Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ashton
The ride home from the hospital is quiet.
Troy’s van rumbles softly beneath us as it pulls into my driveway, gravel spitting beneath the tires. The familiar shape of my house comes into view through the windshield, the porch light glowing faintly in the early evening.
The pharmacy bag in my lap crinkles as I absently twist the plastic between my fingers. Inside are four orange prescription bottles, each one rattling faintly when the van shifts. Pain meds. Anti-inflammatories. Something for nausea.
The nurse rattled off about a hundred instructions before they discharged me—when to take each pill, how often, how many. My brain was still foggy from the medication, and now the details blur together like static.
I vaguely remember all my siblings crowding around the bed, listening intently, writing things down and asking questions on my behalf.
They were almost too eager to help with my recovery.
The nurse warned that I’d probably need help with basic tasks for a while—that the pain would stick around, that normal routines might be difficult until the cast comes off in eight to twelve weeks.
As much as I appreciate their willingness to help, I don’t want it.
I shouldn’t rely on them. I’m supposed to be the oldest one—the strongest one. The one who looks after them, not the other way around. It’s not in my nature to accept help like this, and the thought of it makes me more nauseous than the medication does.
The engine clicks off. Silence settles inside the van.
“You ready?” Troy asks gently.
I glance up at him, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah.”
He hops out first and circles around to my side before I even get the door open. The cold air bites at my face as I step down from the van.
Immediately, Troy’s arm comes around my back, steadying me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I snort. “I broke my ribs and my arm,” I say, shifting the bag of pills under my good arm. “Not my legs. I can still walk.”
His mouth tightens. “I know.”
But he doesn’t let go.
We walk up the driveway toward the porch, his hand hovering just behind my back like he’s waiting to catch me if I collapse at any second.
I try to lighten the mood.
“If you try to carry me inside like a bride, I’m kicking you in the nuts,” I tease.
Troy doesn’t laugh. He just frowns, his eyes flicking toward my ribs like he can see the fractures through my jacket. “I won’t.”
My smile fades. Alright, then. Clearly he’s not in the mood to joke yet.
We reach the front door. I shift the pill bag against my hip and fish my keys out of my pocket with my good hand, the metal clinking softly as I unlock the door.
The house greets us with familiar stillness. It smells faintly like fresh paint and wood polish. The kitchen light is still on from the morning I left for the orchard.
I step inside slowly, Troy following me closely like a shadow.
My gaze drifts automatically to the living room, landing on the blueprint drafts sprawled across the coffee table.
Wide sheets of measurements, sketches, and scribbled notes, still covered with pencil shavings and eraser dust. The barn renovation plans I’ve been obsessing over for the last few weeks.
My chest tightens.
Before Troy can really look at them, I step forward and clumsily gather the prints. The paper crinkles as I roll them up awkwardly and shove them to the side of the table. The movement sends a sharp pulse through my ribs, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from reacting.
I glance down at my arm, still locked in the stiff white cast. Pins and needles prickle beneath the plaster, the dull ache constant and unrelenting.
The doctor said the bones will heal. Eventually. That I should be fully back to normal by next spring—just in time to start preparing for cherry season.
But swinging a hammer? Hauling lumber? Climbing ladders?
Not anytime soon.
My eyes drift back to the rolled-up blueprints. So much for that dream.
Mentally and physically exhausted, I shuffle over to the couch and collapse onto it with a heavy exhale. The cushions sink beneath my weight, and the sudden shift sends a dull throb through my ribs.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing at my side.
Troy hovers a few feet away, looking like he doesn’t know where to stand or what to do with his hands. He watches me carefully, his teeth catching the ring in his lip. After a moment, he moves closer and lowers himself onto the other cushion.
“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” I say after a moment, staring at the floor. “You can go home.”
Troy’s head tilts slightly. “Do you want me to go?”
I frown immediately. “No. Of course not.”
He waits, brows raised expectantly.
I sigh and rub my face with my free hand. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me. You don’t owe me anything, Troy.”
His expression softens. “Of course I do.”
“No,” I insist, shaking my head, “you don’t.”
