Chapter 36 Almost Normal
Almost Normal
ELI
Iwoke to Adrian’s hand on my hip again, my body slowly turning into the place his always drifted to without thinking.
Some mornings I pretended I didn’t notice—kept my breathing even, my eyes closed, afraid that acknowledging it might make it disappear.
Other mornings, like today, I let myself take it in. Really take it in. The warmth of his palm. The solid weight of his breathing behind me. The heavy, sleepy exhale that brushed the back of my neck.
And the unbelievable fact that he was still here.
Not rushing out the door. Not checking his watch. Not disappearing into the place that had swallowed him whole.
Just here.
And somehow, that was almost harder to process than when he’d been gone—this quiet, constant presence I’d wanted for so long I’d convinced myself I didn’t need it.
Trust didn’t rebuild all at once. It stitched itself together slowly, touch by touch, confession by confession.
It was Adrian’s fingers smoothing circles over my body when he thought I was asleep. His lips brushing my shoulder before he even realized he’d leaned in. His hand finding mine while he made coffee, thumb tracing the ridge of my knuckles as if retraining a muscle memory.
And every time, something in me tightened first—an instinctive clench, a warning, the old fear whispering, Don’t fall for this, don’t trust it, don’t want too much.
But then he’d look at me, just look, and the fear would loosen its grip.
Because Adrian wasn’t loving me the way he used to—lazily, absent-mindedly, in the leftover corners of his life. He was showing up now. Choosing me deliberately. And he did it in small, ridiculous, wonderful ways.
During stretches, his hands guided my hips with more care than some surgeons reserved for organs.
During walks, he’d brush his fingers against mine until I finally took his hand and held it back.
At night, he’d pull me closer with this little tug—soft, a question—and let out a breath of relief when I came willingly.
Every moment was a thread. Every touch was another knot tied back into place.
And slowly, painfully, beautifully, I started to believe it again: that he didn’t want to run.
That he wasn’t waiting for an excuse to disappear.
That I stopped expecting the other shoe to drop.
But trust wasn’t just about believing him. It was about believing that I still mattered enough to keep him anchored. And lying there with his hand on my hip, his breath brushing my spine, I wanted to believe it so badly it almost hurt.
I shifted the slightest bit, testing him. His fingers tightened—just barely, half-asleep—but enough to say, Don’t go. Enough to say I’m here. Enough to make me close my eyes and breathe him in, letting hope take up one more inch of space inside me.
Even if I was terrified of what would happen when morning pulled us both back into the real world.
Physical therapy became our shared ritual. I did the stretches; he hovered like a personal-trainer-slash-overqualified-cheerleader, with his hands brushing my waist to steady me, fingers sliding under my shirt to check a muscle, or lips ghosting across my temple when I got something right.
It was a lot. A good lot. A terrifying lot.
Because Adrian had always been affectionate in bursts—rare, meteor-shower moments. Not like this. Not constant, quiet, casual.
He’d reach for my hand when we walked into the building. Kiss my shoulder while I refill my water bottle. Smooth a hand over my thigh in the car to confirm I existed.
And I responded, of course I did. My body leaned into him as if it had been waiting years for permission. But some small, bruised part of me kept waiting. Kept whispering: What happens when the novelty wears off? When he feels fixed? When life gets busy again?
I didn’t have answers, so instead I focused on my exercises—slow, controlled, grounding movements steeped in repetition and familiarity. But each day, I could feel myself slipping further into him.
Adrian kept his promise about therapy, too.
He didn’t just go; he engaged. He came home a little wrung out, but lighter. Sometimes talkative, sometimes quiet, but always present.
After two weeks of sessions, he walked in, tossed his keys aside, and kissed me with a hunger that said he’d missed me all day. I melted into it, into him, into the heat of his mouth—
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe against my lips. “My therapist asked what I’m afraid of losing.”
I swallowed, terrified of the truth. “And what did you say?”
“You.”
A simple answer. A landmine of one. I felt it everywhere.
“Not just… losing you,” he added, quieter. “Losing us. The way we were when I wasn’t…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “When I wasn’t screwing it up.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, absorbing his words.
“You’re the only place I’ve ever felt like I could just… be,” he said. “No fixing. No proving. Just—” The sound of his swallow was audible. “Just yours.”
God, I wanted to fall into that. Into him. Into the version of us he was reaching for as if it was still right there, waiting.
