It didn’t.
A month later, and I’m still alive. And opening my eyes to the wooden ceiling of Ben’s parents’ tiny guest cottage.
It was touch and go for days, and I wouldn’t have survived had it not been for the expertise of Robin’s medic. With a lot of herbal remedies and the skill of her hands in removing the bullet and stitching the wound inside and out, she saved me. She treated me so persistently for so many days that I can still picture her face leaning over me—pale skin, faint freckles on her nose, the wild, wavy disarray of her bronze-colored hair.
If it wasn’t her peering down at me, it was Ben. He didn’t leave my side until I was out of danger. Even then, I’d wake up to see him sound asleep, leaning over with his head on the edge of my mattress because he couldn’t manage to sit up anymore.
He didn’t say much. Just got me anything I needed and a lot I didn’t. And sat beside me as if he could make me live with nothing but the power of his will.
Maybe that’s what he did.
I don’t know how or why it happened, but I beat all the odds and pulled through. And now that the wound has closed and I’ve regained strength, the main thing still troubling me is that my range of motion in that shoulder has significantly declined. Ben keeps making me stretch and rotate the shoulder so maybe even that will eventually come back.
Either way, I’m not going to complain.
I thought my chance to love Ben and fight in this world was over, but it’s not.
Blinking to clear my vision, I lift my head from the pillow. The cottage is tiny—a small bedroom and minimal bathroom—but it’s as comfortable a room as I’ve had for years. I lift my head to look around, but it’s empty except for the pile of Ben’s stuff in one corner and my own small collection of clothes and necessities neatly organized on a shelf.
Typical. Ben keeps my possessions perfectly tidy but tosses his own on the floor.
It makes me laugh silently. And that gives me energy enough to get up to go to the bathroom and wash up before returning to the bedroom. I kneel down carefully and start sorting Ben’s heap of clothes and other belongings. There’s a whole array of tools he keeps in pouches and holsters on his belt when he’s on the move. Two knives. A multi-tool. A flashlight. A compass. A water canteen. With all this in addition to his guns, he carries a whole arsenal with him everywhere he goes.
The thought amuses me as I divide the very dirty clothes from the ones that are clean or at least wearable again.
Then I bring everything over to organize on the shelf next to mine, pleased with the result.
When I hear Ben’s muffled voice from outside—he must be calling out something to one of his parents—a flash of whimsy hits me and I climb back under the covers in bed, settling myself and closing my eyes.
I hear the door open and Ben step in. I’d know it was him even if I hadn’t heard him approaching.
I’d know him in the dark just from breathing him in.
He must be standing still, probably sensing something has changed and trying to figure out what it is.
“What is this? Fairies come in just now and clean up my shit while you’re lyin’ in bed there pretendin’ to sleep?”
I try—I really do—to hide my fond amusement, but I can’t. Laughter bubbles out of me and I open my eyes.
He’s wearing beat-up trousers and a white undershirt.His hair needs a trim, and he’s growing out a beard. His shoulders are relaxed, and his face is soft.
I love him so much. I stretch my arms out toward him, and he toes off his shoes quickly before he climbs onto the bed.
“You can get on top,” I say as he rolls on his side and stretches over to kiss me.
“Nope. Not yet.”
“I’m fine. Totally healed.”
“When you’re back to full strength, I’ll get on top of you again. Until then, you’ll have to make do with this.”
I’m anxious to feel the weight of him on top of me again, but I’m not going to complain about his carefulness. We’re both well aware we almost lost each other, and we’re not going to do anything foolish that might put my recovery at risk.
So I comb my fingers through his hair as he kisses me, one of my hands trailing down to stroke his beard.
He tries to keep the kiss slow and intentional, but he gets excited almost immediately. Soon his tongue is all the way in my mouth, and I’m eagerly trying to pull him closer. He almost lets me but then huffs and draws back, glaring at me with playful disapproval. “That’s cheatin’.”
“It is not cheating. I was kissing you.”
