Chapter 28 #2
Stephen's eyes widened slightly before he looked away. "Great. So now my father knows about my sex life. That's not mortifying at all."
"Stephen," Colin said gently, "I've known you were in love with this man since the first time you mentioned his name. Your voice changes when you talk about him. Gets all soft around the edges."
"I'm not... that's not..." Stephen sputtered, then deflated against his pillows. "It doesn't matter anyway. He made it very clear what he thinks of me."
"Did he?" Colin tilted his head. "Because the man I just spoke to is beside himself. Blames himself entirely for what happened to you."
"That's ridiculous," Stephen muttered. "He had nothing to do with the attack."
"Grief and guilt aren't logical, love," Colin said softly. "You know that better than most."
Stephen was silent for a long moment, fingers plucking restlessly at his blanket. "I can't see him now," he finally said, voice small. "I'm not ready."
Colin nodded. "Alright. I'll tell him to come back another time."
"No, don't," Stephen said quickly, then looked surprised at his own vehemence. "I mean... don't give him hope. It's better this way. Cleaner."
"Is it?" Colin asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, you both seem equally miserable without each other."
Stephen scowled. "Since when are you so invested in my love life?"
"Since I met the alpha who makes my son's scent change at the mention of his name," Colin replied simply. "He's still out there, Stephen. He'll wait as long as you need. That's rare."
Stephen's expression wavered. "I look terrible," he whispered. "He'll see me all weak and broken."
"Good," Colin said firmly. "Let him see you at your worst. That's how you know if someone's worth keeping around. Anyone can love the easy, polished version of you. The real test is the one with all the messy bits."
Stephen's hand found Colin's, squeezing with surprising strength. "What if he's just here out of guilt? What if he takes one look at me and realises I'm not worth the trouble after all?"
Colin returned the squeeze gently. "Then he's not the man I think he is. And you'll know for certain, instead of wondering 'what if' for the next ten years."
Stephen closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with the determined look Colin recognised from childhood. The same expression he'd worn when insisting on riding a bicycle without stabilisers, despite falling repeatedly.
"Fine," Stephen said. "Tell him he can come in. But if he so much as looks at me with pity, I'm pressing the nurse call button and claiming he's trying to smother me with a pillow."
Colin smiled, rising from his chair. "That's my son. Always with the proportional response."
As he walked back to the corridor, Colin felt something ease in his chest. He'd spent twenty-five years trying to protect his boys from a world determined to hurt them. Had built walls around their little family, shielding them as best he could. But perhaps it was time to let someone else in.
"Come on. He'll see you."
"He'll see me?" Ryland repeated, as if Colin had just announced that the laws of physics had been temporarily suspended. "Are you certain? There's no possibility of miscommunication or misinterpreted social cues?"
"He said yes," Colin confirmed, watching as the alpha's hands stilled their tapping for the first time since he'd arrived. "Though he also threatened to claim you were trying to smother him with a pillow if you looked at him with pity, so... consider yourself warned."
A ghost of a smile crossed Ryland's face. "Statistically consistent with Stephen's typical deflection mechanisms when emotionally vulnerable. Humour as defensive strategy occurs in approximately seventy-three percent of high-stress interactions."
"Right then," Colin said, gesturing down the corridor. "Room 412. I'll be right behind you."
Ryland nodded, squaring his shoulders, and Colin found himself wondering what exactly had happened in Geneva. Whatever it was, it had left them both in pieces.
As they approached Stephen's room, Ryland's steps slowed. By the time they reached the door, he'd gone pale, one hand braced against the wall.
"Would it help if I went in first?" Colin offered.
Ryland shook his head. "No. I need to... I should..." He took a deep breath. "Statistical outcomes improve when difficult conversations begin with direct acknowledgement rather than avoidance tactics."
He knocked softly on the door, then pushed it open just enough to peer inside.
"Stephen? It's Ryland. May I come in?"
Colin watched his son carefully. Stephen had been coiled tight beneath the hospital blankets since waking. But at the sound of Ryland's voice, something shifted. His shoulders dropped a fraction. His grip on the bedsheet loosened.
"If you must," Stephen replied, his studied nonchalance belied by the heart monitor's quickening beeps.
Colin followed Ryland into the room, positioning himself by the window where he could observe without intruding. He busied himself adjusting the blinds, keeping a watchful eye on the interaction.