Chapter 23 Baby Steps
Baby Steps
ADRIAN
The drive home was uncomfortably quiet. Fragile silence that didn’t rest but hovered, waiting to shatter at the smallest word.
I kept my eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel, glancing over now and then to make sure Eli hadn’t drifted off again.
He stared out the window, his reflection flickering in the glass—pale, tired, but beautiful in a way that made my heart squeeze.
The hospital had felt safe in its own way: predictable, controlled, like living inside a safety net.
Out here, the world looked startlingly alive.
Every stoplight felt like a test, every bump in the road something I should’ve protected him from.
I wanted to talk—to fill the void with anything—but nothing seemed right.
Not when everything between us was still broken in ways I couldn’t fix.
When I turned into the driveway, I eased to a stop and shifted into park, hands still wrapped tight around the wheel.
Eli’s gaze lingered on the space where his car should’ve been. “Weird,” he murmured, voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” It was all I could manage.
He didn’t move right away, and neither did I. The engine ticked softly, the air between us thick with things we weren’t saying. Coming back home should’ve felt like relief, but it didn’t. It felt like trespassing in a place we once belonged.
Then—warmth. Eli’s hand, light but deliberate, settled over mine on the console. I went still.
“I know you meant it,” he said quietly, still looking forward. His voice was rough, worn thin at the edges. “Everything you said. In the hospital.”
My throat tightened. “I did. I do.”
He nodded once, as if he needed to acknowledge that before he could say the rest.
“I want to believe you. God, I do.” His fingers shifted slightly against mine, not quite squeezing. “But I don’t know how to just… trust it yet. Not all at once.”
I swallowed. “That’s fair.”
He let out a slow breath. “It’s not that I think you’re lying.
It’s just…” He trailed off, searching. “I’ve believed it before.
That things would change. That we’d be okay.
And when it didn’t…” He shook his head faintly.
“I don’t think I could survive that again.
Not like before.” His voice dropped. “It would wreck me worse than… than the crash did.”
The words settled between us, heavy and unmovable. I turned my hand under his, threading our fingers together carefully, afraid he might pull away.
“I’m not asking you to believe me right away. I know I don’t get that anymore.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “I just— I’m going to show you. Every day. As long as it takes.”
Eli finally turned his head, meeting my eyes. There was something open there. Hope, maybe. But guarded, as if it knew better than to rush forward.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Not forgiveness. Not yet. But not nothing, either.
The hush that followed wasn’t empty. It shifted, settled into something quieter, more cautious. A shadow stretching between us, not gone, but no longer swallowing everything whole.
His hand stayed in mine. And for now, that was enough.
Finally, I got out and came around to help him. He hesitated before accepting the crutches, jaw clenched, pride fighting pain. I didn’t blame him. I slid my arm around his waist, taking most of his weight off his healing ribs.
The front steps loomed larger than I remembered. I paused there, letting him rest. The porch light had been left on—his parents, probably—and it bathed the doorway in a soft, forgiving glow.
And that’s when it hit me.
Halloween. The same steps, years ago. A cold night filled with laughter, a bowl of candy between us as a stream of costumed kids paraded past. He’d made fun of my pumpkin-carving skills, and I’d called him a tyrant in flannel.
Later that night, in bed, we’d whispered about someday…
someday having a family of our own. A kid to take trick-or-treating.
A life bigger than the one we were barely holding together.
Eli had fallen asleep with his hand on my chest and a heaviness in his voice. “You’d make a great dad,” he’d murmured, half-dreaming.
The words carried the weight of a cement truck sitting squarely on my chest. Because I wouldn’t.
I’d be an absent parent. Someone who showed up late to school plays and made excuses about hospital shifts.
I’d be neglectful, too consumed by the next patient, the next emergency, while my husband picked up the pieces.
I’d told myself love would make up for it. That being good at saving lives would somehow translate to knowing how to raise one. But even then, lying there with his breath against my heart, I knew it was a lie I wanted too badly to believe.
