FORTY-FIVE
Rory stayed in the hospital for a week after his surgery.
Seven days, somehow both endless and impossibly fast.
The room had transformed over that time.
What started as sterile and cold was now cluttered with life.
Bouquets of flowers lined the windowsill, sunflowers from Emory with a card that said “Get better, asshole,” roses from Rory’s Taco Tuesday crew, daisies from a neighbor Kieran didn’t know.
Balloons floated near the ceiling, their strings taped to the bed rail.
Get Well Soon. You’ve Got This. We Miss You.
And there, proudly displayed on the hospital tray table, was Aubrey’s handmade card.
Construction paper folded in half, covered in crayon drawings of what might have been flowers or possibly dinosaurs, it was hard to tell. Inside, in Samantha’s careful handwriting guiding Aubrey’s three-year-old scrawl:
I LOVE UNCLE RORY.
Rory had stared at that card for a long time when Samantha first brought it. Hadn’t said anything. Just looked at it with an expression Kieran couldn’t quite read.
Then he’d asked Kieran to put it where he could see it.
Rory’s parents, Bill and Marlene Kline, had arrived two days after the accident.
Bill with his receding hair and quiet demeanor that reminded Kieran so much of Rory, Marlene with her sharp eyes and tendency to fuss over everything.
They flew in from Kentucky as soon as Samantha called, and they’d been in and out of the hospital ever since, splitting their time between Rory’s bedside and spoiling Aubrey with what Samantha claimed was “an irresponsible amount of ice cream.”
Kieran had met them properly on day three. Had shaken Bill’s hand, accepted Marlene’s tight hug, answered their questions about what happened with as much detail as he could manage.
“You were there?” Marlene had asked, gripping his hands.
“Yeah. I was watching from the beach.”
“Thank God you guys were there,” she’d said, tears in her eyes. “Thank God you were there.”
Kieran hadn’t known what to say to that. Didn’t feel like he’d done anything. But he nodded and let her hold his hands and tried not to think about how close they’d come to losing Rory entirely.
For the most part, though, Kieran stayed by Rory’s side every day.
He’d come in the morning, usually around eight, carrying coffee for himself and whatever breakfast he thought Rory might eat.
He’d sit in the corner chair, an uncomfortable vinyl thing that made his back ache, and quietly work on his laptop.
Answer emails. Do the bare minimum to keep his mind from shattering.
But mostly he watched.
Watched the nurses come in to check vitals. Watched physical therapists put Rory through basic exercises. Watched doctors examine him, ask questions, make notes on their clipboards.
Kieran helped when he could. When the nurses needed to walk Rory to the bathroom, Kieran was there, supporting his weight. When Rory needed to walk the hallways for exercise, slow, painful laps that left him exhausted, Kieran walked beside him, ready to catch him if he stumbled.
He was a silent figure. Present. Constant.
The day after Rory’s surgery, when Rory was still groggy and disoriented, Kieran had spoon-fed him Jell-O.
“I hate cherry,” Rory had complained, his voice still raspy but getting stronger. “I want watermelon.”
“They only have cherry and lime.”
“Lime then.”
“You’ll hate the lime more than you hate cherry.”
“I hate everything right now.”
Kieran smiled and kept feeding him cherry Jell-O. And Rory kept eating it, complaining the whole time.
Each day, Rory got more alert. Slightly stronger. The fog of pain medication lifted gradually, revealing more of the person underneath. He made jokes. Asked questions about what happened. Got frustrated when his body wouldn’t do what he wanted it to.
But Kieran knew it was a long way to recovery.
The doctors had been clear about that. Months, minimum. Possibly longer. And no guarantees about how much function he’d get back.
But there were small victories.
By day four, Rory could wiggle his fingers. Just barely enough to make the physical therapist smile and say “That’s good. That’s really good.”
By day six, he could grip Kieran’s hand. Weak, but there. That squeeze Kieran had been waiting for.
And today, day seven, the doctors had given Rory the sign-off to be discharged.
With conditions, of course. Extensive daily physical therapy. Follow-up appointments. Restrictions on what he could do, how he could move. A whole list of instructions that made Kieran’s head spin.
But he could go home.
Now, nurses bustled around the room, gathering Rory’s things, going over discharge paperwork with Marlene, who was taking notes like this was the most important lecture she’d ever attended.
Kieran stood near the window, out of the way, watching.
One of the nurses, Jessica, who’d been on the day shift all week, turned to Rory.
“Okay, Mr. Kline. Let’s get you out of that gown and into real clothes. Sound good?”
Rory, sitting on the edge of the bed in his hospital gown and not much else, nodded. “Yeah. This thing is drafty as hell.”
“I know, honey. Okay, let us help you—”
“No,” Rory said quickly. Almost panicked. “No, I…” He took a breath. “You’ve already endured enough with my dumb ass this week. Please. He can help me.” He gestured toward Kieran. “He’s got it.”
The nurses exchanged glances. Jessica looked at Kieran, assessing.
“You comfortable with that?” she asked.
“Yes,” Kieran said, stepping forward. “I’ve got it.”
