause, long enough for me to picture my dad processing, gathering his words the way he has to now. Each sentence is a careful construction.
“Lola... told me.” Another pause, this one heavier. “About... the trailer.”
I close my eyes, recalling that conversation. Dad in his hospital bed, me explaining about the rusted-out piece of junk with no heat and holes in the roof. The way Dad’s face had tightened, even with half of it still not working right.
Jace lets out a small breath. “Yeah. It’s not much of a place.”
“You... helped her.” My dad’s words come out slow. “When I couldn’t.”
There’s a brief silence. I can nearly picture Jace sitting there, probably staring at his hands, that muscle in his jaw twitching as he tries to figure out what to say.
“She helped me first,” he finally says, and there’s a rawness in his voice.
I shift slightly, just enough to see them through the gap between the door and the frame. Jace is sitting on the couch—the same couch where we shared our first kiss, where everything between us shifted and changed into something I still don’t fully understand. His elbows rest on his knees, his eyes fixed on my dad.
Dad watches him from the wheelchair.
