“Impressive,” I admitted.
He handed it to me, then waited.
I squinted at a stack of unopened boxes. “There’s a mug in there with a chipped handle and a swear word on it. I want that, please.”
He crouched, opened the correct box, and held it up without comment.
I leaned back against the cushions. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
I laughed despite myself.
Later, when I insisted on helping, he compromised by lifting each item out of a box and holding it up for my approval.
“Desk lamp,” he said.
“Office.”
“Framed photo.”
“Office.”
“Stack of unopened mail.”
“Burn it.”
He gave me a look.
“Kidding,” I said. “Office.”
He moved through the room steadily, rearranging furniture to clear a path wide enough for my crutches, plugging in my monitor, setting my keyboard exactly where my hands would land naturally.
“You don’t have to do all of this,” I said quietly as he adjusted my chair height.
“I know.” He stepped back and surveyed the space.
My office. Functional, ready. Mine.
He had done it without asking for credit. Without turning it into proof of anything.
Gratitude rose inside me again. Heavy. Complicated.
“What are you going to expect from me when I’m better?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked at me in surprise. “Nothing.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is for me.”
The steadiness in his tone made my chest ache. He crossed the room and crouched in front of me so he could look into my eyes.
“I’m not keeping score,” he said. “I’m here because I want to be.”
The urge to believe him was almost painful. I swallowed and nodded once.
“Okay,” I said.
