Chapter Sixteen
EFFA
Monday
Saturday night went better than I could have hoped.
The pub was warm and loud and full of life, and for the first time in weeks, I felt almost…
normal. Meeting the locals, laughing, watching Fort Affliction own that tiny stage like it was Madison Square Garden, it did something to me.
They’re good. Damn good. And as much as I know, Luke and Mercs orchestrated that little ‘surprise’ tour offer, the idea had already started forming in my mind while I was listening to them play.
Still, I would have liked the courtesy of a heads-up before Luke dropped it in front of everyone.
But it worked out.
The tour can move forward once I’m back to full strength, and that’s what matters.
I just hope Fort Affliction understands what they’re stepping into.
Touring with us isn’t backyard-pub energy.
It’s pressure. It’s lights, scrutiny, cameras, and fans who don’t always respect boundaries.
Fame can chew people up if they’re not ready.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Mercs’ voice pulls me from the spiral. I turn to him, catching the way he runs his fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head, the motion restless and thoughtful.
Sunlight pours through the tinted car windows, catching in the gold flecks of his eyes and softening the hard planes of his face.
Outside, Pennsylvania rolls by in stretches of lush green fields under a perfectly balanced blue sky. The day is stunning. Almost unfairly beautiful for how nervous I feel.
I reach for his hand as we leave the Pennsylvania Turnpike and merge onto the Blairsville Pittsburgh Highway. Every mile marker feels like a countdown.
“Just thinking about Saturday,” I tell him, offering a small smile. “It was nice meeting another band that actually feels… good. And knowing them already helps. I like Ligonier. The people are genuine.”
He squeezes my hand. “Yeah, they are.” His thumb brushes slowly over my knuckles. “How are you feeling about today?”
There it is.
The real question.
I shrug, staring out at the fields again. “Mixed. I want answers. I hate not knowing what’s happening inside my own body…” I hesitate. “But sometimes ignorance feels safer.”
His grip tightens, not painfully, but just enough to ground me.
“Whatever happens,” he says quietly. “Whatever it is… I’m here. With you… always.”
The steadiness in his voice loosens something in my chest. I slide closer, resting my head on his shoulder, breathing him in. The familiar scent and the solid warmth feel like certainty in a world that suddenly doesn’t.
The drive passes quicker than I expect, and soon we’re pulling into Dr. Wakefield’s office. The hour wasn’t bad at all, but I’m grateful to stretch my legs when we step out of the car.
Inside, though, my body betrays me.
My leg bounces as we sit in the office waiting room. The sound of my heel tapping against the floor seems louder than it probably is.
“Hey,” Mercs murmurs, leaning closer. “Don’t be nervous. I’m right here.”
But before I can answer, the door swings open.
“Good morning,” Dr. Wakefield greets, stepping in with that same calm presence that makes everything feel a notch less catastrophic. He rounds his desk and takes a seat. “How was the trip?”
“Easy,” I reply. “Hardly any traffic.”
“Good.” He pulls out a notepad. “Have you had another episode since we last spoke?”
I shake my head. “No. Just the two. And the other symptoms.”
He nods thoughtfully. “And weight loss?”
“About seven pounds. Maybe a little more.”
He studies me more closely now. “Your face looks slightly puffy. Have you noticed that?”
I nod again.
He hums softly as he writes. “Decreased appetite, fatigue…” His pen pauses. “And a decreased sex drive?”
The words hit like a dropped plate, and heat floods my face.
My stomach sinks.
I don’t need to look at Mercs to feel the shift beside me, but I do anyway.
He’s already staring at me.
I wince. “Yes.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he looks away. It’s not anger exactly, not quite, more confusion. Or maybe it’s hurt. Maybe it’s both.
I should have told him.
Dr. Wakefield continues, unaware of the silent exchange happening beside me.
“Before I speculate, I want to run specialised blood work. We’ll check hormone levels and the function of the hypothalamus and pituitary.
A few additional panels as well. If I’m correct, it may be an imbalance affecting multiple systems.”
“Is it fixable?” I ask quietly.
He tilts his head. “Let’s see what the results say first. I don’t want to make promises without data.”
I nod. “Of course.”
“I’ll have the nurses draw blood now. Results by tomorrow afternoon. I’ve scheduled you for four p.m.”
Relief mixes with dread, but at least there is a timeline.
“Thank you,” I say, standing with Mercs.
We step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut softly behind us.
He’s quiet.
