Page 106 of Played By Design

My feet stay planted. “You need to rest. I have things to do.”

“What things?”

I back up a step. “Work things.”

His brow furrows. “You don’t have any work. You’re on a break.”

“But you downloaded games for me to test out.” Another step back. “I should do that.”

Kain’s hand remains on the cushion as he stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Sit with me for an hour? My head hurts, and you stroking my hair always soothes it.”

My stomach clenches, and I take half a step forward, wanting to relieve his pain. But then I remember he has medication for that, and if I sit now, I won’t be leaving his side.

So, I force myself to cross to the armchair, grab the throw pillow, and carry it to the couch.

I set it beside him, close enough that he can rest his head on it if he wants. “Here.”

His attention shifts from the pillow to me. “That’s not what I asked for.”

“You can have pain medication in another hour.” I pull back. “If you need to use the bathroom, tell me. Don’t try to walk there alone. Your balance is still off, and if you fall, you’ll hurt your ribs worse.”

I retreat toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

I choose the guitar biography and put it on the house speakers. “If this one bores you, let me know. Otherwise, I have things to do.”

As he sinks back into the cushions, I pretend not to see the confused, hurt expression on his bruised face.

In the kitchen, I drag the box of ice packs into the garage. I start rearranging things out there, and only realize how much time has passed when the alarm for Kain’s pain medication goes off.

I take a deep breath and head back inside.

I have a system. I can do this.

The next two days repeat in a pattern, like grinding levels on a game.

I check on Kain every hour, not because the doctor said to, but because it’s easier to set a repeat timer than risk forgetting and having him die on the couch. Or give him an excuse to do anything for himself.

Meals arrive on schedule. Breakfast at seven-thirty. Lunch at twelve-fifteen. Dinner at six.

I set the coffee table in the living room, so Kain doesn’t have to move.

I bring him food that requires little chewing, following Lev’s meal plan of soups, mashed potatoes, rice, and scrambled eggs.

His water glass never empties. I refill it before he asks, sometimes before it even gets past the halfway mark.

The pitcher on the side table stays full, with ice to keep it cool and a lemon slice, because Kain takes lemon in his water and I don’t, but this isn’t about me.

The freezer arrived the same day I ordered it, late at night. Two men in matching shirts wheeled it into the garage on a dolly, plugged it in, and left.

Now, there’s always an ice pack ready when that alarm goes off, and Kain’s bruises become a little less grotesque.

When Kain starts shifting on the couch during the audiobooks with boredom, I play his music.

I queue up Low Tide first, hoping it will soothe Kain’s restlessness the way the manual says it does for me.

Home Screen plays next, letting Kain know he’s safe at home.