Chapter 21 #2
"This stubborn man," she says, turning back to me with fond exasperation. "Refused to leave your side for even a minute. The nurses tried to convince him to at least go to the emergency room to be looked over, but he insisted on staying."
I look at Mac, but he's suddenly fascinated by the pattern on my hospital blanket, a flush creeping up his neck.
"He brought you flowers, too," Mom continues, gesturing toward the windowsill where I now notice a small bouquet of daisies—my favorites—sitting in a water glass.
"From the hospital gift shop, but still.
And he's been asking the nurses questions every hour, making sure they're monitoring everything properly. Very thorough, very protective."
The way she says "protective" makes it clear she approves, and I see some of the tension leave Mac's shoulders.
"That's very sweet of him," I say quietly, catching Mac's eye. "Thank you."
He shrugs like it's nothing, but I can see the emotion he's trying to hide.
A nurse appears in the doorway—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and scrubs covered in cartoon cats. "I hear our patient is awake," she says cheerfully, pulling on latex gloves. "I'm Nancy. How are we feeling, honey?"
"Like I was hit by a truck," I say, which makes Mom frown and Mac's mouth twitch despite everything.
"Well, that's accurate," Nancy laughs, checking the monitors and making notes on her tablet. "Your sense of humor is intact, which is always a good sign with head injuries. Can you tell me what day it is?"
I manage to answer her questions correctly—the date, where I am, who the president is—though everything feels slightly fuzzy around the edges. She checks my pupils with a small flashlight, tests my reflexes, and asks me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten.
"Seven," I say, though it might be closer to eight.
"We can ask for something stronger if you need it," she offers kindly. "The doctor will be in shortly to discuss your discharge instructions, but everything looks good. Your scans all came back normal. You're very lucky."
After she leaves, Mom settles into the other visitor chair, clearly planning to stay put for the foreseeable future.
"The whole town's been asking about you," she explains, pulling out her phone to show me what appears to be dozens of text messages.
"Maya's been calling for updates. Oh, and that sweet boy… Tank, right, Mac?” She looks to him for confirmation, then points to the enormous vase on the windowsill. “He sent those flowers."
"Tank sent flowers?" I ask, surprised.
"He seemed very concerned when Mac called to let everyone know what happened," Mom explains. "All of Mac's teammates did, actually. They wanted to drive down immediately, but Mac told them the hospital was only allowing immediate family."
I look at Mac questioningly, and he has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I may have implied we were more serious than we technically are," he admits. "It was the only way they'd let me stay with you overnight if I had to."
"Marcus Sullivan," Mom says with mock severity. "Did you lie to hospital staff?"
"I prefer to think of it as a creative interpretation of our relationship status," he says, and for the first time since I woke up, he sounds almost like himself.
Mom laughs, and the sound seems to ease some of the terrible tension that's been hanging over us like a storm cloud.
The doctor arrives an hour later—a competent-looking woman in her forties who explains my injuries in detail and gives us a daunting list of care instructions.
No weight on my left leg for six weeks minimum.
Physical therapy twice a week once the bone starts healing.
Watch for signs of concussion complications.
Follow up with my regular doctor in three days.
"You'll need help for at least the first week," she says seriously, looking between me and Mac. "Stairs will be impossible, and you shouldn't be alone in case you experience any delayed concussion symptoms."
"She won't be alone," Mac says immediately, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "I'll take care of everything."
Mom nods approvingly. "I can stay for a few days too, just until–"
"That's not necessary," Mac interrupts gently. "I've got her."
The simple declaration makes my chest tight with emotions I don't know how to name.
After what he said about me not being temporary, after the fear and guilt I saw in his eyes, I wasn't sure what would happen between us.
But he's still here, still planning to take care of me, still using words like "I've got her" with the kind of quiet confidence that makes me believe he means forever.
"Well," Mom says, looking between us with the satisfied expression of a woman whose matchmaking instincts have been vindicated, "I suppose that settles that."
The wheelchair ride to Mac's truck feels endless, loaded with everything we're not saying and heavy with the weight of his earlier confession. Mac helps me into the passenger seat with careful gentleness, his hands lingering longer than necessary as he adjusts my seatbelt.
The drive back to Millbrook Falls seems to stretch on longer than usual.
Mac keeps glancing at me every few seconds, like he's checking to make sure I'm still breathing, still conscious, still real.
His knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel, and I can see the tension radiating through his entire body.
"The stairs to my apartment are going to be impossible," I murmur as we pull up in front of the bookshop, looking up at what suddenly seems like an insurmountable obstacle.
