Desmond
The days passed with a comfortable uncertainty. She’d never admit it, but Anya had moved most of her things into my house after I came home from the hospital. We never really discussed it, her moving in… it just sort of happened out of necessity and maybe a little bit of greed, on my part.
If I wasn’t seeing her every shift at the hospital, I wasn’t seeing her at all. And there was no part of me that was interested in not spending time with her.
Her hair was everywhere. Across my pillow. Across my chest. Across the scar that still felt too new to touch without flinching. Her hand rested low on my stomach, fingers curled into the fabric of my T-shirt as if she’d fallen asleep holding on.
I stayed there longer than I needed to.
The accident had rewired something in me. Mornings felt less guaranteed now. Every quiet second felt borrowed.
The knock at the door was firm. Familiar yet impatient.
Getting up was still a process. I swung my leg over the side of the bed, careful not to jostle her. The prosthetic leaned against the nightstand where I’d left it before crawling back in at three a.m. when she’d finally gotten home from shift.
I stared at it for a second.
There was a version of me that would’ve rushed to put it on. Pride. Habit. Refusal to be seen unfinished.
Today, I grabbed the crutches instead.
They were just closer. Easier & honest.
The second rap landed just as I reached the living room, followed by, “If you’re dead in there, I’m not doing CPR. I’m off shift.”
“I’m alive,” I muttered, adjusting my balance.
The hardwood felt colder lately. Every step required attention. My body and I were still renegotiating terms. I made it down the hallway, slow but steady.
When I opened the door, Ezra Becker took one look at me and went quiet for half a second too long. He masked it fast. “You’re vertical. Huge win.”
The paramedic stood taller than me by a head, his thick rim glasses sitting pretty over his big blue eyes. He was a charmer, had been since our twenties, when I put out an advertisement looking for a roommate as I went through my residency.
I’d never been luckier that Ezra Becker was the one to respond. We’d been fast friends ever since. “Your support is overwhelming, Beck.”
“You look like hell, brother,” he said by way of greeting, stepping inside without invitation. “So that’s promising.”
“Good morning to you too, dickhead.”
He handed me a cup, then stopped mid-step. His eyes dropped. Pink chucks discarded by the door. He looked back up at me slowly, a grin unfurling on his lips. “…Interesting.”
“Don’t.”
He didn’t listen. Of course, he didn’t. There was a leather bag hanging on the hook by the entryway — small, structured, unmistakably not mine. A silk scarf draped over the back of my couch. A hair tie on the coffee table.
Ezra took it all in like a crime scene investigator. “Lost your leg,” he said thoughtfully, “but not your game. I see you.”
“Lower your voice.”
His grin sharpened. “Oh, she’s here.”
I took a slow sip of coffee instead of answering. He wandered farther in, eyes scanning as if he expected to find lace panties draped over the lamps. “You absolute dog.”
He wandered into the kitchen like he owned the place. “You almost died,” he said slowly, “and somehow your pull improves.”
I followed slower. Every step still required thought. Placement. Balance. I knew he could probably see that, but Becker was gracious enough to keep his mouth shut.
He stopped in front of the fridge. The photo was crooked. Anya’s smile caught in real time, head tilted back in laughter. My hand at her waist, as if I had already known I was hers.
Ezra stared at it. “That’s Anya.”
“Correct.”
“Night shift, Anya.”
“Yes.”
“The one who went from a field mouse to a powerhouse with just a shift change.”
“She was always a powerhouse.” My words came out a little harsher than I had intended, but Ezra didn’t balk.
He gave me a look, blinking slowly. “When?”
“After the gala.”
“The gala where she won the scholarship and vanished? That was the talk of the hospital the day after. Why did she—” Silence, then his eyes widened. “You absolute menace.”
Before I could reply, there was movement down the hallway. Soft footsteps. Neither of us turned right away. Anya appeared in one of my old academy T-shirts, barefoot. Her hair was absolute riot. Eyes still half-closed. She looked at me first. “Why is there noise?” she mumbled.
Then she saw Ezra.
She froze.
Ezra froze.
There was a solid three seconds where no one breathed. She processed it quickly. Too quickly. “Oh,” she said calmly. “Good morning, Ezra.” But I didn’t miss the blush that spattered across her cheeks.
Anya walked fully into the kitchen as if she belonged there. Like she’d done it a hundred times. She reached for my coffee without asking and took a sip.
Ezra watched her move about the space. Watched the casual intimacy. Watched the way her free hand slid absently against my back as she passed me. Not to show off, not to claim, just to touch me.
His expression shifted. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said to me quietly. And all the humor drained out of the room.
Anya stilled. I didn’t look at him — I couldn’t. “I know.”
“When your name came over the radio,” he continued, “I’d never driven like that. I thought—” He cut himself off. Anya’s fingers tightened briefly against my shirt.
Ezra looked at her, then back at me. “You look steady,” he said.
I glanced down at the crutch. At the uneven way I was standing. “Working on it.”
He shook his head slightly. “No. Not physically.” His eyes flicked to Anya. “This.” She looked up at me then. Fully awake now. There was something fragile in that look. Like we hadn’t yet said out loud what this was.
I swallowed. “She makes it quieter,” I said.
Ezra nodded slowly. “Good,” he replied. “Because I never want to see you that small again.”
Anya shifted closer. Just enough that her hip touched mine. The contact steadied me more than the crutch.
Ezra exhaled. “Alright,” he said, picking up his coffee again. “I’ll keep your scandal to myself.”
“This is not a scandal.” I argued, but Anya buried her face against my side, hiding.
“It’s absolutely a scandal.”
Anya shifted, raising an eyebrow at him. “If you tell anyone before we do, I will assign you the worst ER bay for a month.”
He blinked, pointing a finger at her. “You are terrifying. I miss the quiet, Doctor Volkov.”
My brow furrowed, anger rising up in my chest. “Ezra Becker—”
“I’m kidding, Doc. Settle down before you have a coronary, old man.” I looked at them — at my oldest friend and the woman who had quietly rearranged my entire life — and felt something settle into place.
The accident had taken something away.
But it hadn’t taken this.
Ezra clapped his hands once. “Okay. I’m leaving before this turns into domestic bliss and I have to reevaluate my own life.” As he headed for the door, he paused. “Hey,” he said, softer. “You’re still you.”
I looked down at the crutches. In the absence where my leg used to be. Then at Anya. Still warm against me.