12. Casey
I wake slowly, the kind of gradual return to awareness where the pain is already there, waiting for me like it never left.
For a few seconds, I don’t move. I stay exactly where I am, eyes closed, taking stock before I do anything stupid like shift too quickly and make it worse.
It’s still there, because of course it is.
Wishing it away doesn’t work, no matter how many times I try.
It’s not as sharp as it was earlier but deeper now, settled low and heavy like it’s rooted in place.
Every breath feels like something I have to think about instead of just doing.
The exhaustion is still wrapped around it, thick and stubborn, like sleep didn’t actually help so much as give me a short break from noticing.
It’s a familiar pattern: exhaustion that sleep doesn’t ease.
I shift slightly, testing my levels.
Bad idea.
The movement drags something tight across my abdomen, slow and mean. I suck in a breath through my nose, holding it there for a second while the ache flares and then, eventually, eases back into something more manageable.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the word barely audible but necessary. I hate this, hate how helpless it makes me feel.
I stay still for a little longer, trying to wait it out, then move my legs a fraction.
Okay.
Not great.
The pain is still there…but manageable. Probably.
I open my eyes.
The first thing that hits me is that I’m not on the couch anymore.
That doesn’t make sense.
I blink slowly, trying to piece together how I got from one place to the other, but there’s nothing there. Just a gap where the memory should be, like my body made the decision without consulting me.
“Great,” I murmur, because that’s exactly what I need—sleepwalking on top of everything else.
For a second, that doesn’t make sense. I’ve never sleepwalked in my life. Talked, yes, absolutely, but never walking, especially in this state.
The second thing I notice is that my heating pad is on and secured against my abdomen. Surely I’d remember that? I blink, trying to throw off the fog in my brain, before opening my eyes again.
Then the room settles into focus around me—the softer light, the angle of the ceiling, the familiarity of my bedroom. The place that is healing me in a very different way.
That thought lingers just long enough to make me turn my head slightly, and that’s when I see him.
Adriano is sitting in the chair near the corner of the room, his posture less rigid than I’ve ever seen it, his head tilted back slightly, eyes closed.
One arm rests loosely along the arm of the chair, the other angled across his lap, like he’d meant to sit for a moment and stayed longer than he intended.
He’s asleep.
The realization makes me smile softly.
He doesn’t look like himself like this. The sharp edges are softened; the constant awareness dialed down just enough that he looks… still. Not relaxed, exactly. Just not actively holding everything in place.
And for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, that does something uncomfortable to my chest.
I look away.
This is already too much.
I shift again, more carefully this time, easing myself up just enough to adjust the pillow behind my back. The movement sends a dull throb through my lower abdomen, but it doesn’t spike the way it had earlier, which feels like progress.
Until a different problem makes itself known.
I freeze, glancing down at my lap in horror, the movement causing a gush of warm red liquid between my legs.
Of course.
Of course now.
Fuck my life.
I glance toward the bathroom door, then back toward a sleeping Adriano.
I could probably make it without waking him if I’m very careful.
It’s only a few steps. I can do this.
Slowly, carefully, I push the blanket back and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pausing immediately when the shift in position pulls at everything that already hurts. I sit there for a moment, breathing through it, waiting for the wave to pass.
I can do this.
I’ve done this before, plenty of times.
I press my hand lightly against the mattress and push myself upright, squeezing my thighs together to stop any more blood from seeping past the pad.
The room tilts as I rise.
Not a lot, just enough that I have to steady myself, one hand bracing against the bedside table as I wait for it to settle.
And then to make matters worse.
“Casey.”
His voice is rough with sleep, but alert almost instantly.
I close my eyes briefly. Of course he wakes up now.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though I haven’t moved.
That earns me a quiet exhale from across the room, the sound of him shifting forward in the chair.
“You’re far from fine,” he replies, already on his feet.
I don’t look at him as he crosses the room, but I feel the change in the space when he gets closer, the awareness of him immediate in a way that makes it harder to pretend I have this under control.
“I just—” I start, then stop, because I’m not entirely sure how to finish that sentence without sounding weaker. God, I fucking hate this.
He waits patiently, not interrupting or rushing me.
Just stands there, close enough that I can feel his attention without needing to look at him.
“I need the bathroom,” I say finally, the words quieter than I’d intended.
There’s a brief pause.
Not judgment.
Not surprise.
Just a shift in understanding.
“Alright,” he says, his tone settling into something steady and practical. “Take your time. I’m here if you need me.”
