9. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Katie
T he warm water slows to a trickle as I turn off the shower, the steam curling in the air like a curtain between us. Will is leaning heavily on me, his breathing ragged, his face pale and lined with humiliation. He’s clean now, but the tension in his shoulders and the way he avoids my gaze make it clear that this is about so much more than just the mess.
“Let’s get you dressed,” I say gently, keeping my tone light. He nods stiffly.
I guide him carefully out of the shower and onto the small stool I placed there earlier. The towel draped over his shoulders does little to hide how vulnerable he looks, hunched over and avoiding my eyes.
His hands twitch, restless against the towel draped over his lap. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
“Maybe not,” I reply, pulling the waistband of the sweatpants carefully over his hips, “but I’m doing it anyway. ”
“There,” I say, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “All done. Let’s get you back to bed.”
I hand him the crutches and he slowly hobbles to the bedroom. I follow him and every step feels like an eternity, but eventually, I help him onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind him. He lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging with relief.
“You good here?” I ask softly, and he nods, though his eyes are still clouded with embarrassment.
When I return to the bathroom, I inspect the mess. The smell still lingers, and the soiled toilet is a grim reminder of everything that just happened. I grab the mop and cleaning supplies, setting to work with brisk, methodical movements. It’s not pleasant, but it needs to be done.
Once the bathroom is spotless, I strip off the gloves and toss them into the bin along with the bag of soiled clothes. Stepping outside, I take a deep breath of the cool night air before dumping the bag into the bin.
Back inside, I stop by the kitchen to make tea—peppermint, soothing and easy on the stomach. As the kettle boils, I stare out the window, my reflection faint in the glass.
I’m not sure what I expected when I agreed to move in here temporarily, but it wasn’t this. Seeing Will like this—so vulnerable, so stripped of his usual strength—it stirs something deep inside me. A mix of pain, care, and something I can’t quite name.
The kettle clicks off, and I pour the tea, carrying the mug carefully back to his room.
Will looks up as I enter, his face still pale, his expression guarded. I set the mug on the bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed .
“Tea,” I say simply.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.
I watch him for a moment, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands grip the blanket as if he’s bracing himself. Without thinking, I reach out and touch his face, my fingers brushing lightly against his cheek.
He flinches, just slightly, his eyes darting to mine.
“You don’t have to carry it all, you know,” I say softly. “Not here. Not with me. It’s okay to let me help you.”
His jaw tightens, his eyes glistening. “I hate this,” he says finally, his voice cracking. “I hate not being able to... to do anything. To take care of myself.”
“I know,” I say gently. “And it’s okay to hate it, but it doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t make you any less of who you are.”
His breath hitches, and he looks away, his throat working as he swallows hard.
“You’re allowed to lean on me,” I add, my hand still resting against his cheek. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, finally, he nods, his eyes flicking back to mine.
“Thanks,” he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.
I smile faintly, lowering my hand. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ll probably be bossing you around again tomorrow.”
He lets out a weak laugh, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The warmth between us lingers, but it’s fragile. We both feel it—the weight of what we were, what we’ve lost, and what might still be.
But for now, the moment is enough. And so is the quiet understanding that, at least for now, we’re in this together.
The smell of chicken broth and gently simmering rice fills the kitchen, warm and soothing. It’s not fancy, but it’s just the kind of food Will’s stomach can handle right now—light, simple, and easy to eat. I ladle the mixture into two bowls, making sure it’s not too hot, then set them on a tray. One portion for him and one for me. Tonight, we don’t have Phoebe as a buffer.
When I step into the bedroom, Will is propped up against a stack of pillows, his phone in hand. He looks up when I enter, his lips curving into a faint smile.
“Dinner,” I announce, setting the tray over his lap.
He glances at the bowl, the steam curling up in soft wisps. “Chicken soup with rice,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Taking me back to childhood here.”
“Good,” I reply, settling into the chair beside him with my own tray. “Maybe it’ll remind you to behave.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Not likely.”
We start eating, the clink of spoons against bowls the only sound for a moment. The soup is plain but comforting, the kind of meal that feels like a hug in a bowl.
“How is it?” I ask, glancing over at him.
“Surprisingly good,” he admits, taking another spoonful.
“High praise,” I say with mock sarcasm.
He smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
The soup is light but filling, and by the time we’re done, Will’s shoulders have relaxed a little .
“Want to watch some TV?” he asks casually but his eyes are intense.
“Sure,” I reply. I stack the trays on the floor and drop on the mattress next to him. Flipping through the options, we eventually settle on one of those nature documentaries Phoebe adores.
The narrator’s soothing voice fills the room, talking about the Arctic and the polar bears that call it home. I glance over at Will now and then, watching as his eyes grow heavy, his blinks slower and longer.
“You look about ready to call it a night,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Not yet,” he mumbles, his words slurring slightly. “This bit is about the cubs.”
I smile faintly and let it go.
A few minutes later, he shifts again, his movements sluggish and careful. His body leans to the side, and before I know it, his head comes to rest against my upper chest. His weight is heavier than I expect, his body curling toward mine as if seeking warmth.
I freeze for a moment, my heart skipping a beat. He’s so careful about how he moves, how he holds himself, that this unguarded moment takes me by surprise.
“Will,” I whisper, unsure if he’s even awake.
But his breathing is slow and deep, his face relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in years. I look down at him, his face softened by sleep, and a wave of feelings overwhelms me. It’s a mix of emotions: care, sadness, and a longing I thought I’d buried a long time ago.
My arm moves instinctively, resting gently around his shoulders to support his weight. His back pain must be unbearable after a day like this, and I don’t want to disturb him.
The narrator drones on about survival in the Arctic, but I barely hear it. Instead, I let myself focus on Will, on the quiet intimacy of this moment. There’s nothing between us but the fragile threads of trust and time, and for now, that feels like enough.
I lean my head back against the pillows, letting my fingers brush lightly through his hair. Whatever this is—whatever it means—I let it be. For tonight, at least.