Desmond
Anya stirred beside me first, groaning something indiscernible, hair a tangled halo across the pillow. She glanced at the clock and blinked awake, slow-motion, like she hadn’t fully remembered what the morning meant.
“PT’s here,” I said before she could even speak, my voice rough, stubbornly casual.
Her eyes went wide, then narrowed, and she kicked the blanket off with a tired sort of decisiveness.
“Oh, crap,” she muttered, scrambling upright, fumbling with her clothes.
“Do you want to get it?” She asked as I watched her pull back the mess of her hair with one hand while the other grabbed the bag, and I felt that familiar tug in my chest: admiration, guilt, and longing all tangled into one.
“That joke is never funny, Anya. Let it go.” But my lips curled upwards anyway.
We had passed… whatever it was in the early weeks. Days blurred. Pain and frustration, tears and curses, victories too small to mark, and somehow we were here: me able to stand, walk, even manage the prosthetic myself — but still painfully human enough to flinch at missteps.
The doorbell rang again. She groaned, muttered apologies to me and the universe, and went to answer. I swung my legs over the bed, flexing my limb into the temporary prosthetic, letting the familiar clank and tug remind me that progress was a thing, even if it was slow and stubborn.
The therapist, Noelle, stood there, clipboard at the ready, radiating energy I didn’t have and probably shouldn’t envy. Anya smiled, bleary but steady, and waved me toward the living room.
Doctor Singer was a phenomenal therapist. She’d come highly recommended by the nurses who had been in and out of my ICU room with Anya. And, god forbid, I hope I’d never have need of a physical therapist again, but she would be my first call.
“Ready for round… whatever?” I muttered, and she raised an eyebrow.
“You’re doing fine,” she said, clipped but encouraging. “Let’s just stand and walk.”
I braced my hands on the walker, jaw tight. My body screamed, “Not today,” but my pride overrode it. “Again,” I said before anyone could stop me. “I can do it again.”
Anya froze mid-step, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Her expression softened, a quiet mixture of amusement and exasperation, and I saw the way her eyes lingered on my hands gripping the walker, my shoulders squared like armor.
“Desmond,” Noelle said, voice gentle but firm, but then her lips tipped upwards. “Doctors are always the worst patients.”
I pushed up anyway. Muscles trembling, heart racing, legs wobbling in ways that would have mortified me six weeks ago.
The prosthetic clanged and whined against my gait, uncooperative, alien, yet I forced it to obey.
My knees threatened revolt, my hip fired a protest. I faltered once, twice, and swore under my breath.
Anya moved closer without thinking, hand hovering near my back. I hated it, or maybe I loved it, couldn’t decide.
“I’ve got it,” I muttered, half to myself, half to the world, half to her.
Seconds stretched. Doctor Singer coached, adjusted, and encouraged. I stood taller than I thought I could. It wasn’t graceful or triumphant, but I felt a hundred feet tall.
“Okay,” Noelle finally said. “Sit.”
I lowered myself slowly, stubbornness giving way to exhaustion. Relief and shame tangled together. Anya crouched in front of me, silent, steady, hands resting lightly on my knees. “You’re pushing too hard,” she said, quiet and factual.
“I need to,” I said, voice rough, breath uneven. “I need to feel… normal.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. She just let me be, a tether in the chaos of pride and fragility, letting me hold on to the version of myself I so desperately wanted, while reminding me silently that it was okay to fail.
After Noelle was gone, the house suddenly became too quiet, the air holding all the tension she’d disciplined away. I stood there, prosthetic strapped on, walker at the ready, feeling every clank and tug like it was shouting at me: you’re not whole yet.
Anya lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp but soft. “So?” she said.
“So,” I echoed, taking a tentative step. Then another. Each movement was awkward, clunky, a negotiation with gravity and pride. I could feel the sweat prickling my scalp, my heart hammering from exertion and her quiet, although kind, scrutiny.
She didn’t say anything, just watched. That alone was enough to unbalance me. The prosthetic felt foreign, heavier than it had moments ago with the therapist’s guidance, as if it knew she’d left and wanted to remind me I wasn’t ready.
“Again,” I muttered, voice low. Not a request, but a command — to myself. I tried to straighten my spine, to carry the image of the man I used to be through every tremble of my legs. “I want to go again.”
Anya stepped closer, careful, but close enough that I felt her presence press against my shoulder without touching me. My body reacted before my brain could protest. The tiniest tremor ran through me, and I realized my hands were gripping the walker harder than necessary.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said, voice quiet, like she was speaking just to me, not the room.
