Forty-Two
Hudson
It’s bad.
I’ve seen the charts, I’ve read the data, and I’ve watched her from a distance, but the reality of a crash is a different beast entirely. It’s the morning-after tax for the war she waged on her body over the last month.
The bill has come due.
Rowan treats “fine” like a religion, but she’s pale enough to be translucent this morning. Every time she moves, I see the flinch in her jaw. When she shifted her hip five minutes ago, a soft “Ouch” escaped her lips.
For Rowan, that’s the equivalent of a blood-curdling scream.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling off the side as if they no longer belong to her. She stares down at her feet as if trying to command them through sheer force of will, her fingers white-knuckled against the edge of the mattress.
I reach for the black cane propped beside the nightstand and hold it out to her.
She glares up at me, her green eyes red-rimmed and defiant. “No.”
“There’s nobody here to see you use it,” I tell her gently. I’m not playing the doctor, but I’m not playing a fool, either. “And you need it, Rowan. You can barely put weight on your left side.”
“Yeah, well, I hate that I need it,” she snaps. “And you’re here. You’re seeing it.”
“Pretend I’m not.”
“I’ll crawl before I use that thing in front of you. Besides, it’s deeply unsexy.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes my chest. “Unsexy?”
“Yes. Nothing says hot morning-after like a mobility aid. I’m twenty-six. I’m supposed to be swishing around in an oversized shirt looking like a movie cliché.”
I set the cane against the mattress, step directly into the space between her knees, and cup her face in both hands.
“Watching you push yourself until you collapse isn’t sexy. Watching you suffer in silence because you’re too proud to accept help isn’t hot. You taking care of yourself? You using the tools you need so you aren’t in agonizing pain? That is the sexiest fucking thing you can do.”
I run my thumb over her cheekbone, forcing her to hold my gaze. “You think a cane changes how I look at you? It doesn’t. You’re still the most captivating, infuriating, beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Cane or no cane.”
She stares up at me, a flush creeping up her neck. “You’re terrible at letting me wallow.”
“Fine,” I say, leaning down until my face is inches from hers. “If you won’t use the tool, I’ll just carry you around all day like a princess. I’ve got nothing but time and a very strong back.”
Her eyes go wide as I scoop her up off the mattress.
“For fuck’s sake, Hudson!” she squeaks, her hands scrambling around my neck. “Put me down! Fine. Give me the damn cane.”
I set her back down gently, keeping my hands on her waist until she balances, then hand it over.
It’s an awkward, painful process, but she takes one slow, tentative step, then another—the cane absorbing the brutal impact her left hip usually takes.
“You didn’t sign up for this,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“I signed up for you,” I tell her, stepping in close to kiss her forehead. “All of you. The parts that paint masterpieces and the parts that need a hand getting to the kitchen. It’s all the same woman to me.”