Page 163 of We Are Just Us

EPILOGUE

Two Years Later

The sun hung high over Black’s Beach, the cliffs glowing gold and pink in the late light. Kieran spread out the blanket at the north end, their spot, always their spot, where the beach thinned out and the crowds gave way to privacy.

It was Rory’s fortieth birthday. He stood at the water’s edge, naked already, toes in the sand, watching the waves with that familiar stillness that meant he was holding something back.

Kieran watched him. He still couldn’t help it.

Two years since the accident. Two years since their world had tilted sideways, like a board knocked loose in rough surf, and then, slowly, righted itself again.

Rory turned and walked back toward the blanket, comfortable in his skin the way he’d always been. The late afternoon sun caught him perfectly, all bronze skin and dark hair that made Kieran’s stomach drop every single time. The gold St. Christopher Kieran gave him that morning caught the light at his collarbone.

He settled onto the blanket beside Kieran, sprawling out on his back like he owned the sand beneath him.

He was still beautiful.

Not in a different way than he’d been the first time Kieran saw him here, naked and laughing and absolutely unbothered. But in a deeper way. A way that carried weight now. History. Survival.

Kieran lay down beside him, their shoulders touching, both of them staring up at the endless blue. He smiled.

The recovery had been hell.

Not in the way that made for good stories later. Just quietly, relentlessly difficult.

Rory came home from the hospital, moving as if every step might shatter him. Cervical collar. Pain medication. Instructions to avoid turning his head, lifting anything heavier than a coffee cup.

Kieran had already moved in.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t make a thing of it. He showed up with two duffel bags and told his temporary landlord that he wouldn’t be renewing the month-to-month next door.

“You’re staying?” Rory had asked, voice quiet.

“Yes.”

Rory didn’t argue.

The first month was the worst. Rory couldn’t look down at a book without pain. Couldn’t sleep in any position that didn’t hurt. The collar was rigid and uncomfortable, and he had to wear it almost constantly, only taking it off to shower.

And showers were another nightmare, standing still, Rory terrified of slipping, unable to tilt his head back to rinse his hair.

Kieran learned to help without hovering. To wash Rory’s hair for him, to help him dress without making him feel helpless. To know when to step in and when to step back and let Rory struggle through it himself because that’s what he needed.

“I hate this,” Rory said one night, frustrated tears in his eyes. “I hate needing help for everything.”

“I know.”

“I can’t even put on my own fucking shirt.”

“I know,” Kieran repeated gently, holding out a button-up that was easier to manage than a pullover. “But you will. You’re just not there yet.”

Physical therapy started six weeks post-op. Gentle at first with basic movements. Range of motion exercises for his neck. Shoulder work to rebuild the strength the injury had stolen. Learning to move again without the collar once the doctor cleared him at twelve weeks.

Rory hated it. Hated the slow progress. Hated the exercises that seemed impossible. Hated that his body, the body that had carried him through almost forty years, suddenly felt foreign and untrustworthy.

“It’s been three months,” he said one night. “I should be better by now.”

“You are better,” Kieran said. “You’re out of the collar.”