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You sat in your car for a long time. You knew that someone named Romero was expecting you, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about being late. The before-you would have broken out into hives about not being ten minutes early, but now, it seemed so unimportant. You were halfway tempted to go back home, but Romero would tattle on you to your physical therapist and to your mental health therapist and you wouldn’t hear the end of it for weeks.
Sighing, you swung open your door and grabbed your elbow crutches from the passenger seat. Still managing to get them stuck on the console, you had to awkwardly contort your body to unstick them and finally hoist yourself out of your car. Your right leg worked just fine, but the left, that bitch, was weak and in pain almost constantly. Today it felt like a mild burning, but that was kind in comparison to most days.
Grumbling under your breath, you continued your slow walk to the front door of the nondescript building. The faded sign out front said “Sam’s Boxing and Martial Arts.” Well, fuck Sam and fuck his martial arts. And fuck life for putting you here.
Easing the door open, you were greeted with a rubbery, sweaty smell. How enticing, you thought. You surveyed the gym. It was in one of those weird warehouses that seemed to always exist between a sketchy looking mechanic and a random flooring store. The garage door was open and the inside was probably as big as half a football field. It seemed much smaller on the outside.
There were about half a dozen people scattered around the space, all of them already sweating, already moving like this was somewhere they actually wanted to be. The gym itself had exposed beams, concrete walls, and rows of worn black mats taped together. Industrial fans rattled overhead, pushing warm, stale air around.
There was only one wall of mirrors, instead of encompassing the whole place. No shitty inspirational slogans. Just heavy bags thudding against the walls and the low, constant noise of bodies in motion. So far it was the only promising part of this place. Your physical therapist had fucking obnoxious posters on the wall you wanted to rip down about once a minute.
One man near the center of the mats was hard to miss. Short, thick through the shoulders, built like someone had carved him out of a block of stone and forgotten to include the roundness most humans had. He was barefoot, warm brown hands wrapped, quietly correcting another guy’s grip. His shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent lights; he had a mole above his right ear. Despite the fact he hadn’t looked at you yet, you had the uncomfortable feeling he already knew you were there.
Off to the side, in the weight area, a freckled, silver-haired man was finishing a set on the bench press. Middle-aged, fit, and clearly disciplined. He was missing his right leg. Next to the bench sat a wheelchair, scuffed with a single “Go Army” sticker. When he sat up and transferred into it, he did it smoothly, without hesitation. You were jealous of his ease and competence, thinking back at how your crutches had been caught less than five minutes ago. He caught your glance and gave a brief nod, neutral and unreadable, before rolling toward the dumbbell rack.
Two women were drilling on the other set of mats nearby. One tall with alabaster skin, her braid swinging as she corrected her partner’s foot placement. The other was shorter, sturdier, with dark brown, almost black skin, moving slowly through ground transitions, clearly in insane control of every muscle and joint in her body. Even the before-you couldn’t do that. Neither of them stared at you. They barely acknowledged you at all, which was a relief.
The rest of the men filled out the space in various stations—one shadowboxing and an older guy stretching his hips with a bright pink foam roller.
You tightened your grip on your crutches, your left leg already burning in that familiar, irritating way. Of course this place was smelly and too hot. Of course it was full of people who looked like they actually wanted to move their bodies. Filled with people whose bodies hadn’t betrayed them. At least the silver fox wasn’t stuck with the crippling pain you were dealing with.
A voice finally cut through the noise. “You can leave your stuff over there. Shoes off and keep your water.”
You looked up to see the short, muscular guy nodding toward a battered wooden bench lined with gym bags and water bottles. You suspected this was Romero. His tone was neutral, and he pointed to a tilted cubby shelf. You didn’t bring much, so you took off your sweatshirt, slowly removed your shoes, wincing, and shoved them and your phone into a shitty cubby.
You made your way toward the bench, every step a sharp pain from your nerves. No one hovered or even looked at you. They just kept doing what they were doing. It was the first time no one paid attention to you.