His hand rests on my thigh, squeezing gently. “I love you, and this is what you do for people you love. In sickness and health and all that shit.”
Everything inside me freezes.
My brain stutters.
“Wait,” I say slowly. “You… what?”
Troy’s brows knit together. “I said I love—”
“No, I heard that part,” I cut in, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain flashes through my ribs, but I barely register it. “You love me?”
Now it’s Troy’s turn to look confused. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies my face.
“Oh… fuck,” he says slowly. Realization—and a hint of horror—hardens his expression. “You don’t remember.”
I don’t say anything, too stunned to find words.
Troy groans under his breath and drags both hands down his face before dropping his elbows onto his knees. “Of course you don’t remember,” he mutters. “I’m an idiot.”
“What don’t I remember?” I ask quietly.
He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. “You were bleeding all over Luke’s truck. Half-conscious. I was holding you, and you…” He exhales through his nose. “You told me you loved me. I said it back.”
The room suddenly feels very small. I stare at him.
He keeps talking before I can respond.
“I mean, you were hurt,” he rushes on, words tumbling over each other. “You probably didn’t even know what you were saying. People say weird shit when they’re in shock, right? So you don’t have to feel obligated to say it back now or anything. I know my intensity can be a little—”
“Troy.”
“—a lot, actually, and I’ve been told I fall too hard, too fast, and—”
“Troy.”
“—I just don’t want you to feel pressured because that’s not what I—”
I lean forward and kiss him, finally shutting him up.
For a second he goes completely still beneath me, like his brain can’t process what’s happening. Then he exhales softly against my lips, his hand sliding up to card gently through my hair. The tension drains from his body as he melts into the kiss, his shoulders sagging with relief.
When I pull back, his eyes are wide.
“I do love you,” I say. “So damn much.”
He lets out a shaky laugh and presses his forehead against mine. “Thank God. You really know how to scare the hell out of a guy.”
I smile softly, my fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the rough scuff of his beard. He didn’t shave when he was staying with me at the hospital, so it’s longer than usual.
I like it, though. It suits him.
“I love you too, blondie. I have for a long time.”
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He shrugs, his brown eyes flickering away shyly. “I didn’t want to scare you off,” he admits. “I know I can be… intense. And that can be kind of a turnoff—”
“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. “It’s not a turnoff. I love your intensity, Troy. I love how passionate you are—about your job, about the people you love… about me.” I smile faintly. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
His eyes glisten for a moment before he quickly blinks it away. A crooked, slightly pained smile spreads across his lips, and he leans forward to press a quick kiss to my mouth.
“Thanks, baby.”
He carefully wraps an arm around me and eases us both back against the couch. I melt into him, finally letting my body relax. His warmth surrounds me, solid and comforting, all soft edges and plush cushion—perfect for snuggling.
My tiny, squishy man.
My own personal teddy bear.
His face nuzzles into my hair, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. When he inhales, he freezes immediately and clears his throat.
“You should probably take a shower,” he says casually.
I frown. “Are you telling me I stink?”
“Yes,” he deadpans.
My mouth drops open. “Wow.”
I stare at him in disbelief while he just sits there, completely unbothered.
“You’ve been in a hospital for four days,” he adds flatly.
“I had sponge baths!”
“Sponge baths only get you so clean.”
I try to cross my arms, but my ribs immediately protest, so the motion turns into an awkward half fold before I give up and settle for a wounded pout instead.
“Asshole.”
Troy snickers, leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to my mouth, effectively kissing the pout right off my face. “It’s not your fault,” he says, tucking my greasy hair behind my ear. “Hospitals are gross.”
“Fine. I’ll shower, but I might need help washing my hair. My ribs hurt like a bitch if I try to lift my arm over my head.” I glance down at my lap, shame and embarrassment squeezing my chest. “Sorry.”
Troy immediately frowns. “What are you apologizing for?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, staring at the couch cushions. “It’s not exactly sexy, is it? Having a boyfriend who can’t even wash his own hair?”