Now, standing there with him bruised and broken, pale and quiet, I realized how wrong I’d been. Love wasn’t enough. Not the kind we’d had.
Still, I tightened my grip on his hip and whispered, “You ready?”
He nodded faintly.
I felt the fragile tremor of his effort as he tried to lift his leg up each short step.
His breath hitched, sharp and shallow as he tried to swallow the pain.
My fingers dug deeper into his waist—more bone than it used to be—and for a moment, we just stood there, suspended between motion and memory.
“One step at a time,” I murmured.
He nodded again, jaw tight. I matched his pace as he lifted one foot, then the other, the world narrowing to the scrape of his shoes on the concrete and the slow, uneven rhythm of his breathing. The porch steps had never seemed so high.
When we finally reached the top, he stopped to rest, hand gripping the railing, chest heaving. I caught the faintest twitch of a smile that was defiant, exhausted, and proud.
“This counts as cardio,” he managed.
“Don’t make me prescribe you rest on your first day home,” I said, trying for lightness, but my voice wavered at the edges. “Sit.”
I opened the door to the lingering scent of lemon cleaner and stale air spilling out to meet us. Eli stared past me into the shadowed hall, his expression unreadable. I knew what he was thinking—the house didn’t feel like home yet. Maybe it hadn’t in a long time.
But I tightened my arm around his back, guiding him inside anyway, pretending the ground beneath us was solid.
Inside, the air felt heavier than I remembered—eerily still, stripped bare and spotless, like someone had scrubbed the place of every trace of life.
Eli hesitated just past the threshold, fingers curling in the fabric of my sleeve. His eyes darted around as if trying to piece together something that used to make sense.
“It smells different,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I… cleaned before you came home.”
A lie. I hadn’t cleaned. It was his mother. She’d come by one morning while I was at the hospital, unable to sit idle any longer. The flowers on the counter were hers too—sunflowers, cheerful and wrong for this space.
I guided him toward the living room. Eli’s gaze caught on everything—the couch where he’d fallen asleep watching old courtroom dramas, the crooked painting he’d always threatened to straighten, the space where the vase used to sit before I’d shattered it in grief.
He didn’t say a word about it. Just stared for a long moment, then looked away.
“I’m tired. Can I just go to bed?”
“Of course.”
The staircase loomed at the end of the hall, more terrifying than a nightmare.
“Why didn’t we have the foresight to buy something with a downstairs bedroom?” Eli joked.
I stepped in close, slid one arm behind his back and the other under his knees, and lifted him before doubt could settle in. He gasped softly, more surprise than protest, his hands gripping my shoulders.
“I’ve got you,” I said, meaning more than just the climb ahead.
He went still against me, his forehead dropping to my neck, breath warm and uneven. The weight of him—solid, alive—was a promise I hadn’t realized I was making again.
Each step creaked under us as I climbed, slow and steady, my heart thudding harder than the effort required. By the time we reached the top, his grip had loosened, trusting me in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.
Damn, his scent and the heat of his body felt so right.
At the bedroom door, he stirred. The late afternoon light spilled across the floor, catching the edge of the untouched and waiting bed. It didn’t look inviting. It looked like a place that remembered too much.
“It feels strange,” he murmured. “Being back in here.”
“I know,” I agreed, easing him down onto the mattress. I didn’t let go right away. Neither did he.
For a moment, we just stayed there—my hands still full with him, his breath finally slowing—both of us relearning what it meant to come home, hovering in that fragile space between what we’d been and whatever came next.
The sheets were fresh. I’d changed them yesterday, hoping it would feel like a new start, but the sight of him there undid me anyway, alive and whole.
I stepped back too soon. The silence stretched. Not empty—just… cautious, both aware of how easily we could break this if we moved the wrong way.
I busied myself with small things—adjusting his pillows, setting his water within reach—anything to keep my hands from reaching for him the way they used to.
