The memory hit fast, a warm flood through my veins. And that was all it took. My foot caught the edge where hardwood met tile. It wasn’t even a full stumble.
But it was enough.
And enough was all it ever took.
My weight shifted wrong — too fast, too far forward. The prosthetic didn’t plant cleanly, the angle just slightly off, and suddenly the rhythm I’d been riding was gone.
“Des—” Her voice hit sharp in my ears.
My balance tipped, my hand missing the rail by inches as I reached for it too late, my body pitching forward into the counter instead of the floor with a solid, jarring thud that knocked the breath from my lungs.
Pain flared — dull and immediate, more from impact than anything else. But that wasn’t what burned.
“Shit — Desmond, are you okay?” She was already moving, mug abandoned, footsteps quick across the tile.
“I’m fine.” I pushed myself upright before she could reachme, bracing a hand against the counter, refusing the instinct to check anything, to assess, to admit.
“I said I’m fine,” I added, sharper this time when I felt her hand hover at my arm.
She didn’t touch me… but she didn’t pull back either. She hovered there, caught between instinct and restraint. “It was just a slip,” she said carefully, each syllable chosen carefully.
“I know what it was.” I snapped, frustration heating my cheeks and crushing my pride.
Because itwasjust a slip. But it shouldn’t have happened. Because I’d beenfine.
“It’s that rotten transition,” she tried again, gentler now. “The flooring change — my shoes snag on it all the time.”
“I know what happened, Anya.” My hand tightened against the counter, knuckles whitening as I stared down at the seam between tile and wood as if it had personally betrayed me.
Silence stretched between us. I could feel her watching me again — closer now, more cautiously. “Let me just?—”
“I don’t need you to check me.” I grumbled under my breath, brow knitting as I avoided her tender gaze. I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over my face, trying to get ahead of it before it got worse, before I said something I couldn’t take back. “It was stupid,” I muttered, quieter now but no less tight. “I’ve done that a hundred times.”
“It’s okay not to be consistent yet,” she said softly. “That’s normal?—”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I snapped, the words breaking through before I could stop them. My gaze flicked up to her, something raw sitting just under the surface now, harder to keep contained.
“I looked at you for half a second and forgot where my foot was,” I said, a humorless edge creeping in, I felt tears burn behind my eyes. “That’s all it takes now.”
Her expression shifted — notquiteguilt, but definitely something close enough to make my chest tightenagain.
“That’s not?—”
“It is,” I cut in, quieter but more controlled now, which somehow felt so much worse. “That’s the margin. That’s what I’ve got to work with.”
“I had you right here last week,” I said, the words slipping out lower now, rougher, not looking at her. “Didn’t think about a damn thing. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t miss a step.”
My jaw tightened. “And now I can’t make it across my damn own kitchen without eating the counter because I got distracted byyoufor half a second.” My voice cracked at the edges. “I hate this.”
The admission sat heavy in the space between us, probably more honest than anything I’d said out loud about it so far.
“I know,” Anya answered.
I huffed a breath, something hollow in it. “No, you don’t.” I didn’t turn around. Not yet. I kept my eyes forward, fixed on the hallway like it were something to conquer. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to think about this,” I continued, my voice quieter. “Every step. Every shift. My body forgot something it’s been doing forfifty yearsand now I have to teach it from scratch.”
The words came easier once they started.
“I used to not think,” I went on. “I used to just move. Twelve-hour shifts, trauma after trauma, running on nothing but muscle memory and awful coffee, and now—” I let out a breath that felt like it had weight to it. “Now I need a plan to get from here to the kitchen.”
