Page 59 of Seven Minutes
In that steam-filled stall, I let myself feel it all. The rhythm of care and attention, leaning on each other, feeling what it meant to need and be needed. I silently vowed to protect that, to honor it, to be present in every touch, every breath, every quiet moment of this fragile closeness. Even if all I could give him right now was my hands and the reminder that he wasn’t alone.
By the time the water shut off, Eli’s breathing had gone shallow, his weight sagging against me.
“Easy,” I murmured, catching him under the arms as he wobbled. His skin was flushed pink from the heat, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he said, though the tremor in his voice disagreed.
I grabbed the towel and started blotting him dry, careful around his healing scars, the bruising that still yellowed along his ribs. He swayed once, and I steadied him with a hand to his hip.
“You’re lightheaded,” I said.
“It’ll pass.”
I nodded, but didn’t believe him. I wrapped the towel around his waist and steered him toward the bed, ignoring his quiet protests. “Sit,” I ordered. He did, barely, the bed dipping under his weight as I kneeled in front of him. His hands rested on his thighs, trembling slightly. I could see the effort it took just to stay upright.
“Breathe.”
He exhaled shakily, leaning forward as I reached for the bottle of pills on the nightstand. I shook one out, passed it to him, then lifted the glass of water to his lips when his hands didn’t quite cooperate.
He took the pill, drank, then slumped back against the pillows. His eyelids fluttered. I dabbed the last droplets of water from his neck and chest, then tossed the towel aside.
“You didn’t have to…” he mumbled, already fading.
“Yeah,” I said quietly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I did.”
For a moment, I just stood there, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The medicine would kick in soon. The pain would ease.
But the ache in me, the one that came from loving someone this fragile, this far gone, this proud, only deepened.
I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still resting lightly against his arm, as if keeping him anchored there would keep everything else from slipping away, too.
Eli drifted off, still naked and damp, one arm curled loosely over his stomach, the other trailing off the side of the bed. I stood there, towel forgotten in my hand, watching him breathe. Mapping the lines of his beautiful, battered body. Even after a decade together, it was impossible to look at my husband without feeling desire for him.
The room smelled faintly of soap and steam, a ghost of warmth that clung to his skin. I remembered how many mornings had started like this, our bodies slick against each other,laughter muffled into the sheets, the kind of closeness that made everything else fade to static.
Back then, his body had felt more familiar than my own. I could trace every scar, every mole, every place that made him gasp. Now, it felt like trying to remember a song I used to know by heart and realizing I’d forgotten the tune.
“Idiot,” I whispered to myself. My voice came out hoarse. “You absolute idiot.”
I’d been so careless. So goddamn arrogant. Thinking we had time, that love could run on autopilot while I chased titles and deadlines.
And now here he was, hurt and broken and mine only because he didn’t have the strength to walk away.
I pressed my palms to my eyes until the world went dark.
“Don’t screw it up again,” I muttered. It sounded like a prayer and a threat all at once.
When I woke,the light had shifted. Late afternoon light bled through the curtains, casting the room in a warm glow. Eli was still asleep, his back pressed against my chest, the curve of his body fitting into mine like it always used to.
For a moment, I didn’t move. Just breathed him in. He sighed, the sound quiet and raw, and something deep in my chest caved. I tightened my arm around his waist withoutthinking, drawing him closer. The heat of him was addictive, grounding in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in months.
“Hey,” I murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
He made a small sound of acknowledgment, and the noise went straight to my gut. My hand drifted lower, tracing the line of his stomach, the soft give of skin and muscle under my fingertips. He tensed, but he didn’t pull away.
“Do you want me to—” I stopped, the rest catching in my throat. My thumb brushed lower, just enough to ask without words. “Do you need a little relief?”
The question felt dangerous the second it left my lips. Too intimate, too familiar for where we were now. But I couldn’t help it. I missed him. Missed touching him, being the person who knew how to ease him, even in small ways.
