Page 50 of Seven Minutes
A half-eaten protein bar sat on the table.
I watched him with a familiar twinge of anxiety.
When was the last time he slept? Ate? Breathed without bracing?
And then the equally familiar shame spiraled in behind it.
God, am I really doing this again? Worrying over him when he won’t even worry about himself?
Adrian scrubbed both hands over his face, and the motion made something dangerously tight twist in my chest. He winced as he pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, the start of one of those headaches he always swore was “fine.”
“Adrian,” I croaked.
His head shot up instantly. “Eli. Hey. You okay? Need water? Pain meds? Want me to call?—”
“Visiting hours ended a while ago,” I murmured. My voice was scratchy from disuse.
“Perks of having hospital privileges.”
The hush stretched, heavy and full of all the things we hadn’t said inmonths.
Finally, I asked softly, “Why are you still here, Adrian?”
That made him pause. After a long, shuddering breath, he said, “Because… I don’t know how to stop.”
Something coiled in my chest, tight and jagged. Love. Fear. Remorse. Anger. All of it tangled so tight it hurt to breathe. I finished the thought for him silently: I don’t know how to stop loving you. How to stop feeling guilty—responsible. How to stop worrying, trying to hold everything together because I feel like I’m spinning out. I don’t know how to stop you from leaving me.
His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with fatigue. “Every time I think I’ve done enough, there’s something else I should’ve done better.” He gave a dry laugh. “Guess that’s not a great quality in a husband. Turns out it’s worse in a doctor.”
I wanted to reach for his hand, but didn’t trust myself. Didn’t know what reaching would mean.
He stood, adjusted the blanket over me with clinical precision, then checked the monitor one more time, even though everything was stable. Always needing proof I was still here.
“You should rest,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.
He turned to go, and I almost let him. Almost.
“Adrian,” I said. My throat caught on his name. “When did you last sleep?”
That stopped him. He blinked. “What?”
“You look exhausted.”
He waved that off as casually as if I’d mentioned the weather. “I’m here, taking care of you, worried about you—” He said it as if it were the most logical thing in the world. As if devotion were the same thing as self-preservation.
I pushed myself up against the pillows, wincing. “Yes. And who’s taking care of you?”
For a second, his expression went blank, as if the question didn’t compute. Then it softened, not with understanding, but with alarm.
“Eli,” he tried, “don’t start. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I said. “Your eyes are bloodshot, you look like you haven’t eaten a meal since last Tuesday, and you’re rubbing your head the way you do when your blood pressure spikes.”
He flinched, barely, but I caught it.
“You’re worrying me,” I hissed. “And I’m literally in a hospital bed trying to recover. That’s the last thing either of us needs.”
His jaw clenched. “I’m supposed to worry about you. That’s what you do when someone you love is—when something happens.” His voice cracked, and he forced it steady. “I don’t get to think about myself right now.”
