Thirteen
I spend three hours at the hospital, which includes five neurological checks, one CT scan, and my wound sealed with surgical glue. When the doctor asks if anyone can stay with me for a few hours, Hudson mistakenly says he can.
After twenty minutes of silent treatment in the car ride home—minutes he claims are the most peaceful he’s had all evening—he practically carries me to my sofa.
Once he bullies me into taking a handful of salty pretzels and two painkillers the hospital sent me home with, the world finally begins to blur.
Exhaustion hits in a slow, heavy wave that softens the edges of my vision. I keep drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, surfacing every few minutes to the dull throb at my temple and the reminder that there is a very large man in my living room.
Every time I open my eyes, Hudson is still there.
At some point, he picks up one of my art history books, leans back in the armchair, and slides a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses onto his face.
I’d like to rim him.
Oh my God. Where did that come from?
Maybe some light pegging?
What is wrong with me?
What kind of kinks do these prescription medications cause a person to develop?
“I like your rims,” I hear myself mumble.
Before I can see his reaction or pretend I was talking about his car, the medication pulls me back under.
When I wake again, the fuzzy weight has lifted, though my body feels like it was hit by a truck.
Hudson sets the book face-down on his knee, his glasses pushed up on his nose. The room feels smaller with him in it.
His gaze tracks my movement as I gingerly rearrange the cushions.
“You can stop looking at me like I’m about to die. I promise I won’t do it on your watch.”
“Thank you,” he says, his tone bone-dry. “It would mess up the study. The paperwork for a fatality is extensive.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and my head throbs in protest. I wince, clutching the ice pack tighter. “You make jokes. I never would have guessed.”
My brain is still loose enough that the drowsy-honesty phase is actively working against me.
“I don’t have daddy issues,” I tell him out of nowhere.
He blinks, pausing as he folds his glasses into his pocket.
“You know. You’re an older man—”
“I’m thirty-seven,” he says. “Hardly a relic.”
I shrug. “I just thought you should know.”
As I shift on the couch, I feel a familiar stab of pain in my ankle. I must have twisted it when I went down.
“Can you hand me that?” I point to a roll of athletic tape sitting on the shelf near his chair.
He hands it over without a word. I pull up my pant leg, inspect the swelling, and wrap the joint with practiced movements.
“Thank you.”
I mean it. He didn’t have to take care of me tonight. He gave me space at the hospital while the doctor took my medical history, and he didn’t ask what I told them. He didn’t even try to look at my chart.
It matters to me more than I have words for.
“If I told you something,” I begin, picking at a thread on the blanket. “Something medical. Would you have to keep it confidential?”
He sits up straight in the chair. “In what capacity?”
“Doctor capacity.”
“I’m not your doctor.”
“Could you temporarily become my doctor?”
“No.”
“That was quick.”
“Because the answer is clear.”
I tug harder at the loose thread. “So you could tell Beckett?”
He searches my face. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
I nod.
“If you tell me something about your health, I’m not going to repeat it to anyone, including Beckett. What you tell me is yours.”
I stare at the worn fabric of my blanket. Giving this away feels like handing over a loaded gun, but he stayed tonight when he didn’t have to, and he deserves an explanation.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I have Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS.”
It’s the first time I’ve said that aloud to someone who wasn’t wearing a white coat.
I wait for a reaction, but his gaze remains calm and locked on me.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look confused. Nothing.
I frown. “That’s it?”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to look shocked.”
“Would that help?”
“A little.”
He widens his eyes with such exaggerated horror that I almost choke on a laugh.
“My God,” he deadpans.
“Fuck off.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
I pull the blanket higher around my waist. “POTS is why I fainted. I had physio this morning, and it was a rough session. I should have just rested.”
“And the EDS?”
“I’m faulty wiring. My joints are basically held together by a hope and a prayer.”
“I know what it is,” he says gently. “Contrary to your belief that I’m a dinosaur, medical terminology hasn’t changed much since my residency.”
“Ah,” I tease. “But you’re a very pretty dinosaur.”
His returning smile makes something ridiculous flutter in my chest.
It’s horrifying.
“I knew you were in pain sometimes,” he admits. “The limp wasn’t consistent enough to be a standard injury, and tonight made it clear that fainting isn’t new. Your family doesn’t know?”
“No, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
He holds up his hands. “They won’t hear it from me.”
I stare at his raised hands, then slowly lift my own, sticking my smallest finger straight up in the air.
He gawks at me like I’ve gone mad. “What are you doing?”
“Pinky promise.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, Hudson. Seriously.”
“I’m a grown man. I’m not making a pinky promise.”
“Then the vault isn’t sealed,” I say, leaning forward just enough to emphasize my point. “Professional discretion is one thing. A pinky promise is legally binding.”
“In what world?”
“My world. Wrap your finger around mine, or I’m taking my medical secrets back.”
A long, suffering exhale escapes him.
“Do it.”
He gives in with a groan. His hand is massive compared to mine, his skin warm.
“Happy?” he asks, pulling his hand away.
“Thrilled. Thank you.”
I almost forget my head is glued together and my heart is doing 110 beats per minute while I sit still.
“Why psychiatry?” I ask, resting my head back on the cushions. “Why not something where you get to use a scalpel? You have the hands for it.”
He looks down at his palms, flexing his fingers. A flash of old pain crosses his face before he smooths it over. “Long story.”
“Seriously? I just told you my biggest secret.”
He leans back. “My mother had a stroke when I was eighteen. She survived, but the woman who came back wasn’t the one who left. Her personality wasn’t the same, and her memories were… rearranged. I wanted to know if you could find someone again after their brain had changed.”
It’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t sound like a clinical paper. He sounds like a boy who lost his mother while she was still standing in front of him.
But there’s more. His pain runs so much deeper. I can see it on his face.
“That’s not the entire story, is it?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t answer.
I don’t press him. I know what it’s like to have secrets you aren’t ready to share.
“Did you?” I ask. “Find her?”
“Bits and pieces. In the way she likes her tea. In the way she laughs at the same bad jokes. I think people are just a collection of those bits, even when the wiring is faulty.”
It’s late. Too late for conversations like this with a man who was supposed to be a spectator in my life. The room feels suddenly too warm, the air thick with a dangerous kind of closeness.
He just handed me a piece of his story, and I don’t know where to put it without letting him see how much it shook me.
So I build the wall back up.
“You can go, you know. I mean it. I’m not going to die.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks, but he dips his chin and stands.
A cold disappointment settles in my stomach, which is ridiculous because I was the one who told him to leave.
“Don’t go into your studio tonight,” he says, adjusting his collar.
“I won’t.”
He searches my face with sharp blue eyes. “I’m serious, Rowan.”
“I won’t,” I lie.
He stares at me for three seconds, then walks over to the kitchen counter where my keys are sitting.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking your studio key.” He slides a silver key off the ring and holds it up. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
I stare in disbelief. “You can’t do that! You don’t even know which key it is!”
He looks at the key, then back at me. “I’m guessing it’s the one that has the word STUDIO stamped on it.”
Dammit.
“I’ll bring it back in the morning,” he promises, dropping it into his pocket and tossing the rest of the ring onto the sofa. “As long as you don’t die overnight.”
“I’m far too petty to die.”
“Good. Hold onto that until 8 a.m.” He pauses at the threshold, hand on the doorknob. “Good night, Rowan.”
“Good night, Shrink Wrap.”
The front door clicks shut.
I stay on the couch, listening to the quiet rumble of his engine turning over. I’m a loner. I like the silence. So why does the house feel so much bigger than it did ten minutes ago?