Chapter 27 Missed Steps
Missed Steps
ELI
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.
I blinked, startled. He hadn’t spoken to me like that since, well, not since the accident. Before that, actually. Because you have to care to get worked up over something. It felt like Adrian hadn’t cared in… Forever.
For a second, all I could hear was my heartbeat, loud and wrong in my chest.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” he said softer, running a hand through his hair. The anger deflated, but it left a void behind that echoed with awkward tension. “I know you didn’t. I just… I can’t turn it off. Every time you move, I see it again. The blood. The flatline. You don’t remember it, but I do.”
That last sentence made my heart shatter. The shards dropped into my stomach, shredding the lining to pieces.
I looked away, throat tight. “I just hate feeling like a patient.”
His brow furrowed. “I hate feeling like I might lose you again.”
The air between us hung heavy, weighted with two different kinds of helplessness. And maybe I’d been wrong, assuming his hovering was control when it was really terror in disguise. Maybe he dealt with fear the same way he dealt with everything else, by conquering it.
Adrian busied himself gathering my shoes, crutches, and water bottle. When he finally crossed the room to grab his jacket, I caught the tremor in his hands. Just the faintest shake, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
And suddenly, I couldn’t stop seeing it—the fear underscoring everything. The way he hovered in doorways. The way his eyes tracked every shift of my body, as if he was waiting for another crash.
He wasn’t trying to control me. He was bracing for impact.
The thought hit me with a strange gentleness, a wave pulling back instead of breaking.
He stood there for a second longer, keys in hand, not looking at me. Then he said quietly, “We should go. Don’t want to be late for PT.”
For weeks, he’d worn a thin layer of worry like armor he couldn’t take off. He washed dishes that weren’t dirty, rearranged the coffee mugs, and wiped down the counter twice.
But Adrian wasn’t restless. He was scared.
For the first time, I saw not the doctor, or the caretaker, or the husband trying too hard, but the man who’d watched everything he loved crumple in front of him and hadn’t figured out how to stop watching since.
It didn’t make it easier. But it made it make sense.
What would I have done if it were Adrian in that car? How would I have reacted to seeing him broken and dying, feeling powerless as the man I loved slipped away?
The answer came to me vividly. I would’ve done the same thing. Hovered. Overcorrected. Tried to rebuild him with my own hands, just to keep from falling apart myself.
That was the cruelest truth of all: that the thing driving me crazy about him was the same thing that would’ve destroyed me if our places were reversed.
The air in the car felt thick enough to chew. Neither of us said much on the drive to PT. Adrian kept one hand on the wheel, the other braced on his thigh as if holding himself together.
For a while, I watched how his fingers flexed, stilled, then flexed again. Like he was working up to something.
“Do you remember it?” he asked finally, eyes still on the road.
I didn’t have to ask what he meant.
“Not much.” My voice came out rough. “Bits and pieces. Nothing that lines up.”
He nodded, jaw tightening. “Do you remember what happened? What made you lose control?”
I looked out the window, watching the world slide past in a blur of green and gray.
I could’ve lied. Said I didn’t know. That it was just an accident. Clean. Simple. But the truth had been weighing on me since I regained consciousness, heavy and unmoving.
“I was on my phone.” The words felt small in the space between us.
Adrian didn’t react. Not outwardly. But his hand stilled against his thigh.
“A message came through,” I went on. “From my lawyer.”
That got him. I saw it in the slight shift of his shoulders, the way his grip on the wheel tightened just enough.
“About the separation paperwork.”
Silence swallowed the car.
“I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. I just… couldn’t not.”
The admission sat there, sharp-edged and unavoidable.
After a second, Adrian let out a slow breath. “Eli—”
“It’s not your fault,” I cut in, because I could already hear where this was going. I turned my head, meeting his profile. “Don’t do that.”
His jaw worked, as if he was biting back something bigger.
“I mean it,” I said. “I made that choice.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving, eyes fixed ahead.
“Yeah,” he said finally. But it didn’t sound like agreement.
The car filled with that same fragile quiet again, only heavier now.
When we arrived, the therapist greeted me with a bright smile, clipboard in hand. “Morning, Eli! You’re looking stronger already. Ready to show off for your husband again?”
Adrian chuckled politely, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s the real star.”
The session started okay. Painful, but manageable. I gripped the parallel bars, lifted my leg, took one shaky step, then another.
“Good, Eli,” Cindy said. “That’s it. You’ve got this.”
Adrian stood behind me, not in the lobby, eyes glued to every movement like he could catch me if I fell with just a thought. His hand twitched at his side every time I wobbled.
By the third rep, my legs were shaking.
By the fifth, I couldn’t tell if the tremor came from pain or irritation.
Cindy’s voice floated somewhere to my left, calm and positive. “Take a breath, Eli. We can stop there.”
