“I come bearing comfort food,” Easton says. He situates the tray just over my waist, then waits for me to hit the button so I can sit up without disturbing my lower half.
I stare at the food, and my eyes widen.
Chicken and dumplings. I think I might cry.
“Uh…”
“From North,” he says like I don’t already know.
My hand trembles a little as I pick up the plastic spork and stab it into one of the dumplings. It’s very fresh—not as hot as I usually like it, but the familiar taste soothes me immediately from the inside out.
Easton laughs. “If you could marry food, would I be tux shopping right now?”
I flip him off with my free hand as I shovel more bites into my mouth. My appetite has been shit the last two days. I assumed it was the medication and the pain, but maybe it was just missing this.
With a sigh, Easton scoots his chair closer and leans his arm on the railing of the bed. “How was your day?”
I swallow my bite down with a swig of the water and shrug. “Fine. I just had PT.”
He sits up straight. “PT? You’re not supposed to be walking! I’m gonna fucking sue the life out of this place?—”
“Calm down. It was wheelchair PT,” I clarify. “They do know what they’re doing here.”
He looks sheepish as he settles back into the chair. “Sorry. I think I’m processing my trauma kind of weirdly.”
Every now and again, I do forget that this is probably wildly triggering for my brother. He was the only one at my side while I was in the coma. He was the one who told me about Liam. He was the one who held me when I was breaking apart. He was the one who heard me whisper that I wasn’t sure I wanted to wake up every morning that I did.
“It’s okay. I hate it here too. The smell of the sheets is driving me nuts,” I admit as I look down at my plate. It’s half-gone, but my stomach feels a little too full. “Want to finish this?”
“Fuck yes,” he says and snatches the plate before freezing. “Wait. Are you sure?”
“I’m not being self-sacrificing,” I tell him tiredly. “I can’t eat another bite.”
He makes a happy noise and digs in. He still eats like he did when we were teenagers—with complete abandon, like nothing else mattered except putting something in his stomach.
I’ve always envied that about him. The way he gives zero fucks about how he looks or what people think is something I’ve always wanted to have. But I’ve spent most of my life plagued with being hyperaware of every eye on me.
And every whisper in the room.
He catches my eye and attempts to slow down, so I turn my gaze toward the window so he can have some privacy. “How’s work?”
He groans and swallows a mouthful of food. “Fine. I mean, it’s whatever. Camilo pulled me out of the field.”
My gaze snaps back to him. “Why? Did you get in trouble?”
He swallows down his bite, scrapes the last off the plate, then sets it aside before he answers. “Uh, well…” He goes quietwhile he steals a few long drinks of my water, then swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He looks young, suddenly. His curls are bouncy and falling over his forehead, his light blue eyes a little droopy in the corners.
“Easton,” I press.
His cheeks go a ruddy pink. “The night your call came in, I fucked up at the scene I was on. I couldn’t focus. And then I fucked up a few more times the day after. I almost got North in trouble by making him go with me to your place instead of doing his actual job and assuming Camilo would just…forgive me.”
I try to sit up, but I can’t go far with my legs the way they are. “Jesus, Easton…”
“He ordered me into therapy,” he says softly. “And I’m basically on admin and errand duty until I can get my head back in the game.”
Falling back, I cover my face. “I feel like this is my fault.”
“It’s because of you,” he says, and I wince before he goes on, “but it’s not your fault. When you and Liam—” He stops for a beat. “When that happened, I was two hundred miles away, and it took me forever to be able to get to you. I mean, we both know there wasn’t shit I could have done, but I kept telling myself if I’d been on that hike, I could have told you not to listen to that fucking guide, and maybe…” He trails off.