It felt weird. You didn’t want pity…well, maybe you wanted a little bit of pity. You certainly felt pitiful.
“I’m Romero,” he said. His voice was low and gravely. He held out his hand. You shook it. You might be a simmering bottle of anger, but you were still polite.
“This is the regular crew. Marci and T’neysha are sparring. Gregory is over there on the bag. Richard is stretching is old man body—”
“Fuck off!” Called Richard. He was the man on the pink foam roller.
“—and Jack is over there by the dumbbells. He’s a talker and it’s all weird.”
“I don’t pay the gym fees to get bullied,” Jack said good naturedly.
“At some point I’ll have you working with him on a few things. He’s been without a leg for a while and I’m sure he’ll have some tips for you,” Romero continued, barely cracking a smile.
“Because all cripples want to know each other,” you grumbled under your breath. Romero probably didn’t hear but you muttered a quiet, “Sorry,” just in case.
“Look, your PT is a friend of mine. He gave me the overview of what you’re dealing with. You will always be in pain, and if you don’t accept that now you’ll just be making it harder on yourself. Take the resources, and do that work. It isn’t fair, but it’s the hand you’ve been dealt. I don’t tolerate self-pity.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Fine,” you said. “I’ll keep the pity with my keys.”
“Good. First thing I’m going to do is teach you how to fall.”
You followed him to the edge of the mats, irritation simmering just under your skin. The floor looked soft until you actually sat down, the dense rubber immediately upsetting your hips and spine—both of which were far more sensitive after your accident.
Romero dropped down across from you with the kind of ease that made your joints feel like shitty bargain basement acquisitions and not a part of your body evolved to actually work.
“The most important thing for mobility disabilities,” he said, “is learning how to fall and get off the ground without hurting yourself.”
You snorted. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already an expert at falling.”
He didn’t smile. “The kind of falling that won’t cause you searing pain.”
Even to your grumpy, pissed off brain—that didn’t sound bad.
He showed you how to lower yourself to one hip instead of collapsing straight down, using your hands to guide the motion and keep your weight off your bad leg, and how to do it without hurting your wrists or arms. He showed you what to do when your leg gave out or when you lost your balance.
“Lean away from your bad side, catch yourself with your arms. Keep your head up.”
You tried it. Your left leg complained immediately, but the movement didn’t send pain shooting up your body like usual. That was…fucking annoying. You had been prepared to hate this more. Unfortunately, it was turning out to be useful.
“Again,” Romero said.
You did it again. Less wobble this time. For the next thirty minutes Romero had you fall, slide, and one time he even pushed you, all to make sure you could land without hurting yourself. Next, he had you practice rolling onto your back from your side without twisting your leg. Then rolling back up again, using your arms and core instead of momentum.
“Your legs help when they can,” he said. “Your upper body does the rest.”
You gritted your teeth through the burn in your arms. At least arm pain felt earned instead of appearing without warning and ruining your day.
After a few minutes, Romero demonstrated a basic breakfall—slapping the mat with his arm as he leaned back to disperse the impact. It was more technique than what you started with.
“You’re not landing flat,” he clarified, already anticipating the glare you were giving him. “We’re training muscle memory. You don’t want to think about it when it happens.”
He had you practice the arm movement alone first. Then the lean. Then the controlled descent, stopping well before your back hit the mat.
“Chin tucked. Don’t let your head whip.”
You followed his instructions, stiff and suspicious, but nothing screamed in protest. No sharp pain. No electric fire down your leg. Just the dull, familiar burn that never really left.
Romero watched your form. “Good. This will help make sure you don’t reinjure yourself.”
He moved on to showing you how to shift your weight on the mat, how to scoot backward using your hands, how to turn without twisting your knee, how to get from sitting to lying down without feeling like gravity was personally singling you out.