I glared at her, stubborn. “I do.”
She raised an eyebrow, a smirk barely hidden. “You’re ridiculous. You’ll hurt yourself.”
I felt a pulse of something hot, something dangerous, and I hated how much I liked it. Another step. Another. I was moving. I was standing. I was… almost normal.
“Careful,” she whispered, almost shyly, and I wanted to turn, reach, pull her into the trajectory of my body just to prove I could.
I faltered, knee quivering, hips stiff. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch me. She just let me wobble, letting the tension hum in the space between us.
“Want me to help?” she asked, voice pitched low and deliberate.
I wanted her to. I wanted her to wrap around me, steady my pride, steady my body, steady everything that was too fragile for me to admit. But I shook my head stubbornly. “No,” I said. “I’ve got this.”
She let me try anyway, and I did. Step after step, muscles screaming, breath jagged. I was alive. Clumsy, sweaty, almost triumphant. And through it all, she hovered, hands ready but not touching, warmth in the quiet space beside me.
Finally, I sank into the couch, prosthetic clunking against the floor. My body ached, my pride stung, and my heart — stupid, impossible heart — was racing for reasons I wouldn’t admit aloud.
Anya crouched beside me, hand brushing my arm — not intentionally comforting, just… there. Enough. Enough to remind me that even if I wasn’t the man I’d been, I wasn’t alone.
And in that quiet, clunky, imperfect victory, I realized I wanted her close, wanted her always close, even if it made me weaker.
I told myself I was just adjusting the strap, just shifting my weight, just proving to myself I could get up without making a production of it. My hands went to the walker out of habit, pride flaring stupid and immediate.
Anya noticed anyway. She always did.
“Desmond,” she said, warning threaded softly through my name.
“I’m fine,” I said, already pushing up.
The prosthetic caught wrong — not dramatically enough to send me down, but enough to throw my center off. A sharp, humiliating jolt of imbalance shot up my spine. I swore and reached instinctively for something solid.
That something turned out to be her.
She moved fast, arms coming around me without hesitation, one hand at my waist, the other braced between my shoulder blades.
I felt her absorb my weight in a way that was practiced and terrifying.
For a split second, we were both holding still, bodies pressed together, my forehead nearly touching hers.
We froze there.
Her breath was warm against my jaw. I could feel the steady strength in her legs, the way she had planted herself without thinking. The walker stood abandoned at my side, useless and faintly mocking.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered.
The words did something to me. Not relief — something deeper. Something like surrender trying to claw its way out. “I didn’t fall,” I said, because of course I did.
She huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “No, no. You just dramatically reconsidered gravity.”
I should have pulled away. I knew that. My brain screamed it. Instead, I let my weight stay where it was, just for a second longer than necessary. My hand slid to her upper arm, fingers curling reflexively, grounding myself in the fact of her.
Her eyes flicked to the movement. Something passed between us — recognition, heat, restraint snapping taut again. “You can lean, you know,” she said, softer now. “That’s allowed.”
The permission wrecked me. But I leaned. Just enough to feel her adjust, just enough to feel her body respond instinctively to mine. My heart was pounding too fast for the effort I’d made. My throat burned.
We stood like that, pressed together in the middle of the living room, the aftermath of PT scattered around us like evidence. This wasn’t sex. This wasn’t even romance in the traditional sense. It was calibration. Two bodies renegotiating physics.
“Okay,” she murmured after a moment. “Now we sit. Before you get any ideas.”
I smiled despite myself, the expression pulling at something tender and dangerous in my chest. “You always ruin my fun.”
“You always define fun incorrectly.” She guided me back to the couch, hands firm, confident, maddeningly gentle.
I sat, breathing hard, prosthetic clunking as I settled.
She didn’t move away right away. Instead, she stayed close, knees brushing mine, one hand still resting at my side as if she wasn’t entirely convinced I wouldn’t tip over again.
I covered her hand with mine. It was an unconscious thing. A reflex. The moment registered after it happened, heat flaring where our skin met. She looked down at our hands, then back up at me, expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“For what?”
“For not catching me like I was broken.”
Her mouth softened. “You’re not broken,” she said. “You’re just… recalibrating.”
That word again. It fit too well.
I squeezed her hand once before letting go; the loss of contact was sharper than I expected. She leaned her shoulder lightly against mine, just enough to count as contact, just enough to feel intentional.
We sat there like that for a while — breathing, resting, letting the adrenaline drain out of my system. Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, everything felt suspended.
This — this was new intimacy. Not heat, not urgency. Trust built out of near-falls and steady hands. And God help me, I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything.