Page 63 of Seven Minutes
Iopened my eyes to the smell of coffee and overcompensation.
Adrian had been up before dawn—again. I’d been home now for a week, and this was becoming routine. I could hear him moving around the kitchen, opening drawers, the fridge, the soft scrape of a knife against a cutting board.
He was wearing scrubs, though he wasn’t going to work. He’d traded the hospital for me—his newest full-time patient—and I didn’t know if that made me feel special or sick.
“Morning,” he said when I shuffled around the corner, parking my ass on the couch. “Hungry? I made the omelet the way you like.”
He set a tray on my lap with real silverware, a cloth napkin, and perfectly sliced fruit. The kind of breakfast I used to fantasize about having time for.
“Pain level?” he asked.
“Manageable,” I said automatically.
He nodded and handed me my meds, hovering until I swallowed. Then he straightened a cushion that didn’t need straightening. Checked my water glass. Adjusted the blinds. I’d started to think the house itself might file a complaint about being touched too much.
I watched him move, so precise, so careful, the way he’d been trained. But every gesture screamed a kind of desperation I couldn’t name.
When I finally said, “You don’t have to keep doing all this,” I didn’t mean it cruelly. Just… truthfully.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
He looked at me, and I could just make out the faint tick in his jaw. “Because I love you.”
It was such an Adrian answer—simple, loaded, unflinching. The kind of statement that made you want to both kiss and strangle him.
I didn’t push it. I didn’t have the energy.
Instead, I let him guide me through the morning like a nurse might a patient. PT clothes laid out on the armchair. A schedule printed on the fridge. Bottles of vitamins lined up with military precision. There was comfort in the order of it, I guessed. Except it wasn’t my order—it was his.
When I finished eating, I reached for the tray, but he swooped in before I could lift it.“I’ve got it.”
“I can?—”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
I exhaled hard through my nose. “Adrian, I’m not going to break.”
His mouth twitched in a humorless almost-smile. “Maybe let’s not test that theory yet.”
He took the tray to the sink, rinsed everything, and wiped the counter. Not one wasted motion. Watching him was the same as watching someone try to outrun their own thoughts.
We used to move around each other so easily, like choreography. Now, everything we did was careful. Quiet. Deliberate. Even breathing together felt like work.
“PT’s at eleven,” he said, breaking the silence. “I thought I’d drive, stay in the lobby in case?—”
“In case I fall?” I asked.
I looked down at my legs, at the bruising, the stiff awkwardness of healing bones and stubborn muscles. I should’ve been proud of the progress. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t even stand. Now, I could hobble across the living room if I took it slow. But pride was hard to come by when every accomplishment came shadowed by doubt.
He didn’t see me as whole yet.
He saw me as something to fix.
His eyes flicked to mine, quick and defensive, but instead of looking away this time, he snapped, “Yes. In case you fall. Why wouldn’t that upset me, Eli? How would you feel if I was already hurting, and then I fell? Would you care? Or would you just sit in the parking lot with the car idling and not give a fuck?”
The words came out too fast, too sharp, like something he’d been holding in for days. Maybe weeks.