The work was deeply unglamorous. Ilya, your physical therapist, had insisted that martial arts would help your body. Maybe it would help it heal, but more likely it would just help you learn how to live in your new reality. Illya, in his slight Slavic accent had said,
“I helped you walk. Romero will help you run, metaphorically. I don’t recommend running right now.”
“I’d rather die,” you snapped.
“But then you’d ruin my hardwork,” he pouted and you couldn’t help the small snort.
By the time Romero finally nodded and said, “That’s enough for today,” your shoulders ached, your leg burned, and your patience was hanging by a thread.
“That’s it?” you asked.
“For day one,” he replied. “You learned how to fall and with one fucked up leg, you’ll be falling a lot.”
Rude. You thought.
You reached for your crutches, irritation simmering in your chest. You weren’t inspired. You weren’t grateful. You weren’t magically okay with any of this, but at least the next time you fell you wouldn’t need help getting up.
As you gingerly limped back to your car, you heard someone call your name. You paused and looked behind you. Jack was rolling up beside you. He had a gym bag in his lap and was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
“I’m Jack,” he said.
“Romero mentioned,” you replied. Your tone was short.
“How long ago were you hurt?”
“Seven months.”
“Ah, still angry at the world then?” He asked.
“So what if I am?”
He held up his hand and said, “You should be. It sucks. But at some point that anger will eat you alive.”
“And how would you know?”
It was a dumb question and you both knew it.
He handed you a piece of paper, and said. “Look, if you’re ever thinking about taking the exit lane from life, give me a call first.”
“I don’t know you, dude,” you said.
“You don’t, but I’ve been where you are. Sometimes, days like today even, it feels like a million knives are stabbing a leg I don’t have anymore.”
“You’re still in pain?”
“Phantom limb pain. The leg is gone, but the brain is having a hard time with it. Or that’s the theory. It hurts like a bitch.”
“Nerve injury from a car accident,” you said quietly. “Got hit by a soccer mom running late for school pick up.”
“Rough. Mine was war, so I have some great survivor’s guilt to go with mine,” Jack joked. You almost smiled. Hell, a corner of your lip twitched. “If you haven’t, a therapist is a really smart call after an injury like this.”
“I have one,” you said.
“Well, look, I’m here most mornings after I get off work, so as you start coming more often, don’t be a stranger. We have to stick together.”
He rolled away and you couldn’t help but feel grudgingly charmed by the man.
You didn’t become a regular overnight. For the first month, you showed up once a week, sometimes twice if Ilya guilt-tripped you hard enough. Romero never commented on the gaps. He just adjusted the session to wherever your body was that day. Some days it was still all about falling without panicking, learning how to hit the mat without sending lightning bolts of pain up your spine. Other days he introduced basic jiu-jitsu positions—seated guard, side control, simple grip work.
You learned how to be present in a body you still hated.
Romero and Ilya collaborated on a strength training and conditioning program. You found yourself stronger than the before-you. Your body looked largely the same. There weren’t crazy muscles or sudden weight loss, but you were stronger in practical ways—ways that made sure you wouldn’t make your already chronic pain worse.
Your left leg didn’t get stronger the way people liked to romanticize. It still burned, still dragged, still felt unreliable. But the rest of you adapted. Your arms grew steadier. Your core tightened. Your balance improved. You learned how to shift your weight without thinking about it, how to lower yourself without fear, how to fall and roll and get back up without the humiliation of needing help. Pain didn’t disappear—but it stopped being your driving force.
By the third month, Romero trusted you enough to let you work with partners. Carefully chosen ones. Marci, with her ever present braid, showed you how to maintain control from the ground without relying on your legs. T’neysha demonstrated pressure techniques that used body positioning instead of brute force, most of which came from leg strength you didn’t have anymore.
Your awareness changed in subtle ways. You stopped flinching every time someone bumped into you. You stopped freezing when your balance slipped. You learned where your limits actually were, instead of assuming everything hurt too much to try. Some days you left sore and irritated. Other days you left tired and quietly proud, which annoyed you more than the soreness ever had.