I nod, even though he doesn’t need the confirmation, and take a step forward.
That’s as far as I get.
The movement pulls too much, too quickly, and I stop, my hand tightening against the edge of the table as I wait for the pain to settle back into something I can manage.
A second later, his hand is there—light against my arm, not gripping, just steadying.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” he cuts in, not sharply, but with enough certainty that it stops the argument before it properly starts.
You can tell this man is the father of a stubborn, independent daughter.
I let out a breath that sounds more frustrated than I intend. “This is unnecessary,” I say, even as I don’t move away. His hand is warm on my skin, as he offers his support in a gentle but firm way.
“You can barely stand,” he replies, his voice still even, still controlled. “We’re not debating this.”
“This is a truly over-the-top response to a woman trying to crawl to the bathroom on her hands and knees.”
I glance up at him then, ready to push back properly, but something in his expression, calm, focused, entirely unmoved by my snark, takes the edge off it before it can land.
“Wow, tough crowd.” Adriano raises one dark brow in warning, and I sigh. “Fine,” I mutter.
He isn’t making this a thing, but he isn’t backing down either.
He isn’t looking at me like I’m fragile.
He’s just doing what needs to be done.
That makes it harder to argue and, honestly, I don’t have the energy anyway.
His hand shifts slightly, more secure now but still careful, and he adjusts his position just enough that I can lean into him without it being obvious that I am. His other hand wraps around my back, supporting my weight.
God, this is so humiliating.
“Slowly,” he says.
“I am going slowly,” I bite.
“You were trying to rush.”
That’s not wrong, but then he doesn’t know how close we are to a red tsunami either.
I don’t respond or say that out loud, but a giggle erupts as I imagine his expression if I did. Fuck, am I delirious from pain?
Adriano looks at me carefully, his gaze drilling into the side of my head, but I ignore it.
Instead, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, letting him guide the pace without drawing attention to the fact that he is. The distance to the bathroom is short, but it feels longer like this, each step measured, careful.
When we reach the door, I hesitate. “This part I can manage,” I say, glancing at him. I’d rather die than let him help me with this.
He nods once, immediately stepping back without argument. “I’ll be right here.”
Of course he will.
I close the door behind me, leaning back against it for a second once it’s shut, letting out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
That was… more than I wanted it to be.
I take care of what I need to, moving carefully, aware of every shift in my body in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
By the time I’m done, the effort of it has settled back into that same dull, persistent ache, not worse, but not better either.
I need more pain relief and my heating pad back in place.
When I open the door again, he’s exactly where he said he’d be.
Waiting, long legs crossed at the ankles as he leans on the wall. Effortlessly handsome, even with sleep-rumpled clothes, while I probably look like I wrestled a rabid bear and lost.
His attention lifts immediately, assessing in that same quiet, thorough way that he has. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
He steps forward again, just as steady as before, his hand finding my arm in the same controlled way, arm around my back, guiding without taking over completely.
This time, I don’t argue. Just getting to the bathroom and doing what I needed to do has wiped me out.
The walk back to bed feels shorter, maybe because I know what to expect now, maybe because I’m too tired to fight it.
When I sit, he waits just long enough to make sure I’m stable before stepping back, giving me space to lie down properly. Lifting my legs up with gentle ease.
I pull the blanket back over myself, adjusting the heating pad without thinking, settling into the position that hurts the least.
He watches for a second longer, then nods slightly, like he’s confirming something to himself.
“I’m going to make you something to eat,” he says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Perhaps not, but you need to take more medication, and you need some food in you first.”
I huff out a quiet breath, too tired to put any real energy behind the irritation. He’s right because of course he is. When is this man not right? “What are you making?” I ask instead.
“That depends,” he replies, already turning toward the door. “What helps?”
I hesitate for a second, running through the options. “Something light,” I say finally. “Soup, maybe. Or toast.”
He nods once, like that’s exactly the kind of answer he was expecting. “Tea?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Hot or iced?”
“Hot, please.”
There’s the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth at that, not quite a smile, but close enough that I notice.
Then he’s gone.
The room settles again once he leaves, quieter than before but not as heavy. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, trying to process the fact that he’s still here.
That he didn’t leave.
That he’s… helping when he doesn’t need to. I’m nobody to him, just his nanny or, at best, his sister-in-law’s friend, but he stayed. He’s still here.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
I close my eyes, letting the warmth settle back in, and for the first time since this started—I don’t feel like I have to manage it alone.