Liam nodded. Not offended. Not wounded. “I want to,” he said. “But I can leave if you say so.”
That landed harder than it should have, because I could tell he meant it. And because he wasn’t already reaching for the door or the couch or me. Because he had put the choice down between us and stepped back from it.
I swallowed.
“Thank you,” I said. And this time I meant it.Thank you for caring. Thank you for not making it loud. Thank you for not making it transactional.
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then inclined his head, like he’d accepted a responsibility and didn’t expect a reward.
Markie picked that moment to clear his throat. “GOODNIGHT ASSHOLES.”
“Sweet dreams, Markie,” I said.
“DIE SLOW,” the bird replied warmly.
I pushed myself up carefully and grabbed my crutches. Liam moved without thinking, then stopped himself and let me do it. He was ready to help me, but he wouldn’t intervene until I asked.
I hated that my chest did that thing again.
In my room, I slowly changed into my pajamas, then brushed my teeth. Every small routine felt louder than usual, like my body was checking to see if I was really safe enough to relax.
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my waist. The mattress dipped in all the familiar ways. My new room already smelled like me, which helped me settle.
Down the hall, the couch creaked once, then everything fell silent again.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Gratitude pressed in on me, heavy and warm and terrifying. Was this what it felt like to be cared for without the expectation of reciprocity? And why was the thought of it disappearing even scarier? No, no, nope. I had to detach.
I didn’t know what Liam would expect of me when I was better.
I didn’t know what I would expect ofmyself.
All I knew was that, for tonight, someone was keeping watch without demanding proof that I deserved it. I would let him, for now. From a safe distance.
My eyes finally closed, and despite myself, I slept.
By noonthe next day I had been relocated three times.
Not against my will, though. Every transfer had involved consent, negotiation, and me pretending I was above all of it.
The first time, I insisted I could make it from the couch to the kitchen on my own.
“I’ve had sprains before,” I told him, already bracing on the armrest.
“You also have a head injury now,” Liam said.
“I’m aware of my skull.”
He watched me stand. Watched me wobble. Watched me refuse to acknowledge either of those things.
I made it two steps before the room tilted, reminding me that gravity was not a suggestion. My concussion was apparently not playing.
Liam didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t even look smug. He just stepped forward and put one hand lightly at my waist.
“May I?” he asked.
I glared at him. “Yes.”