Your attendance crept up. Twice a week became three times. Three times became “whenever your schedule allowed”. Romero started adding real techniques—chokes from seated positions, grip breaks, defensive frames. He never pretended your leg wasn’t an issue. He just showed you how to work around it without making it your entire identity.
Five months in and you were still angry, still in pain more often than not, but going to the gym—seeing Marci and T’neysha, seeing Jack, Richard and Gregory, even Romero—it became the highlight of your day. Some days the pain was too intense and kept you home, but those days someone would always text you, keep you updated on whatever nonsense job Gegory had now or what weird post-retirement hobby Richard had picked up.
Jack became part of your routine without either of you officially acknowledging it. He was always there after his shifts, stretching, lifting, or just sitting on the mat talking to whoever wandered by. Sometimes he rolled with you in slow, controlled sessions that focused more on what he jokingly-not-jokingly called “the legless technique”; you were never quite sure what was irony and what was genuine with him. Still, he never pushed you to move faster than you wanted. He never treated you like you were fragile, either.
“How’s the nerve pain today?” he asked once.
“Hurts,” you replied.
“Have you tried just not hurting?”
“Fuck off, Abbot,” you grumbled but even you could tell a tiny smile appeared on your face.
By month six, your body felt different, like it was familiar again. You trusted it more. You knew how to fall. You knew how to protect yourself. You knew how to exist in physical space without worrying about what happened if your leg gave out on you. The gym no longer felt hostile.
Your attitude softened in small, unremarkable ways. You still complained. Still swore. Still rolled your eyes at Romero’s blunt coaching style. But you also stayed after sessions sometimes. Sometimes, you and Marci would get coffee, or you and T’neysha would go to trivia. You laughed at Jack’s dry, self-deprecating jokes more often than you meant to.
It all culminated into your terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. You were halfway through a slow, controlled sparring round when it hit. One second you were focused on your grips, on keeping your balance, on not letting your bad leg fold under you—and the next, a sharp, electric burn tore down your left side like someone flipped a switch inside your nerves. Your left leg went heavy, useless, pain radiating in jagged lines that steal the air from your lungs.
You were kneeling and fell. Distantly you realized all the practice falling had paid off. Romero backed off and asked you something, but you couldn’t quite get your brain to piece together his words. You managed to say,
“Bad flare,” before gritting your teeth as your leg twitched uncontrollably. The muscle had already locked up and all you could do was lay on the mat desperately trying to catch your breath.
You felt Romero leave, probably going to get ice or heat or whatever you told him you needed when the pain got bad like this. That had been months ago and you don’t even remember what you said.
Then you felt a cool, wet cloth on your face. In your vision you saw Jack…and maybe T’neysha but she had switched out her neon colored Bantu knots for her natural afro, so the darker color made it harder for your spotty vision to pick her out. Jack was saying something to T’neysha, who took over Jack’s spot and continued to cradle your head while keeping the cool cloth (compress maybe?) on your face.
You weren’t sure where he went, but you felt a soft touch on your bad ankle. It was being lifted and repositioned, just slightly elevated. It took some of the pressure off your limb. Then you heard him say,
“Hey, follow our breathing. You’re hyperventilating.”
It took, what felt like, an eternity. But slowly your breathing slowed and you felt your body relax. Your leg was still on fire, but you were able to sit up finally. T’neysha stayed close, ensuring you had someone to lean on if you needed.
“Thank you, both,” you said.
Romero re-appeared with your water bottle and a wheel chair. It was Jack’s that he kept in the back of his car just in case.
“We’ll get you home so you can rest,” you didn’t like how soft Romero’s voice got.
“Gross, don’t get sentimental on me,” you grumbled.
Between the three of them, they helped you into the chair. You could have done it yourself, but you didn’t need to. Huh, it was the first time you could remember not feeling angry about needing help.