We’d traveled miles from that old, resentful silence that almost broke us. But the memory still lingered. The nights that stretched too long. The way I’d learned to shrink my needs so they wouldn’t feel like pressure. The version of him that loved me and still let me feel alone.
Love had never been the problem. That was the part that scared me.
I believed him. I did. I believed every word that came out of his mouth. But belief wasn’t the same as trust. We were still repairing that in precious measured steps.
“I want that too,” I said softly.
Two weeks into this fragile, almost-normal, we were on the couch with my leg elevated, Adrian’s head resting on my shoulder while he read but mostly traced lazy circles on my forearm.
Out of nowhere, he asked, “When are you going back to work?”
My stomach clenched.
He didn’t ask it casually, either. His voice was careful. He already knew he was stepping on unstable ground.
“I don’t know yet,” I said lightly.
Truth was, the thought shot ice through my veins.
Normal work meant normal schedules.
Normal schedules meant Adrian was back in the hospital more days than not.
And that meant the closeness we’d fought our way back to might evaporate like it once had.
I was terrified of losing him again.
Adrian closed his book, sensing more in my tone than I’d wanted to give away.
“Is it the pain?” he asked. “Or…?”
I forced a shrug. “Just taking my time.”
He didn’t push, not yet. Just nodded and kept tracing soothing circles, reading me closely. But the question hung between us the rest of the night, heavy as a storm front.
And I knew eventually we were going to have to talk about the real reason I wasn’t ready.
I didn’t want to go car shopping.
I said I was ready. I even meant it. But the moment we stepped onto the lot, my chest tightened, each breath coming shorter than the last.
The bright sun glittering on windshields and the smell of rubber baking in the heat overwhelmed my senses, not to mention the pushy salesman.
Adrian didn’t notice at first. He was too busy being… well, Adrian.
He prowled the rows with purpose, zeroing in on the biggest, most unnecessarily massive SUVs on the property—vehicles that looked like they came with diplomatic plates and a turret attachment.
“Absolutely not,” I said flatly when he stopped in front of something the size of a military transport.
He ignored me with expert precision.
“This one has reinforced side panels,” he said reverently, running his hand down the glossy door as if he were checking a patient’s vitals.
“I don’t need reinforced anything,” I muttered, crossing my arms before I even realized the posture was defensive.
He circled the next behemoth as a lion does, checking a flank for weakness. “Six airbags. Maybe eight. I’m not sure, but look how the frame’s designed to absorb pressure.”
“Pressure from what? Meteors?”
“Impact.” He delivered this gravely, placing his hand on the hood as if blessing it in the name of the Father, the Son, and the National Highway Safety Administration.
God help me, a reluctant laugh ripped from me before I could stop it. His head whipped around, startled and smug at the same time because he’d coaxed it out of me.
I rolled my eyes but felt the tiniest bloom of warmth under my sternum.
Then he upped the ante, leaning in to peer through the driver’s side window.
“Lots of room for your legs,” he said lightly. “And for me to hover over you at red lights.”
I elbowed him. “Please don’t hover.”
“You love when I hover.”
I did. God help me, I really did. But love wasn’t the same as handling, and my pulse was already ticking too fast.
We moved down another row—well, he moved; I followed in shorter, tighter steps—until he paused to open the door of another SUV, gesturing me inside. The interior smelled of new leather and chemical hope. I hesitated.
Adrian frowned, softening. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied, climbing into the seat. The moment my body sank into the cushion, something in me locked up. The angle of the windshield. The way the seatbelt brushed my side. The dashboard’s unblemished shine.
My fingers dug into my thighs, and I broke out in a sweat.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Don’t make a scene on the car lot.
Adrian leaned against the frame of the door, watching me with a quiet focus that made me want to hide and lean into him at the same time.
“Too big?” he asked.
“Too… something,” I managed. “Feels like I’m about to roll into a military convoy.”
His mouth twitched. “Sexy.”
I groaned. “This is torture.”
“You think this is torture?” He gestured to the row of SUVs, a proud shepherd revealing his flock. “Eli, these are fortresses. Rolling fortresses. My goal is to keep you alive until you’re a thousand.”
“And I’m saying I don’t need a tank to do that.”
He tapped the metal roof affectionately. “You do.”
Against my will, another laugh puffed out of me.
He caught it. He always caught it.