“I’ve got it,” I said, gripping the bars tighter. My arms ached from holding on, but I didn’t let go. Couldn’t.
“Eli,” Adrian warned from behind me, that clinical edge in his voice creeping in. “Don’t push it.”
“I said I’ve got it.”
Every step I took was a battle between what my body could manage and what my heart refused to accept.
I needed to know I could do this on my own, without him.
If things went south, if Adrian couldn’t keep his promise and really change things this time, I needed to be able to stand on my own two feet, literally.
Another step. My thigh seized. My vision blurred. I blinked through it, jaw locked.
“Eli, stop,” Adrian snapped.
The therapist reached out, but Adrian was faster, catching my arm just as my knee buckled.
Pain flared sharp and hot, and I gasped as the world went askew.
“For God’s sake,” he hissed, easing me into the chair. “What are you trying to prove?”
I couldn’t answer. My breath came ragged, and the shame hit harder than the pain.
Cindy murmured something about rest days and pacing, her voice soft but distant. I only saw Adrian—jaw tight, eyes shining with something halfway between fury and fear.
He crouched in front of me, hand shaking as he placed an ice pack on my leg. “You could’ve torn something.”
“I didn’t,” I muttered.
“You could have.” His voice cracked. “Do you even care what that would’ve done to you?”
I stared at him, and the words caught somewhere in my throat. “You mean what it would’ve done to you.”
That landed. I saw it in the flicker of his expression, the muscle that jumped in his jaw before he looked away.
The therapist excused herself, giving us a moment.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the heat drain out of me, leaving only the ache. “I just need to get better,” I whispered. “I need to be ready.”
“For what?” Adrian asked, his voice rough.
I hesitated. Then, softer, “For whatever comes next.”
He went still. The meaning had finally hit him. Neither of us said another word.
The ride home was quiet at first, just the sound of tires humming against asphalt and the faint rattle of the ice pack. My leg throbbed under it, a dull rhythm that matched the pounding behind my eyes.
Adrian’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. I could feel the words he wasn’t saying, the way they built in his throat, pressing against his teeth. He always had something to say when I was being reckless. Today, though, he kept it buried.
We hit a red light, and he glanced at me. “You could’ve torn your quad,” he said finally, voice flat.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point, Eli.”
“Then what is the point?”
He gave a sharp, bitter laugh that didn’t sound like him. “The point is, I’m trying to keep you from ending up in another hospital bed.”
I looked out the window, jaw tight. The world blurred past—kids walking home from school, a couple arguing at a bus stop, normal life playing out as if we weren’t both barely holding it together.
“I’m just trying to get strong again. That’s all.”
“You’re trying to outrun what happened,” he shot back. “And you can’t.”
That stung because it was true. Still, I didn’t look at him. “What if I’m not trying to outrun it? What if I’m just… getting ready?”
“For what?” he asked, the same question as before, quieter this time, almost pleading.
I swallowed. “For when you realize you don’t have to stay.”
The words sucked all the oxygen out of the car. Adrian stared straight ahead, and for a moment I thought he might actually pull over.
Instead, he exhaled hard, gripping the wheel like he wanted to crush it. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t write my story for me.”
We didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.
When we got home, Adrian helped me inside, silent but efficient.
He set me up on the couch with a fresh ice pack and a glass of water, his movements careful, almost mechanical.
I could feel him pulling away, same as before.
Then he disappeared into the kitchen, opening cabinets, clattering dishes—noise for the sake of noise.
I sat there chewing over my words, feeling like an ass. Every sound he made was extra loud, deliberate. It felt like we were both pretending not to be angry, not to be terrified.
When he finally came back, he had that forced calm about him, the one he used with patients who didn’t know they were dying.
“You should eat something,” he said softly.
I nodded, but my throat was tight, and I couldn’t tell if it was from pain or pride.
He kneeled beside the couch, adjusting the blanket over my legs, avoiding my eyes. I almost reached out to touch his hair, to smooth the line between his brows like I used to. But then he looked up, and the distance between us felt wider than the Gulf.
It felt final.
“Adrian—” I started, but he stood before I could finish.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said and walked away.
I wanted to call out—to apologize, to tell him I didn’t mean what I’d said in the car—but I didn’t. My voice felt useless.
I’m afraid, I wanted to scream. I’m scared of losing you again, and even more terrified that things will fall apart again and I won’t have the courage to ask you to leave.
Later, when he came back, I pretended to be asleep. He stood there for a long time, close enough that I could feel his warmth, the faint hitch of his breath. I knew he was watching me, cataloguing every sign of pain as though he could still fix me if he just tried hard enough.
But what he didn’t understand was that I wasn’t broken the way he thought I was.
The damage wasn’t in my leg. It was in the space between us.