“I’ll drive you, I need to get home anyways,” Jack said.
“Anyone else, please,” you said, trying to joke. It came off too weak and breathy.
“The rest of us have real jobs,” T’neysha said, with mock sympathy. Even though they had seen you collapse, they were still talking to you normally.
“And what the fuck is a marketing specialist, T’neysha?” You asked with a strained grin.
She laughed and said, “I’ll text you tonight.”
“It’s almost like you like me.”
She snorted and handed Jack your bag and crutches. “Need help transferring?”
You thought about it and then said, “Yes please. You’re stronger than Jack.”
“Hell yeah I am,” she said.
Jack just gave a long suffering sigh.
Together he and T’neysha managed to get you out to Jack’s car. An older, but well maintained Subaru. It had a hard shell case on the roof, and you couldn’t begin to imagine what it held.
You told Jack your address and then focused on your breathing for most of the drive. The nice thing about being in a tremendous amount of pain, is that you didn’t have brain space to worry about how clean your apartment was or if you did your dishes the night before.
Thankfully, you could use your crutches and get out on your own power by the time the car stopped, but Jack insisted on making sure you got inside. He unlocked your door and found himself in your apartment.
It wasn’t the first time he imagined where you lived. Although, most of the time he was learning the layout in his mind's eye while fantasizing about your hands on him, his on yours, and maybe—if he was lucky—his name on your lips while he made you fall apart.
But he knew you weren’t ready for romance. You were barely accepting of friendships. It had taken T’neysha and him both to strategize on how to befriend you. Maybe it was creepy there was a whole gym effort in becoming your friend, but the first couple months you had been in such a dark place. It radiated off of you.
Even Richard, a man whose glasses were thicker than his finger, could see you were struggling.
And it had worked. It took nearly six months, but you were friends now. And Jack didn’t plan on jeopardizing that. So instead, he helped you onto your couch, enjoyed peeking at your decor and the messy kitchen from the previous night’s dinner, and asked if you wanted him to get you anything.
“My muscle relaxers are on the counter by my fridge. Can you grab the bottle and something to drink. Help yourself if you want something.”
Jack did as you asked and even snagged one of those canned coffee drinks for himself. He was running on fumes about now. He sat down next to you with the pills and you said,
“Feel free to take a second. You look exhausted.”
“Might as well,” he said.
It was the last thing he remembered before jolting awake a few hours later.
The TV was on but muted, playing some show he didn’t recognize. You had moved, sitting in the recliner with your laptop on a rolling desk in front of you. Your leg was still elevated, still twitching occasionally, but your color looked better and you seemed less fraught with pain. He glanced at the clock and realized he’d been asleep for almost five hours.
It was nearly lunch time.
“I’m so sorry,” he croaked.
“Don’t worry about it. It was nice to have company,” you said softly. He wanted to read into that very badly.
“I was about to order something for lunch, do you want anything?”
He wanted to go back home and go to bed, but the idea of staying here a little longer, continuing to be in your presence, a little longer. Well, it was impossible to say no. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he nodded.
“I can’t say no to food,” he yawned.
Once the food had been ordered, you pushed the desk away and stood using your elbow crutch. You had changed out of your workout clothes, leggings and a tshirt, into the shorts and shirt you wore now. It was the first time he had seen you in clothes other than the ones you wore to the gym. It was the first time he saw your leg.
It was covered in surgery and trauma scars. No wonder you had so many issues. It was a miracle you survived, if the jagged red line over your femoral artery had anything to say about it. You were still slow on your feet, and he found himself asking,
“Why don’t you have a wheelchair for days like this?”
“Insurance won’t cover it,” you replied. “The evil healthcare overlords don’t think I’m disabled enough. My job pays decently well, so I’ll be able to save up for one over the next year or so.”
“Tale as old as time,” he replied.
“You would know.”
“Ouch,” he laughed. “I’ll have you know I’m a very spritely forty-eight.”
