Page 57 of Seven Minutes
He adjusted the hem of my T-shirt gently, as if the cotton might bruise me.
“I’ll get your toothbrush. Then you can sit and eat breakfast.”
I nodded, staring at our reflections. Him standing strong behind me, and me propped up on borrowed strength. And for the first time since waking in that hospital bed, I wondered if maybe healing wasn’t just about bones and stitches.
Maybe it was about this, about learning how to stand again, even if I had to lean on him to do it.
“Maybe later we can take a shower,” Adrian said softly, adjusting his grip on my arm. “Get some of that tape residue off your skin.”
My head tilted toward him. “We?”
His lips twitched, caught between a smile and an apology. “Old habits,” he said, but his voice came out rough.
“Right.” I swallowed, feeling the weight of that single word. We. It used to mean something. It used to mean us.
He cleared his throat, pretending to fuss with the towel on the counter. “I just meant I’ll help you get the water running. Make sure you don’t pass out.”
“Sure.”
The lie sat between us, thin and fragile, but neither of us touched it.
He looked away first, giving me a moment to breathe.
I can’t even remember the last time we showered together.
Not because it hadn’t mattered, but because somewhere along the way, the warmth had bled out of things so slowly I hadn’t noticed until it was gone.
He was still standing there, waiting for me to steady myself, the same man who used to press me against fogged glass and laugh into my shoulder as if we had forever. The same man who once proposed to me in the shower.
Adrian’s gaze met mine in the mirror. “Are you okay?”
“Define okay.”
He stepped forward and brushed a curl from my forehead. “You’ll get stronger every day,” he murmured. “You just have to let yourself.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly broke me. I nodded, because anything more might’ve cracked something open I couldn’t put back.
I finished brushing and relieved myself, not even caring that he was hovering.
He slipped an arm around my waist. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed before you decide to redecorate the tile with your face.”
“Tempting,” I muttered, but I let him take my weight. My knees nearly buckled. His hand steadied me, the same hand that signed my discharge, the hand wearing a silver band identical to mine.
The distance between us shrank to the space of a shared breath.
The shuffle back to bed was more difficult than the last one. I was weak now from exertion and in dire need of a painkiller. I stumbled once, and he caught me without a word, pressing a hand to my back, murmuring, “I’ve got you.” Just like that, the weight in my legs eased, replaced by the familiar warmth of his presence.
We reached the bed, and I sank onto the edge, breathing shallow. Adrian kneeled beside me, sliding the crutches out of the way, eyes scanning every line of worry on my face.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He guided me carefully, supporting my weight, until I settled into the pillows, the room dim and quiet around us. I could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against mine as he leaned in, murmuring, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And in that quiet, the tremor of fear and doubt in my chest softened, replaced by the certainty that he was here. That he hadn’t left. Not now, maybe not ever.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the relief wash over me, even as my body reminded me of how much I’d been through. And when I opened them again, he was still there, waiting, his hand brushing mine in the small gesture of someone who wouldn’t let go.
