Chapter Thirty-Three
Sebastian
By six o’clock, I was done. Completely, utterly done.
The party had been amazing, our friends were great, the food was perfect, and coming home was the best thing in the world.
But my body had reached its limit about two hours ago, and I’d been running on fumes and painkillers ever since.
Every breath was a reminder of my broken ribs, my shoulder throbbed despite the sling, and my leg felt as though someone had taken a blowtorch to it.
I tried to hide it, of course. But Jesse knew me better than she knew herself.
While the girls cleaned up, Cam helped me get ready for the night. Jesse had already lowered the blinds and blasted the AC, creating a soothing semi-darkness that my exhausted brain appreciated. The apartment felt like a safe, cool cave where I could finally collapse.
“Alright, man.” Cam guided me toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you sorted.”
A shower was out of the question. The bandage covering the incisions and stitches on my leg couldn’t get wet, and I wasn’t allowed to go more than ten minutes without the sling.
The surgeon had been very clear about that—something about keeping the shoulder immobilized while the ligaments healed.
I’d stopped listening after ‘six weeks minimum.’
Cam waited outside while Jesse helped me with a sponge bath. I caught her wincing at the bruising on my chest and left side. The ugly palette of blue, green, and yellow made me look worse than a bad abstract painting.
“It’s not as sore as it was,” I offered, hoping to make her feel better.
It was a lie, but a small one. The sharp, stabbing pain had dulled to a persistent ache, which I supposed counted as improvement.
Her voice seemed to lodge in her throat, but she nodded. I wanted to tell her I was okay, but I was too tired to find the words.
I brushed my teeth—at least I could do that myself—and changed into boxers. Jesse straightened my sling. I forced myself to keep smiling, even though all I wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for about three days straight.
Cam helped me down the hall to the bedroom.
Each step felt like wading through concrete.
The adrenaline that had kept me going through the homecoming had evaporated, leaving me hollow and shaky.
A week ago, I could have crossed the apartment in two strides.
Now I was shuffling like an old man, leaning on my best friend just to make it to my own bedroom.
I hated it. Hated feeling weak, hated needing help, hated the way Jesse’s eyes stayed filled with worry every time she looked at me. But mostly, I hated how close I’d come to never seeing my apartment again, never sleeping in my bed, never holding her.
Jesse opened the door to the bedroom. Robin was sprawled across the bed, lying half-on and half-off the plush dummy Cam and I had named Frank—short for Frankenstein.
The kitten had already done some damage.
Frank had a few new scars, and Robin had taken a bite out of one of his shoe-covered feet.
The sight made me smile despite the exhaustion.
“How long will it take Robin to completely destroy Frank?” Jesse asked, grinning.
I shrugged and immediately regretted it. “I’d say at least a week. We’ll be picking up fluff for days.”
“Let me move him—”
“No. He’s comfortable, and I want you both next to me tonight.”
It was true. The thought of sleeping alone, even for one night, made my chest tight.
I’d spent too many nights in that hospital bed staring at the ceiling, listening to monitors beep and nurses’ footsteps in the hallway, feeling utterly isolated.
I needed them close—both of them. My weird little family.
Cam cleared his throat. “Make sure sleeping is all you do in bed for the next week or so.”
“Damn straight.” Nikki had showed up beside him and was surveying us atop her eyeglasses. “Overdoing it could pop his stitches, and BAM! He’d end up on my table.”
“Nikki,” Jesse gasped.
“I mean it,” Nikki said. “No strenuous anything until after his post-surgical visit.”
“Okay, just shut up.” A visible shudder ran through Jesse.
I wanted to laugh at the thought that I might be able to do anything in bed except sleep. I felt as though I’d never be able to have sex again, and I was too drained to even panic about it.
I lay on my right side, trying to find a position that didn’t make everything hurt. Cam arranged a pillow under my left arm, tucking it close to my body and keeping it at the necessary angle the physical therapist had shown us. The pressure eased immediately.
“That should do it.” Cam stood back and turned to Jesse. “If you guys need anything, call, okay?”
“We will. Thanks, bud.” My eyes were already closing.
I felt Jesse’s lips press against my forehead, heard Cam and Nikki’s footsteps retreating, and then I was drifting, the riptide of exhaustion pulling me under.
I didn’t fall asleep right away though. I lay there, listening to the muffled voices from the living room—Jesse thanking everyone, saying goodbye. Finally, the apartment went quiet. The front door closed and locked. Footsteps approached the bedroom.
I opened my eyes as Jesse walked in.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said softly.