His expression softens into something amused. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “I get to see my sexy, soapy boyfriend naked and wet in the shower… and you think that’s somehow a problem for me?”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re unbelievable.”
But I’m smiling despite myself—and I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
Of course, Troy notices and gives me a knowing grin.
“C’mon,” I grumble, pushing myself carefully to my feet. “Before I change my mind.”
I lead him down the hallway toward the bathroom. The familiar tile floor feels oddly foreign after days in a hospital bed. I reach in and turn on the shower, letting the water start warming up. Steam begins to curl softly toward the ceiling.
Now comes the hard part—getting undressed.
I fumble with the hem of my shirt one-handed, trying to work it up over my head without jostling my ribs or snagging the cast.
It goes… poorly. The fabric gets twisted halfway up my torso, and I grunt with frustration.
Behind me, Troy makes a quiet tsk sound. “Will you stop fighting with it and let me help?”
“I got it,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“You clearly do not.”
Before I can argue, he gently takes hold of the shirt and lifts it the rest of the way off, careful not to jostle my ribs or arm. Cool air brushes over my skin.
Troy’s hands linger for a moment. His gaze drifts slowly across my chest, my shoulders, the dark bruising still scattered along my ribs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my collarbone.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
Another kiss lands just below my throat.
“And strong as hell.”
My breath catches slightly.
His fingers slide softly along my waist and land on the hem of my jeans. He unbuttons them and starts tugging them off, his movements slow and careful. The stiff fabric wiggles down my thighs and pools at my ankles. I step out of them, kicking them aside.
Now standing in just my boxers, I carefully slip my arm out of the sling, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at my ribs.
“Easy,” Troy says softly.
“I’m fine.”
He studies my arm, then glances toward the kitchen. “Hold on.”
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he disappears down the hallway.
A minute later he returns carrying a plastic grocery bag and a roll of tape.
I frown. “Where did you—”
“Kitchen drawer,” he says simply.
He cautiously slides the bag over my cast, making sure it covers the whole thing. Then he wraps tape snugly around the top to seal it.
“There,” he says, smoothing the plastic. “Now it’ll stay nice and dry.”
I flex my fingers experimentally. “Thanks.”
Steam fills the bathroom as the shower finishes warming up. The mirror above the sink fogs over, blurring Troy’s reflection.
He pulls off his own clothes, stepping out of the gray sweatpants and hoodie he slept in at the hospital, lying on that stiff couch. He never complained, not once. I told him he could leave—that he didn’t have to stay—but he insisted every time.
Now fully naked himself, he helps me step out of my boxers. His gaze drifts slowly over me, full of a mixture of heat and quiet awe that makes warmth creep across my skin.
He squeezes my hip gently. “Alright, blondie. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Under the hot spray, Troy takes his time washing me.
He runs a soapy washcloth along my skin, scrubbing carefully despite me arguing I can handle that part myself. Even when he cleans my dick, there’s nothing inherently sexual or teasing about it—just a strange tenderness, like he’s memorizing me, his eyes lingering on every inch of my body.
I lean back against his chest as he washes my hair. It’s awkward with the height difference, but I bend my knees while he rises onto his tiptoes. His fingers work gently through my hair, scraping against my scalp in slow circles while the citrus scent of the shampoo fills the steam between us.
It feels heavenly.
He helps me rinse it out, carding his hands through the strands until the last of the suds disappears down the drain.
Then he turns me around.
His gaze moves slowly over me again, but this time his expression softens. His lip wobbles slightly before he leans in and kisses me.
“I was so fucking scared,” he admits quietly over the rush of the water. “Seeing you like that… covered in blood…” His voice tightens. He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“Me too,” I croak. “Thank you for finding me. If you and Luke hadn’t gone searching for me, I don’t know—” I stop myself, swallowing hard.
I don’t want to think about that right now. I don’t want to think about the possibility of Troy grieving me in painful secrecy—about dying without ever telling him how much I love him. Without telling others how much he means to me.
He nods in understanding, a shaky breath leaving him as he brushes wet strands of hair out of my eyes.
“I’ll always find you, Ash,” he promises softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Always.”