Twenty-Seven #2
The doctor’s eyes are kind. “Be realistic. Give your leg every chance to heal, but it may not perform the same ever again.”
Ryan just blows out a breath and shrugs. “I’m completely okay with that.”
One of the residents gasps—probably a football fan. Dr. Kravitz nods. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you again. Let the nurses know if you need anything at all.”
Ryan’s face splits into a grin, vision of pranking the nurses likely swirling in his head. I scrub a hand over my eyes, relief and worry coiling tight in my chest.
The team of doctors file out, and the room finally goes quiet again. I blow out a breath, relief and tension blending in my chest, but I can feel Ryan’s eyes burning into me. I turn, and the soft look on his face nearly undoes me.
“What?” I ask, voice rough, and take a step closer to the bed.
Ryan reaches up, grabs the hem of my t-shirt, and tugs me down to sit on the edge of the mattress. His eyes are gentle but glinting with mischief. “You don’t have to do that. Take me in. Seriously, I can just hire a hot male nurse to come take care of me. Bathe me—”
“You’re staying with me and that’s final,” I cut him off.
Ryan laughs. “Now you’re really going to break your rules. That definitely counts as a sleepover.”
I fold my arms. “It doesn’t count unless you’re in my bed.”
He grins, twirling a finger through my messy hair. “You don’t want me in your bed?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “As soon as you’re physically able, I will fuck you in my bed—and then I’ll kick you back out to the guest room.”
Ryan barks a sharp laugh. “Brutal. But I won’t turn it down.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile.
Then a light knock raps the door and it creaks open. Chance is the first to appear, and I jump up off the bed like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
Chance rolls his eyes.
Ryan grins wide. “Hey, Chance—” He stops short as Anthony steps in behind him, a little bundle in his arms.
“Oh my God!” Ryan shouts, startling the room, and Chance hushes him. Ryan drops to a whisper, voice wobbly with emotion. “Is that—?”
Anthony nods, beaming. “Do you want to meet her?”
Ryan nods, eyes shining. “Are you supposed to be wandering the halls with her?”
Anthony shrugs, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Not really. But we figured we’d make an exception for Uncle Butters.”
I watch Ryan swallow, his Adam’s apple jumping. For a second, he’s speechless.
Chance steps forward, pulling out a little bottle of hand sanitizer. “Hold out your hands.”
Ryan obeys, and Chance squeezes sanitizer onto each palm. “Rub it in. Give me your arms, too.” He adds a few more drops, and Ryan dutifully rubs them in.
When Chance is satisfied, Anthony walks over and places the baby—tiny, pink, perfect—into Ryan’s arms. “Uncle Ryan, meet Mary.”
Ryan looks down. “Holy shit, she’s beautiful, you guys.”
Chance chuckles, and Anthony beams. “Yeah, she really is.”
Ryan’s voice goes soft, reverent. “Hi, little Mary. I’m your Uncle Butters.” I shift, throat tight, warmth blooming low in my chest. Ryan continues, “When you get older, I’m going to teach you all the things that’ll give your dads gray hairs.”
“Over my dead body,” Chance says, grinning.
But Ryan only has eyes for Mary at the moment. “Look at you,” he whispers. The baby grabs his finger with her tiny hand, and Ryan gasps, then settles her gently against his chest. Mary lets out a little coo, and I have to tug at my collar, suddenly overheated.
When I glance back, tears are streaming down Ryan’s face, silent and unstoppable. He sobs softly, “I love her so much already.”
I have to turn away, swallowing hard, because if I keep looking, I’ll lose it, too. There’s more emotion in this room than I’ve felt in years.
Anthony smiles, gentle. “Good. Because you’ll be doing plenty of babysitting.”
Ryan laughs, and Mary starts to fuss, so Chance swoops in and scoops her up, rocking her gently. Ryan wipes his eyes, looking at Anthony. “Thank you.”
Anthony nods. “I thought that might lift your spirits. Now, catch me up on your surgery, recovery plan, all of it.”
Before Ryan can answer, I clear my throat. “Hey, I’m going to run home, shower and change. I’ll be back in an hour. Text me if you need anything, okay?”
Ryan meets my eyes, gratitude written all over his face, and nods. “Okay.”
“Thanks for being here when we couldn’t, Spence,” Anthony says, warmly.
I just nod, words stuck in my throat, and slip quietly out the door before everything I’m feeling spills over.
I walk out of the hospital and into the humid morning, my head buzzing with exhaustion and a weird, weightless adrenaline.
The past two days feel like a fever dream—sirens, blood, hospital lights, all bleeding together.
It’s overwhelming, honestly. I didn’t realize how much I’d let him in until I saw him crumpled on that field, screaming in pain.
It was like the ground came out from under me.
I keep trying to gaslight myself that I’ve just got a little crush, nothing serious, just some heat and chemistry, but that’s a lie and I know it. Still—rules are rules. He’ll stay with me until he’s back on his feet and then I’ll send him back to his own place. That’s how it has to go.
I get home, give Fucker some love, shower fast, and stand in front of my closet too long, towel around my waist, debating my own idiocy.
Eventually, I pull on my tightest jeans, the ones that make my ass look ridiculous, and a black t-shirt that hugs my chest. The effect is a bit obvious, but if it cheers up Ryan, who cares?
I snag my keys and head out, but not straight back to the hospital. First, a pit stop.
When I get back to the hospital, I swing by the nurse station, where a young nurse, Marcy, is working the desk.
She looks up, smiles warmly. “Hey there, can I help you?”
“I’m hoping so. Can I ask a favor? For Room 112.”
Her face lights up. “Oh, Ryan Buterbaugh? Anything for him!”
I grin, “You’re the best.”
After giving Marcy instructions, I stride across the floor’s quad and push open the door to Ryan’s room.
He’s sitting up in the bed, hair still wild, dimples fully deployed. “Hey, gorgeous.”
I roll my eyes but my pulse spikes a couple notches. Ryan’s eyes rake over me, lingering on the tight shirt, then the jeans. “You’re lucky I’m not in here for a heart condition, Spence. Because damn!”
I laugh, dropping into the chair. “How you doing?”
“I’m antsy,” Ryan says, “and starving.”
I pull the nurse intercom off the side table and hold it out to him. He eyes it, suspicious.
I wave it at him. “Go ahead. Do your prank.”
His grin is instant and wicked and he doesn’t wait a second to smash the button. The nurse’s voice comes through, “How may I help you?”
Ryan leans in, “Yes, I’d like a number three, large size, with a diet coke and a side of nuggies.”
There’s a beat, and then my new friend, Marcy, comes back on, deadpan: “What kind of sauce would you like with your nuggies?”
Ryan jolts, then laughs, “Uh, ranch please.”
“Coming right up,” she says, and the intercom clicks off.
Ryan stares at it. “No way.”
Two seconds later, the door opens—Marcy strides in, holding a bag and a big diet coke. She sets them on the tray, gives Ryan a wink, and sails out. “Thank you, have a nice day.”
Ryan gawks at the food, then turns to me with a look so open and grateful it almost knocks me back.
“Thank you,” he says, voice rough.
I shrug, acting casual. “No biggie. I was already out.”
He shakes his head. “Not just that.”
He opens the bag, grabs a fry, pops it in his mouth, and then holds one out. I lean in and bite it from his fingers, and something in his face softens even more.
“But also,” he says, shoving more fries in his mouth, “for being here. For offering to help. You didn’t have to do any of this. Especially for a booty call.”
I laugh, but inside, everything tightens. Because I now know—even with all my boundaries, all my rules—Ryan Buterbaugh was never just a booty call.