I chuckled, which hurt, but I didn’t care. “I was waiting for them to leave, so that I could finally be alone with you.”
Her expression turned tender, heated and careful all at once. I knew what she was thinking. Hell, I was thinking it too. We hadn’t been intimate since before the accident, and my body was starting to remember what it missed, even if it was in no condition to do anything about it.
But that wasn’t what I needed most right now. What I needed was her presence, her warmth, the simple comfort of knowing she was here.
“Thanks for everything, Jesse.” My voice was rougher than I had intended. “Thanks for being here. The gifts were great, but the best part was coming home to you.”
She smiled, that beautiful smile that made my chest ache with love.
“I wanted to wait until everyone was gone to give you my present,” she said.
I blinked in surprise. “This whole party, bringing me home, and putting up with me is enough. You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Yet I did.”
She pulled something from the closet—a canvas, not too large, but substantial. She held it up, and my breath caught.
It was a painting of us. Not literally us, but a metaphor of us.
Two figures intertwined, abstract but unmistakable, made of fragmented pieces stitched together in a mosaic of meaning.
It reminded me of kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold, making the cracks part of the beauty.
The colors were warm—golds, ambers and deep reds—and there was something about the way the brushstrokes moved that made it feel alive. Love, captured in oil and canvas.
Below, there was a hand-painted message: I see your scars, and I still think you are the most beautiful person in the world.
“I do,” she said quietly.
My throat closed up. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. My Adam’s apple bobbed as I swallowed hard, trying to get control of the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
“Wow. This is beautiful, Jess. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
I reached out to take the painting, and she let me hold it even though I knew she was worried I’d drop it.
I stared at it, taking in every detail—the way she’d layered the colors, the movement in the composition, the vivid intimacy of it.
This wasn’t something she’d painted for a client or for a gallery.
This was personal. This was her heart, stitches and all.
I handed it back to her, not trusting myself to hold it any longer.
“Thank you.” My voice was gruff. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Can I get you anything?”
“Just you. I know it’s early, but I really want to go to sleep, knowing you’re with me.”
“Give me five minutes.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I lay there, the weight of the day settling over me.
My body hurt everywhere. Miles had texted earlier to say they were managing fine without me, which was both reassuring and vaguely insulting.
I couldn’t ride my motorcycle anymore, not that I’d want to after this. I couldn’t even shower by myself.
But Jesse was here. She’d saved my life, stayed by my side, brought me home. She’d painted me something so beautiful it made my soul ache.
The word for next year was ‘gratitude,’ and lying here, I understood why I’d chosen it.
I was grateful for every painful breath, every aching muscle, every reminder that I was still alive.
Grateful that the brakes had failed on a city street and not a highway.
Grateful that I’d worn my helmet. Grateful that Jesse had O negative blood.
Grateful that I’d get to wake up tomorrow and see her face.
She came back quickly, dressed in sleep shorts and a T-shirt, her face scrubbed clean. She stretched out on the bed beside me, careful not to jostle the pillow supporting my arm.
“Now everything feels right,” I said, smiling.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time since the accident, I felt safe. Not just physically safe, but safe in the deeper sense—safe to be vulnerable, safe to be weak, safe to need someone. Jesse made me feel that way.
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but it was the best sleep I’d had in days.
* * *
A starving Robin woke me the following morning. The kitten was yowling as though he’d been abandoned on a desert island for weeks, pacing across my chest with his tiny, surprisingly heavy paws. Each step sent a spike of pain through my ribs.
“Robin, buddy, get off,” I mumbled.
Jesse stirred beside me, then jolted awake. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Let me—”
She scooped up the kitten and hurried out of the room, whispering apologies to both of us. I heard the sound of cat food hitting a bowl, then the shower running.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, taking inventory. My shoulder hurt. My ribs hurt. My leg hurt. But it was a different kind of hurt than yesterday—less acute, more manageable. My body was remembering how to function, one painful breath at a time.
The shower turned off. I heard Jesse moving around the apartment, the coffee maker gurgling, cabinets opening and closing. The smell of fresh coffee drifted into the bedroom. My stomach growled.
When she came back to get dressed, I was waiting for her.
“Hey, beautiful, how about helping me up and into the bathroom? Then, I’d kill for a cup of coffee and some of your scrambled eggs.”
She laughed. “My scrambled eggs could kill you.”
I shook my head, grinning. “Nothing made with love can ever hurt me.”
It was cheesy as hell, but I meant it. I’d survived a motorcycle accident, emergency surgery, and three days in the ICU. I could survive Jesse’s cooking.
Besides, I had to get well quickly to pull off the surprise that the accident had postponed.