"I've got you," he says simply, already out of the truck and coming around to my side. "The doctor said no weight on that leg for six weeks, remember? Which means you get to be carried everywhere like the princess you are."
"Mac, you don't have to do that."
"Yes, I do." His tone is gentle but absolutely firm as he scoops me up carefully, one arm behind my knees, the other supporting my back.
I automatically wrap my arms around his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering antiseptic smell from the hospital.
"Besides, I've been carrying you up these stairs after our dates for the past two weeks anyway.
This time, you just have a medical excuse to let me. "
He's right, I realize. It has become routine—mostly because we’re rushing toward the nearest bed or couch. When did that become normal? When did Mac Sullivan become the person who carries me up stairs and knows exactly how I like my coffee and keeps a spare phone charger on my nightstand?
"Keys are in the front pocket of my purse," I tell him when we reach the top.
He shifts me carefully in his arms, reaching around me to dig for them with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this before. His movements are sure and confident.
Inside my apartment, he settles me on the couch and immediately shifts into caretaking mode.
He doesn't need to ask where anything is anymore.
He knows I keep the prescription painkillers in the cabinet next to the coffee maker, left over from when I had my wisdom teeth removed.
He knows which glasses are my favorites and that I like ice water, not room temperature.
He knows I get cold when I'm hurt or tired, so he brings the throw pillow from my bedroom and the softest blanket from the linen closet.
"Pain medication every four hours," he says, setting everything within easy reach on the coffee table that we picked out together just three weeks ago. "You had some at the hospital around four, so you're due for the next dose at eight."
He glances at his watch—the simple silver one I bought him on impulse during our trip to Boston, not nearly as expensive as the designer ones he used to wear, but he puts it on every morning anyway.
The gesture seems monumental now, a small declaration of permanence in a relationship we both claimed was temporary.
"What else do you need?" He's already moving toward the kitchen, unable to sit still when there are things to be done. "I can make that tomato soup you love, or call Murphy's and have them deliver something more substantial, or—"
"Mac." I catch his hand as he passes the couch, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Come here."
He perches carefully on the edge of the coffee table, facing me but maintaining just enough distance that we're not quite touching. Even now, he's putting space between us, protecting both of us from the intensity of what's building between us.
"Thank you," I say quietly, my thumb stroking across the back of his hand. "For staying with me at the hospital. For lying to get them to let you stay. For bringing me home and knowing exactly how I take my water and which blanket is the softest."
"Of course I know those things." His voice is rough with emotion he's trying to hide. "I've been practically living here, Delaney. This place has become..."
"What?" I prompt when he trails off, looking around the apartment like he's seeing it with new eyes.
I follow his gaze, taking in the framed photo of us at the winter festival sitting next to the one of me and my grandmother on the side table, his Boston Howlers coffee mug in the dish drainer next to my favorite reading cup, his phone charger plugged in by my bed, his spare keys hanging on the hook by the door.
"This has become home," he finishes quietly, the admission clearly costing him something. "This place, with you, all these little routines we've built together… It's the first real sense of normalcy I've had since Lily died."
The confession hangs between us, vulnerable and raw and more honest than I expected. I can see how terrified he is to say it out loud, how much he fears that admitting he wants this will somehow jinx it, make it disappear like everything else good in his life.
"Then why are you sitting so far away?" I ask softly.
For a long moment, I think he won't answer.
Then he moves from the coffee table to the couch beside me, careful not to jostle my injured leg as he settles into the cushions.
I immediately curl into his side despite the protest from my ribs, breathing in his familiar warmth and letting myself feel safe for the first time since I woke up in the hospital.
"Because I'm scared," he admits against my hair, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm terrified that wanting this—wanting you, wanting us, wanting a future together—is exactly what's going to destroy it. Everything good in my life gets taken away, Delaney. Everyone I love gets hurt."
I tilt my head up to look at him, noting the way the afternoon light streaming through the windows catches the gold flecks in his blue eyes. "What if wanting it is what saves it? What if loving me is what keeps me safe instead of putting me in danger?"
"I don't know how to believe that yet," he says honestly, his arms tightening around me.
"Then believe in me believing it," I say, settling back against his chest and feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my cheek. "Just for tonight. Just for right now."
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and I feel some of the terrible tension finally leave his body. "I can do that."
We sit together in the golden evening light streaming through windows he helped me hang curtains on just last week, in the apartment that's become ours through a thousand small choices and daily intimacies, holding onto each other and the fragile hope that love might be stronger than fear, that happiness might be worth the risk of losing it.
For tonight, for this moment, it has to be enough.