“You need anything else?” I asked.
He watched me for a second, something tired and searching in his expression. “No. Just… stay a minute?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah. Of course.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, leaving a careful inch of space between us. Close enough to feel his warmth through the blanket, not close enough to assume it was mine to take. The house settled around us, quiet in a way that felt almost like listening.
He turned his head toward me, eyes half-lidded. “It’s strange,” he whispered. “I dreamed of this. Being home. Only it didn’t hurt.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just reached for his hand, tracing the familiar line of his knuckles, the faint scar where he’d once cut himself chopping onions.
For a moment, it almost felt like the life we used to have was waiting somewhere in the quiet, just out of reach.
Eli’s breathing evened out after a while. The quiet rise and fall of his chest filled the room.
I sat there longer than I needed to, waiting for the tremor in my hands to fade.
He’d fallen asleep half-propped on the pillows, his wedding band catching the faint light from the hallway.
The thin circle looked loose around his finger, as if it didn’t quite belong anymore.
I reached for it—just to turn it, to feel its weight—but stopped halfway.
Not yet.
Not until I’ve shown him what I promised. Not until he was happy and healthy and certain about the life we were rebuilding.
I let my hand fall back to my side and stayed there a moment longer, watching him breathe.
I stood, the bed creaking softly, and moved through the house. The place was quiet without Eli’s presence and vitality. My footsteps echoed in the stillness.
In the kitchen, I opened a cabinet without thinking—just needing something to do with my hands. That’s when I saw it. The old Halloween bowl tucked on the top shelf. Eli refused to replace the chipped ceramic pumpkin, claiming it had ‘character.’
I pulled it down, turning it over in my hands as I remembered that night again.
Eli had worn that ridiculous witch’s hat he’d found at the dollar store, pretending to cast spells on anyone who asked for extra chocolate. He’d laughed so hard he could barely get the words out. I could still hear it.
I set the bowl on the counter, staring at it.
When had I stopped choosing that version of us?
When had work started taking more than it gave back?
The question settled heavily in my chest. What if nothing had happened? Would I have kept going like that—always late, always missing him by inches?
Eli had been the love of my life since the day he spilled coffee all over my sleeve in the campus café, flustered and apologizing while I just stood there, struck dumb by his smile. There would never be anyone else for me. I knew it then. I know it now.
So why had I wasted the time we had?
Why had I let the noise of ambition and exhaustion drown out the quiet, simple life he’d been trying to build with me?
The microwave clock blinked past dinnertime, but I had no appetite. I stood there, hands braced on the counter, letting the quiet press in. Then I pushed away and headed back down the hall.
Eli was still asleep when I eased the door open. The lamp cast a soft glow across the room, turning the medical tape on his chest into pale ribbons of light. His breathing was shallow but measured. As though he was fighting not to wake.
I pulled a chair closer to the bed, the same way I had in the hospital. I checked his vitals out of habit, watched the slow pulse at his throat, the rise and fall of his chest. I told myself it was clinical. Necessary.
It wasn’t.
He shifted in his sleep, face tightening for a second before easing again. I stayed there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing until it lulled me too.
At some point, the mattress creaked. A whisper of movement.
“Adrian?” His voice was rough, thinned by sleep and pain.
I blinked awake to find him half-turned toward me, hand searching blindly across the sheet. The lamplight caught on the faint tremor of his fingers.
“Hey,” I murmured, leaning forward. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t,” he sighed, eyes barely open. “You’re too far away.”
My throat tightened. “You need to rest, Eli.”
He gave a ghost of a smile. “Then stop making me reach for you.”
Damn, I needed to hear that. Quietly, I slid onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle his healing ribs. He shifted enough to let me settle beside him, his palm finding my chest like it always did, right over my heart, as if he needed proof.
“Better?” I whispered.
He hummed a soft yes, already half-asleep again.
I lay there in the dim light, wide awake, with his hand over my heart and the distance between us feeling smaller, but not gone.