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The hospital Chance volunteered at always smelled the same. Sterile, too clean, like they were trying to scrub away the reality of pain and fear. But Chance still showed up every Tuesday, slinging his bag of board games over one shoulder, greeting the reception nurses with a familiar wave.
He did it for the kids. For the way their faces lit up when he unpacked dice and figurines, setting up little campaigns and adventures just for them. For the ones who couldn’t leave their beds but still got to feel like heroes for an hour. But today—
Today, there was a boy who looked just like Parker.
Not exactly, of course. But something about his eyes, the way his shoulders curled inward in pain, the way he tried to laugh through it. He was maybe seven or eight, and recovering from a spinal surgery caused by a car accident that left him with a brace and a tremble in his voice when he moved. Chance watched him roll a die with shaking hands, trying not to wince when he leaned forward too fast.
It was like watching a ghost of Parker’s pain. Like watching someone else hurt with the same kind of stubborn bravery.
Chance hadn’t known Parker when they were little, but he’d seen photos. Parker was left with 5 damaged discs, and life long problems after a car accident, at the exact same age.
When it happened, Parker was forced to re-learn everything. Wiggling his toes, lifting his arms above his head, holding a cup steady enough to drink water from, and walking.
Chance’s hands shook as he rubbed them over his face, dragging his glasses up to rest on his forehead before letting them fall back into place.
He didn’t cry at the hospital. Not in front of the kid. Not when the little boy sat in his wheelchair with both legs braced, his tiny hand gripping Chance’s as they played Connect Four. Not when he smiled and said, “I wanna walk again, like I did before my Mommy’s car got hit Mr. Chance.”
Chance had nodded. Swallowed the lump in his throat. And smiled back. “You will Mylo, I know you will.”
But he wasn’t at the hospital anymore.
His heart beat was too loud, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
He barely made it to the car before his knees gave out. One arm hung on the steering wheel as he buried his face into his other hand, his whole chest tight with the pressure of unshed tears. He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. He’d seen kids before. Kids with casts, kids with feeding tubes, kids who didn’t even know they were sick, kids who didn’t understand death, and yet were dying.
But this one looked just like Parker. Not now — not adult Parker, not the grinning, smug, lovingly annoying partner who stole his hoodies and chewed on pen caps — but younger Parker. Seven years old. Shaky-legged. In braces. Determined, stubborn, crying through physical therapy but never giving up. Chance had seen pictures, sure. He’d heard Parker talk about it once or twice, voice quiet and far away.
But seeing that little boy today made it real. Made the pain real. The accident. The recovery. The invisible weight Parker carried every single day — the nerve damage, the flare-ups, the way some mornings he couldn’t even stand without holding onto the wall. Chance had always known. But now he felt it. Like a cold hand wrapped around his ribs. And now he couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t sob. Not loudly. But the tears spilled hot and silent down his cheeks, soaking the fabric of his sweater as he clutched it tight, shoulders shaking. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to come home and hug Parker and say I love you, I’m proud of you, you’re a fucking miracle — but all he could do was break, quietly, into his own hands.
—
Chance stood in the doorway. The moment the lock clicked behind him, his shoulders caved. Like he’d been holding himself upright for hours with tape and string, and it had all snapped the second he crossed the threshold. His keys dropped into the bowl with a clatter that sounded much too loud, and he leaned there for a second, braced against the doorframe, his forehead pressed to the cool wood. Breathing. Trying.
He still saw the kid. The wide brown eyes. The too-big hospital gown. The wheels of his wheelchair scraping against the tiled floor. He’d smiled at Chance. A crooked, gap-toothed grin full of bravery and pain. And all Chance could see—all he could see—was Parker. Seven years old, with bruises under his eyes and bandages down his back, fists clenched in agony every time they asked him to take another step.
Chance barely made it to the kitchen before the tears started. Not big ones, not yet. Just the kind that burn—hot, tired, scared tears that pool in the corners and don’t fall unless you blink. “Baby?” came Parker’s voice, soft from the couch.
Chance blinked. The tears fell.
Parker moved slowly—today had been rough, his back aching from hours of hunching over little kids, teaching them to hold bats correctly and not trip over their own feet. But the second he saw Chance, he forgot all of it. Because Chance looked wrecked. Like the kind of wreck that doesn’t come from traffic or rain or stress, but from something older. Something deeper.
“Hey,” Parker said, gentler now, easing closer. “C’mere.” Chance didn’t speak. He just walked straight into Parker’s arms and let himself fold down to his knees. His face pressed against Parker’s stomach, and Parker held his head, fingers carding slowly through his hair. “I’m here,” Parker whispered. “I got you.”
And then, quietly, Chance broke. Shoulders shaking, fingers digging into the back of Parker’s shirt like he was afraid he might vanish. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was grief and memory and love, all tangled up into one long, trembling inhale. Parker didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. Instead, he sat back on the couch, letting Chance curl up with him, legs tucked awkwardly, body too big to fit properly but refusing to move away. He kissed the top of Chance’s head. His temple. His jaw. Every place he could reach, until the shaking started to fade.
—
After a long while, Chance finally murmured, “He looked just like you.”
Parker blinked. His heart stuttered. “A kid?”
Chance nodded. “He… he was learning to walk again. After a car accident.” The words hung there.
Parker’s breath caught, and his hand instinctively moved to the small of his back, where the worst of the old pain lived—still flaring up sometimes on the worst days. “Oh,” he said softly.
Chance sat up, wiping at his eyes. “I just kept thinking—God, he’s seven. That’s how old you were. And no one should ever have to be that strong that young. I just—” He broke off. Swallowed hard. “You were. You still are.”
Parker reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I didn’t feel strong,” he said quietly. “Most days, I just felt scared. But I had people helping me. Therapists. Nurses. Family. And now I have you. He has you.” Chance looked at him like he was the sun.
—
That night, they didn’t talk much more. They didn’t have to. Parker made them tea. Chance drew a bath—salt, lavender, candles flickering on the windowsill. They sat together in the warm water, wrapped in each other’s arms, Parker resting against Chance’s chest, his fingers tracing slow, absent circles over his forearm. When Parker tilted his head up for a kiss, Chance gave it to him like a promise. Not hurried. Not urgent. Just full. Reverent. Grateful. Parker whispered against his lips, “You take such good care of me.”
And Chance, voice hoarse from crying but steadier now, whispered back, “You’re everything to me.”
Parker’s heart clenched. “Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled Chance closer, kissed the top of his head. “You’re such a caring man. Sometimes for your own good.”
Chance let out a broken noise, muffled against Parker’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to be in pain. I don’t want anyone to be in pain. It’s not fair.”
“I know,” Parker whispered. “But I’m okay now. You’re here. I’m here. We’re okay.” And slowly, Chance let himself believe that.