She let out a soft, surprised "oof," her arms instinctively wrapping around my neck. "Austin! You can't just?—"
"Already did," I grunted, carefully maneuvering her through the open passenger door. I was intensely aware of her, of the warm, solid weight of her in my arms, of the different, hospital scent of her hair. I bumped her splinted leg lightly against the doorframe, and a low curse rumbled in my chest.
"Easy, big guy," she murmured against my neck, her voice a mix of exasperation and something else… something soft and trusting.
I managed to get her settled in the seat, her injured leg propped awkwardly across the bench. I buckled her in, my knuckles brushing against the soft fabric of her dress. It was so different from the last time I'd held her like this, when our embrace was all frantic heat and desperate need. This was something else entirely. Quieter. Deeper.
And a hundred times more real.
I wasn't just her lover. I was her partner. I closed her door and walked around to my side, the full weight of that realization settling over me like a perfectly weighted blanket.
I backed the truck out of the parking spot with more care than I used navigating a shallow channel in low tide. The usual rumble of the engine was a soothing, familiar sound. I glanced over at Iris. Her eyes were closed, her head leaned back against the headrest, a faint line of pain etched between her brows. Without thinking, I reached over and took her hand, lacing my fingers through hers where they rested in her lap.
She opened her eyes, a soft, questioning look on her face. I didn't say anything. I just squeezed her hand once, a silent promise, before turning my attention back to the road. She squeezed back, and a few minutes later, the tense line between her brows smoothed out, her breathing deepening into the slow, even rhythm of sleep.
I drove in a comfortable silence, the radio off, the only sounds the hum of the tires on the asphalt and her soft breathing. I kept my hand linked with hers over Seven Mile Bridge, the entire way back to Dove Key. I peeked at her sleeping face, at the pale exhaustion that lay just beneath her tan, the stubborn set of her mouth, even in sleep. The full, steadying weight of what she meant to me settled in my chest, solid as a lead sinker.
My fear in that hospital waiting room had been the oldfear—the terror of a sudden, violent loss. But as I glanced at her now, so fragile and so damn strong all at once, a new understanding began to settle in me. Her fall wasn't a punishment from the universe. It wasn't the other shoe dropping.
It was just… life.
Messy, unpredictable, and sometimes very painful. It was the first storm we had to navigate together. My job wasn't to try and stop the storms from coming. It was to be her anchor when they hit.
The thought wasn’t a burden.
It was a purpose.
When I pulled into my driveway, she was still sleeping. I killed the engine and just sat there for a minute, watching her in the quiet of my carport. I didn't want to wake her, but I also knew letting her sleep in the truck wasn't an option.
"Iris," I said softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "We're home."
Her eyes fluttered open, groggy and disoriented. "Oh. Okay."
"Stay put," I commanded before getting out of the truck. I retrieved her crutches from the back, then rounded to her side and opened her door.
"I can try it this time." Her voice was still thick with sleep, but that familiar spark of independence was already returning.
I shook my head. “Soon. But not today.”
I helped her swing her legs around, and then, once again, I lifted her into my arms. This time she didn't protest. She just sighed and rested her head on my shoulder as I carried her toward my front door. I nudged it open with my foot and stepped across the threshold. I bypassed the living room, heading straight down the shorthall to my bedroom. My sanctuary. The place that had once been my fortress to keep the world out.
I'd spent the morning getting it ready. The bed was made with fresh, clean sheets that smelled of sunshine and sea breeze. I'd moved the small TV from the guest room onto my dresser and placed a stack of books Brenna had dropped off on the nightstand, next to a thermal bottle of ice water.
The sense of rightness, of her belonging here in my space, was an anchoring force. This wasn't an invasion. It was a completion.
I laid her down gently on the bed. Her sigh of relief was a soft, breathy sound in the quiet room. Her eyes drifted around, taking in the preparations, and when they landed on mine, they were full of a sleepy, trusting gratitude that made my chest ache.
With movements that were both unfamiliar and deeply instinctual, I propped her injured leg up on a careful arrangement of pillows, making sure the angle was just right. Her good foot nudged my hip as I worked, a small, unconscious touch that sent a jolt of warmth through me.
"You thought of everything," she murmured, her voice already starting to slur with exhaustion.
"Just trying to stay ahead of the pain."
She gave a weak, lopsided smile. "Bossy, but effective, Captain."
I pulled the blanket up over her, tucking it in around her shoulders. She was already drifting off again, her eyelids heavy.
"Just rest," I said softly.