“Okay. We’ll be right outside if you need help. Just call.”
They left, pulling the door mostly closed behind them.
And then it was just Kieran and Rory.
The room went suddenly quieter. More intimate.
“You don’t have to,” Rory said. His voice was still rough from the intubation, but getting better. “If it’s weird or—”
“It’s not weird,” Kieran interrupted. “Come on. Let’s get you dressed.”
Rory nodded.
Kieran moved behind him, carefully untying the strings at the back of the hospital gown. His fingers worked slowly, methodically. The gown fell away, pooling around Rory’s legs.
And Kieran saw it. The incision. Running down the back of Rory’s neck, disappearing under the cervical collar. Stitches stark against reddened, swollen skin. The wound looked angry. Raw. Kieran stared at it. At the physical proof of how close they’d come to losing everything.
Rory went still. “Bad, huh?”
Kieran didn’t answer right away.
“I bet I look like Frankenstein’s creature,” Rory said, trying for humor. “Or whatever the fuck it’s called.”
Kieran still didn’t say anything. Just looked at the stitches. At the violence they represented. At the surgeon’s attempt to put Rory back together. Then he leaned forward and kissed the top of Rory’s head. “You’re still you,” he said quietly. “That’s all I see.”
Rory made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “You’re delusional.”
“Doubtful.”
Kieran moved around to face Rory. Looked at him straight on. Naked. Vulnerable in every sense of the word.
“Pants first,” Kieran said.
He grabbed the sweatpants Samantha had brought, soft blue ones, easy to get on and off. He crouched down and carefully worked Rory’s feet into the leg holes.
“Give me your leg,” Kieran said. “Left first.”
Rory tried to lift his leg. The movement was shaky, uncoordinated. Kieran supported it, guiding it through the fabric.
“Now the other.”
Same process. Slow. Patient.
When the pants were secured around Rory’s waist, Kieran straightened up and reached for the shirt. A button-up. Also from Samantha. Oversized so it wouldn’t put pressure on Rory’s shoulders.
“Arms up,” Kieran said.
Rory tried. Got them about halfway before they started shaking.
“Okay, okay. Never mind. We’ll do it this way.”
Kieran maneuvered the left sleeve onto Rory’s arm first. Gentle. Then the right. Then he carefully pulled the shirt around Rory’s back, settling it onto his shoulders without disturbing the incision site.
Button by button, Kieran worked his way up. Starting at the bottom. Taking his time. His fingers steady even though his heart was racing.
Rory didn’t say anything. Just watched Kieran work.
When Kieran finished the last button, he stepped back. Looked at Rory.
“There,” he said. “You look almost human again.”
Rory genuinely smiled. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You still need socks.”
“Fuck the socks.”
Kieran laughed. “You’re going to be cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
They sat in comfortable silence. Rory on the edge of the bed, fully dressed for the first time in a week.
Kieran standing in front of him, hands in his pockets, looking at this man he loved.
This man who’d been broken and put back together.
This man who was going to have to relearn how to do things he’d taken for granted his whole life.
He leaned down and kissed him, mindful of the bruises.
When he pulled back, Rory’s eyes were closed.
Kieran kissed him again. Longer this time. Trying to pour all of it into the kiss. All the fear, all the relief, all the love he didn’t have words for.
When they finally broke apart, Rory opened his eyes.
“Thank you,” Rory said softly. “For staying. For being here. For not running when it got hard.”
“Where else would I go?”
“I don’t know. But some people would. Would have left.”
“I’m not some people. I’m not everyone.”
“No.” Rory agreed. “You’re not.”
Kieran’s hands remained on Rory’s knees. After a beat, Rory unclasped his own hands from his lap, reaching down to slide his fingers over Kieran’s knuckles, turning his palm up to lock their fingers together.
Then Kieran stepped back and quickly wiped at his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, voice steadier now. “We should probably get out of here before they change their minds about discharging you.”
Rory laughed. “Good point.”
There was a knock on the door. Jessica poked her head in.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Yeah,” Kieran said. “We’re good.”
“Great. Wheelchair’s here whenever you’re ready.”
“I don’t need a wheelchair,” Rory protested.
“Hospital policy,” Jessica said cheerfully. “Everyone gets wheeled out. No exceptions.”
Rory grumbled but didn’t argue further.
The wheelchair arrived. Kieran helped Rory stand, slow, careful, giving him time to find his balance, and then eased him down into the chair.
Marlene appeared with a vase of flowers tucked under one arm and a stack of cards in the other. Bill had gone to bring the car around. Samantha was dealing with the last of the discharge paperwork.
Jessica wheeled Rory toward the door. Kieran walked beside them, carrying the bag with Rory’s things.
As they moved down the hallway, nurses called out goodbyes.
“Take care, Rory!”
“Good luck!”
“We’ll see you for PT!”
Rory waved with his good hand. Tried to smile. But Kieran could see the exhaustion in his face. The thought of leaving the room, leaving the safety of round-the-clock medical care, scared him.
Kieran reached down and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said quietly.
Rory looked up at him. Nodded. “Let’s go home.”