Chapter 33 – Ellie
I wake up before the sun.
For a moment, I forget where I am — the soft blanket, the faint smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen, the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Then it hits me.
Oliver.
I sit up instantly, heart thudding, and tiptoe down the hallway toward the living room where he’s sleeping on the couch. His mom insisted he stay downstairs for now — fewer stairs, easier access, safer.
He’s awake.
Not fully — just staring at the ceiling, eyes tired, expression distant. But when he hears my footsteps, he turns his head slowly.
And the second he sees me, his whole body relaxes.
“Morning,” I whisper.
“Morning,” he breathes, voice rough.
I kneel beside him, brushing his hair back gently. “How’d you sleep?”
He gives a tiny shrug. “Better when you’re here.”
My chest tightens in that soft, aching way it always does with him.
“Ready?” I ask.
He nods, even though I can see the hesitation in his eyes — the fear he tries so hard to hide.
I slide my arm behind his back, lifting him slowly. He winces, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t complain. He never complains. He just breathes through it, quiet and determined.
Once he’s upright, I help him stretch his legs like the doctor instructed — slow, gentle movements so the muscles don’t stiffen. His fingers grip the blanket, knuckles white, breathing uneven.
“You’re doing great,” I whisper.
He swallows hard. “Thank you.”
It’s such a simple phrase, but the way he says it — quiet, sincere, almost fragile — makes my heart twist.
The front door opens softly.
Oliver’s mom steps inside, holding Moony’s leash. The moment Moony sees Oliver, she lets out a high-pitched whine and bolts toward him, tail wagging so hard her whole body wiggles.
Oliver’s breath catches.
“Hey, girl…” he whispers, reaching down with shaky hands.
Moony climbs gently onto the couch beside him, licking his fingers, whining like she’s been waiting days to see him.
Oliver’s eyes fill instantly.
His mom wipes her own eyes from the doorway, watching them with a soft, trembling smile.
“She’s okay,” she says quietly. “The vet said she’s just shaken. No injuries.”
Oliver nods, blinking fast. “Good… good.”
Moony curls against his side, refusing to move even an inch away from him. Oliver rests his cheek on her head, eyes closing for a moment like he’s finally breathing again.
While Oliver rests with Moony curled against him, I step into the kitchen to help his mom with breakfast.
She glances at me, eyes soft. “Thank you for everything you’re doing for him.”
I shake my head. “I want to. I’m not going anywhere.”
She smiles — tired, grateful, emotional. “I know. And I’m glad. He needs you.”
I swallow, feeling the weight of her words. “I’m scared too,” I admit quietly. “But… we’ll get through it.”
“You already are,” she says, squeezing my hand.
He hates asking for help.
I can see it in the way he avoids my eyes when I help him stand, in the way he apologizes under his breath even though he shouldn’t. In the way he tries to do things too fast, too soon, just to prove he can.
But he trusts me.
He sits on the shower bench, and I wash his hair gently, careful not to hurt him. He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch, his breathing slow and shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
“Oliver,” I say softly, “stop apologizing. You’re healing. Let me take care of you.”
He exhales shakily, leaning his forehead against my shoulder for a moment. I hold him steady, my hand on the back of his neck, feeling the tension slowly melt out of him.
When I rinse the shampoo from his hair, he grips my wrist lightly — not to stop me, but like he needs the reassurance that I’m still there.
“I’m scared,” he whispers, voice barely audible under the sound of the water.
“I know,” I whisper back. “But you’re not alone.”
Back in the living room, I notice him staring at his legs again — but this time, not with fear.
With determination.
“Ellie,” he says quietly, “help me stand?”
I blink, surprised. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “I… I want to try.”
I slip my arm around his waist, and he grips my shoulder. Slowly — painfully slowly — he pushes himself upright. His legs tremble immediately, but he doesn’t back down.
“One step,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I breathe. “I’ve got you.”
He shifts his weight, dragging his foot forward just an inch. His breath catches, but he keeps going. Another inch. Another shaky movement.
Barely standing.
But he’s doing it.
And the look on his face — the mix of pain, pride, fear, and hope — makes my chest ache.
“You’re doing it,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Oliver, you’re actually doing it.”
He exhales shakily, leaning heavily into me. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” I promise, tightening my grip. “I’m right here.”
We make it halfway across the living room before his legs give out. I catch him instantly, lowering him gently back onto the couch.
He’s breathing hard, exhausted, but there’s a small, tired smile on his lips.
“That was… something,” he whispers.
“That was amazing,” I correct, brushing his hair back. “I’m so proud of you.”
His eyes soften, warm and grateful. “Thank you… for believing I can do this.”
“I always will,” I whisper.
His grandma makes dinner again — warm soup, fresh tortillas, the kind of food that feels like a hug. The kitchen smells like cilantro and garlic and comfort.
His sisters tease him gently, trying to make him smile.
Moony refuses to leave his side, curling up against his leg like she’s guarding him.
After dinner, I help him stretch his legs again. He’s tired, but he tries. He always tries.
Once he’s settled back on the couch, I pull out my laptop and open the assignments our professors posted. Oliver groans softly.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper, nudging him gently. “I already did the reading for both of us.”
He gives me a weak smile. “You’re doing my homework now?”
“Only the boring parts,” I tease. “You can help me with the essay when you’re feeling better.”
He leans his head on my shoulder, eyes half closed. “You’re saving my semester.”
“I’m saving your GPA,” I correct, brushing his hair back.
He laughs — quiet, tired, but real.
We watch a movie after that, my laptop still open beside us, his head resting on my shoulder. Halfway through, he falls asleep.
His mom walks by quietly, sees us, and smiles — soft, grateful, full of love.
And this becomes our routine.
Morning stretches.
Shower help.
Soup.
Movies.
Homework.
Slow progress.
Small victories.
Quiet fears.
Soft reassurances.
Day after day.
Week after week.
And slowly — so slowly it’s almost invisible — he gets stronger.
And I fall even more in love with him.