Page 51 of Seven Minutes
“Why not?” I asked, heat creeping into my tone. “Why don’t you get to take care of yourself? Why do you think loving me means destroying you?”
Adrian’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head like I was being unreasonable.
“I’m not destroying anything,” he muttered. “I’m here. That’s what matters.”
“And I love that you’re here,” I said, trying to stay calm. “But look at what it’s costing you.”
He refused. His gaze slid to the window, to the monitors, to anywhere but me.
Iexhaled slowly because anger wasn’t the point; fear was.
“You think I can get better if all I do is worry about you falling apart?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to mine, defensive at first, then wounded.
“I don’t want you worrying about me,” he said. “Not when you should be focused on healing.”
“Then take care of yourself,” I said simply. “Because if you don’t… I will. And that’s the problem, Adrian. You’re making me worry. You’re hurting yourself to take care of me, and I can’t—” My voice caught. “I can’t watch that. Not again.”
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. Adrian looked scared. Not for me. For himself. And maybe, finally, for us.
He sank into the chair again, but this time he ran a hand over his face as if the truth was finally landing.
“I didn’t…” He swallowed. “I didn’t realize it was scaring you.”
“It does,” I whispered. “Every time.”
He let out a shaky breath and nodded.
“I’ll try,” he said. “I swear I’ll try.”
Could I believe him? Adrian had made that same promise many times, and he’d broken every one of them.
He left shortly after; the door clicking shut softly behind him. I lay there in the half-dark, watching the screens blink their green lullaby, wondering if this was what healing would feel like. Wanting someone to stay who might be staying for all the wrong reasons.
Part Five
Going Home
Chapter 23
Baby Steps
ADRIAN
The drive home was uncomfortably quiet. Fragile silence that didn’t rest but hovered, waiting to shatter at the smallest word. I kept my eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel, glancing over now and then to make sure Eli hadn’t drifted off again. He stared out the window, his reflection flickering in the glass—pale, tired, but beautiful in a way that made my heart squeeze.
The hospital had felt safe in its own way: predictable, controlled, like living inside a safety net. Out here, the world looked startlingly alive. Every stoplight felt like a test, every bump in the road something I should’ve protected him from. I wanted to talk—to fill the void with anything—but nothing seemed right. Not when everything between us was still broken in ways I couldn’t fix.
When I turned into the driveway, I eased to a stop and shifted into park, hands still wrapped tight around the wheel.
Eli’s gaze lingered on the space where his car should’ve been. “Weird,” he murmured, voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” It was all I could manage.
He didn’t move right away, and neither did I. The engine ticked softly, the air between us thick with things we weren’t saying. Coming back home should’ve felt like relief, but it didn’t. It felt like trespassing in a place we once belonged.
Then—warmth. Eli’s hand, light but deliberate, settled over mine on the console. I went still.
