Desmond
The handrail didn’t move.
I’d made sure of that — measured, drilled, and reinforced until it was more solid than anything else in the house. It held when I pulled against it now, steady and unyielding beneath my grip, a fixed point in a body that still felt like it was negotiating terms with itself.
Morning light stretched across the floor in long, pale strips, catching on the edge of the counter, the legs of the barstools, the place where tile met hardwood just a few feet ahead of me.
I’d crossed this threshold a hundred times in the last week. The prosthetic landed cleanly. My body followed, smoother this time, less correction needed, less conscious effort. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough that something in my chest loosened.
Better. Yes. I was getting better.
Behind me, I could feel her attention without turning — Anya, quiet but present, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee she’d barely touched, watching in that careful way she’d learned to do. Not hovering. Not interfering.
But always there.
I took another step. The rhythm came easier when I didn’t overthink it, when I let muscle memory — new as it was — take over instead of dissecting every movement like a procedure.
I reached the edge of the kitchen.
Stopped.
Shifted.
Turned.
My gaze flicked up for half a second, catching on her — on the way the morning light hit her hair, the soft curve of her mouth around the rim of the mug, the familiar ease of her in my space.
A week ago, I’d had her right there, pressed back against that counter, my breath catching against her neck like nothing had ever changed between us, like my body hadn’t been rewritten from the ground up.
Like I hadn’t lost anything.
The memory hit fast, a warm flood through my veins. And that was all it took. My foot caught the edge where hardwood met tile. It wasn’t even a full stumble.
But it was enough.
And enough was all it ever took.
My weight shifted wrong — too fast, too far forward. The prosthetic didn’t plant cleanly, the angle just slightly off, and suddenly the rhythm I’d been riding was gone.
“Des—” Her voice hit sharp in my ears.
My balance tipped, my hand missing the rail by inches as I reached for it too late, my body pitching forward into the counter instead of the floor with a solid, jarring thud that knocked the breath from my lungs.
Pain flared — dull and immediate, more from impact than anything else. But that wasn’t what burned.
“Shit — Desmond, are you okay?” She was already moving, mug abandoned, footsteps quick across the tile.
“I’m fine.” I pushed myself upright before she could reach me, bracing a hand against the counter, refusing the instinct to check anything, to assess, to admit.
“I said I’m fine,” I added, sharper this time when I felt her hand hover at my arm.
She didn’t touch me… but she didn’t pull back either. She hovered there, caught between instinct and restraint. “It was just a slip,” she said carefully, each syllable chosen carefully.
“I know what it was.” I snapped, frustration heating my cheeks and crushing my pride.
Because it was just a slip. But it shouldn’t have happened. Because I’d been fine.
“It’s that rotten transition,” she tried again, gentler now. “The flooring change — my shoes snag on it all the time.”
“I know what happened, Anya.” My hand tightened against the counter, knuckles whitening as I stared down at the seam between tile and wood as if it had personally betrayed me.
Silence stretched between us. I could feel her watching me again — closer now, more cautiously. “Let me just—”
“I don’t need you to check me.” I grumbled under my breath, brow knitting as I avoided her tender gaze.
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over my face, trying to get ahead of it before it got worse, before I said something I couldn’t take back.
“It was stupid,” I muttered, quieter now but no less tight. “I’ve done that a hundred times.”
“It’s okay not to be consistent yet,” she said softly. “That’s normal—”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I snapped, the words breaking through before I could stop them. My gaze flicked up to her, something raw sitting just under the surface now, harder to keep contained.
“I looked at you for half a second and forgot where my foot was,” I said, a humorless edge creeping in, I felt tears burn behind my eyes. “That’s all it takes now.”
Her expression shifted — not quite guilt, but definitely something close enough to make my chest tighten again.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” I cut in, quieter but more controlled now, which somehow felt so much worse. “That’s the margin. That’s what I’ve got to work with.”
“I had you right here last week,” I said, the words slipping out lower now, rougher, not looking at her. “Didn’t think about a damn thing. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t miss a step.”
My jaw tightened. “And now I can’t make it across my damn own kitchen without eating the counter because I got distracted by you for half a second.” My voice cracked at the edges. “I hate this.”
The admission sat heavy in the space between us, probably more honest than anything I’d said out loud about it so far.
“I know,” Anya answered.
I huffed a breath, something hollow in it.
“No, you don’t.” I didn’t turn around. Not yet.
I kept my eyes forward, fixed on the hallway like it were something to conquer.
“You don’t know what it’s like to have to think about this,” I continued, my voice quieter.
“Every step. Every shift. My body forgot something it’s been doing for fifty years and now I have to teach it from scratch. ”
The words came easier once they started.
“I used to not think,” I went on. “I used to just move. Twelve-hour shifts, trauma after trauma, running on nothing but muscle memory and awful coffee, and now—” I let out a breath that felt like it had weight to it. “Now I need a plan to get from here to the kitchen.”
I could hear her shift slightly. Giving me space without leaving. “I hate that you have to see it,” I said, softer now. The truth that had been festering. The one thing I didn’t want to say.
“It’s not gone,” she said quietly. “That version of you. He’s not gone.”
“Feels like he is.”
Her hand moved, sliding up between my shoulders, then higher until her fingers brushed the back of my neck, the same way she did when she was trying to steady me without making it obvious. “You don’t have to be perfect at this nine weeks in,” she murmured.
“I’m not trying to be perfect.” It came out sharper than I meant. “I just don’t want to feel like this every time I take a step.”
Her fingers curled slightly at the nape of my neck. “You won’t,” she said, and when I dared to glance at her, a gentle smile curved across her face.
But there still wasn’t pity. “I don’t want you to have to do that,” I said quietly.
Her grip didn’t change. “Do what?”
“Catch me, fix me,” I muttered, my gaze dropping for a second before I forced it back up. “Hold me up like I’m—”
Her hand slid from my neck to my jaw, fingers curling there, steady but insistent, forcing my attention back to her. “If you had fallen before, I would’ve caught you,” she said.
“That’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t like this,” I said instead.
Her thumb brushed slowly along my cheek, grounding, patient. “You’re still you.”
I let out a breath that almost felt like a laugh, but there was nothing light in it. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Her other hand shifted, sliding to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair in a way that made something in my chest loosen despite everything else. “Then let yourself feel different, Desmond,” she murmured. “I thought we were learning together.”
I swallowed, my grip on her tightening without thinking, pulling her closer until there was no space left between us, until I could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing, the solidness of her beneath my hands.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my weight lean into her just enough to feel it — her steadiness, her presence, the way she held without making it feel like I was collapsing.