Page 60 of Seven Minutes
He went rigid. Then, quiet and final, “No.”
I froze and pulled back slowly, careful not to startle him. “Okay.”
I tried to sound neutral, but it came out tight. It wasn’t the rejection itself; it was what it meant. That there was still a wall between us, one I wasn’t sure how to climb.
He turned slightly, not enough to face me, just enough for me to catch his reflection in the window. His eyes were open, distant, as if he was somewhere I couldn’t reach.
“If you change your mind,” I said softly, “I’m here. Just ask me.”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he thought I didn’t notice how his breath caught, how his shoulders stiffened for half a second before he forced them to relax again.
I stayed anyway, curled around him, letting the silence stretch between us.
Because even if he didn’t want me—not yet—I wasn’t ready to let go of this. Of him.
Chapter 26
What We Pretend To Be
ADRIAN
By the time evening settled in, Eli was steady enough to leave the bed for a while. I helped him to the couch. We went slowly, carefully, afraid he might break if I moved too fast. He leaned heavier on me than he meant to, and I pretended not to notice.
We ended up side by side, the glow from the TV painting us in pale light. He chose a movie we’d seen before, something familiar enough that we didn’t have to think.
We didn’t talk. Didn’t touch.
I sat there with my hands clasped in my lap, elbows on my thighs, waiting for cues that never came. Every few minutes, I’d catch myself glancing over.
“You want another pillow?”
“No.”
“Need your drink refilled?”
“I’m fine.”
“Too cold?”
“No, Adrian.”
He said my name as if it was both a plea and a warning. I nodded, pretending to watch the movie, then a moment later asked if he wanted socks.
Nervous energy rolled through me in waves. I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stop hovering. He wasn’t my patient, but I was treating him like one by monitoring his color, his breathing, the set of his jaw when pain crept in. Every instinct in me screamed to fix what I couldn’t fix.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, head tilted slightly toward me, mouth parted just enough that I could see the steady rhythm of his breath.
I let him sleep through the end of the movie. The credits rolled, and the room dimmed to that flickering black-and-blue screen that asks if you’re still watching. I wasn’t.
When I finally touched his shoulder, he stirred, disoriented. “Hey,” I murmured. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
He blinked at me, too tired to protest. I helped him stand, keeping him close as we made our way down the hall. Eli was warm against me, heavy in that pliant, half-asleep way that made me ache with a tenderness I didn’t know what to do with.
Once he was under the covers, I adjusted the blanket, checked the meds on the nightstand, and smoothed a wrinkle that didn’t matter.
His lashes fluttered, and for a second I thought he might say something. But he just turned his face toward the pillow, breath evening out.
I racked my brain trying to figure out a way to reach him. It used to be so easy, so natural. Now I needed an instruction manual and a miracle.