Too quiet.
My stomach twists harder than it did in the office as we make it halfway down the hall before I stop walking.
He turns immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
His brows lift. “For what?”
“For not telling you.” My voice feels thin. “About… that.”
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as he steps closer. His hands wrap around mine, warm and steady.
“I’m not angry,” he says gently. “Not hurt. Just confused why you thought you had to keep it from me.” His mouth quirks slightly. “I mean… we had sex. I thought you enjoyed it.”
“I did.” The words come fast. “God, Kaden, I did. Being with you is incredible. It’s just… leading up to it. The need wasn’t as strong as it normally is. That’s all. My mind wanted you desperately, but my body didn’t feel the same rush beforehand.” I swallow. “It has nothing to do with you.”
His expression softens immediately. “Okay,” he says simply.
I blink. “Okay?”
He pulls me into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around my back, holding me close. His lips brush mine, slow and reassuring, before he leans back enough to meet my eyes.
“Something’s going on with your body,” he says, tapping lightly over my ribs. “I’m not going to take that personally. What kind of man would I be if I judged you for your hormones misfiring?” His thumb strokes along my cheek. “When we were together, you were there, I felt that. So I’m not worried.”
Emotion rises so fast it almost steals my breath.
“But,” he adds gently. “Don’t keep things from me, even if you think it might hurt my feelings. I want to know what’s happening with you.”
My forehead presses against his. “You’re incredible.”
He chuckles softly, kissing the tip of my nose. “Effa, you mean more to me than you realize. I’m here, no matter what.”
Three months.
It feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. I can barely remember who I was before him.
Before the tour.
Before the incident.
Before everything shifted.
“I guess we should get this over with,” I murmur.
His hand slides into mine again. “Yeah, let’s go.”
And together, we head toward the nurses’ station.
***
After a night in a five-star hotel where I made very sure Mercs understood just how much I still want him, how fiercely my mind craves him, even if my hormones are currently confused—we’re back in Dr. Wakefield’s office.
The contrast is almost laughable.
Champagne and silk sheets replaced by sterile walls and medical charts.
I sit in the chair, knee bouncing uncontrollably as the seconds stretch too long. My bottom lip is already sore from where I’ve been worrying it between my teeth.
“What’s taking so long?” I mutter, staring at the closed door as though I can will it open.
Mercs chuckles softly and rests his hand over my knee, stilling the motion. His touch is warm and grounding. “It’s going to be fine,” he says quietly. “And even if it’s not fine, we deal with it… together.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight.
The door finally opens and Dr. Wakefield steps in, tall and composed, carrying a folder that suddenly looks far too significant. He moves to his desk and sits, setting the file down with careful deliberation.
“Good afternoon. How’s your day been?”
The words get stuck somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.
Mercs answers for me, “Nervous,” he says calmly. “We’re ready to hear what you’ve got.”
Dr. Wakefield offers a reassuring smile, then opens the folder. While the papers shuffle, the sound seems too loud in the quiet room.
“Okay,” he begins. “We do have your results. As suspected, you’re experiencing hypopituitarism, which is also known as pituitary insufficiency.”
The term hangs in the air, heavy and unfamiliar.
“Your pituitary gland isn’t producing adequate levels of certain hormones,” he continues. “That imbalance is causing the symptoms you’ve described.”
I swallow. “Is this something I had before?”
He shakes his head gently. “No, this developed as a result of the anoxic brain injury you suffered. It’s not entirely rare after trauma like that, but it isn’t common either.”
The reminder hits harder than the diagnosis.
Mercs’ fingers tighten around mine.
“So what does this mean?” I ask. “What happens now?”
Dr. Wakefield folds his hands together on the desk, leaning forward slightly. “If left untreated, symptoms can worsen. Muscle weakness, issues regulating body temperature, blood pressure irregularities, dry skin, and changes in weight.” He pauses.
My stomach tightens. “What else?” I press.
His expression softens, but he doesn’t look away. “Irregular menstrual cycles. Potential loss of body hair. Difficulty producing breast milk if you were to have a baby.”
My chest constricts.
“And…” he adds carefully. “There is a possibility of infertility.”
The word lands like a stone dropped into deep water.
I lean back in the chair, my eyes closing as I try to steady my breathing. Babies have always been part of my future. It was never a question. It was just… assumed.
Mercs’ hand tightens around mine, anchoring me.
“You said if untreated,” he says evenly. “So there is a treatment?”