“Ah, so your hair called it quits early then,” you said.
“It liked the early retirement my leg took,” he replied deadpanned.
You cracked a smile and Jack couldn’t help the welling of pride in his chest.
“Well, I’m sure all your patients are comforted by your…experienced appearance,” you snarked back.
“I drove you home and you’re bullying me?” He laughed.
“No, I’m bullying the man who fell asleep on my couch and snored like a cartoon character.”
“I do not snore.”
“I swear to god, Abbot, you honk-shoo-ed.”
“You’re lying,” he replied, eyes narrowed. You just shrugged.
“You’ll never know.”
He couldn’t help the incredulous laugh. “You’re funny when you let yourself be.”
“Ugh, don’t say that weird ‘you’re too cool to be angry’ bullshit,” you warned. It was light, compared to some of your harsher comments but he winced nonetheless.
“Sorry, I’m used to being the fucked up one,” he snorted.
“You?” It wasn’t hard to hear the incredulity.
“Compared to my coworkers, sure. I’m a widowed, amputee riddled with PTSD.”
“I didn’t know you were widowed,” you replied quietly.
He frowned, “Did you think I hated my wife or something? I don’t act married.”
“I just thought you were hung up on the woman who left you,” you shrugged.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
You shrugged again. Is this what people felt like when they talked to him? No wonder they were unsettled.
“Do you want to compare trauma then?” You asked a bit sharper.
“No,” Jack huffed. “I’d win and that’s not fair to you.”
He knew the conversation had taken a turn you didn’t like, but even one of his more shitty jokes managed to break the tensions.
“Congratulations, do you want a trophy? I’m sure I can get one engraved for you.”
“I’m going to say no because you seem like the kind of person who would do that.”
You just smirked at him.
The conversation ebbed and flowed until the food arrived. You talked and snarked and by the end of lunch, Jack was full and happy. He was exhausted, but his heart felt warm in a way it hadn’t in years.
“Do you want me to pick you up for the gym tomorrow? Your car is still over there.”
“Huh, guess it is. I can uber if it’s out of your way.” You said.
“No, it’s not.” It was about fifteen minutes out of his way.
“Well…sure, why not. My therapy homework was to accept help this week and if I’m not getting an A plus in therapy I’ll kill myself.”
“That does not sound like A plus reasoning.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. Either I’m actively suicidal or I care too much about being the best at therapy.”
“Oh well, if those are the choices,” he snickered. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, sound good?”
“Sure, thanks Abbot,” you told him softly.
That night, you couldn’t sleep and for the first time in a long time you couldn’t blame it on your leg. You kept thinking about Jack. You told yourself you’re just grateful: he didn’t panic, that he didn’t treat you like glass, that he didn’t pretend everything was fine or try to fix what can’t be fixed.
Everyone else in your life either tiptoed around the truth or steamrolled you with optimism, like if they act hopeful enough you’ll magically feel hopeful too. Jack didn’t do either. He enjoyed getting under your skin and pestering you. He treated you normally.
And that was the problem. Because now, lying in the quiet with your leg still twitching and your brain far too awake, you realized you didn’t just feel supported, everyone was supportive—which is nice if not suffocating at times. You felt seen. You like the way he laughed at your sharp jokes instead of trying to sanitize you into the perfect disability example. He understood the days when the pain was so much and you were simply angry.
You liked him.
Which was deeply inconvenient, mildly terrifying, and absolutely not something you had the emotional bandwidth to deal with right now.
Jack picked you up exactly when he said he would. Unfortunately for him, you had peaked out the window and saw his car about ten minutes previous to his text’s arrival. Your phone buzzed exactly at 7:30 on the dot. It was endearing and dorky.
You managed out of your apartment and out to his car. He even got out to get the door for you. With narrowed eyes you said,
“My leg is fucked up, not my hands Abbot.”
“And if my mom, god rest her soul, ever learned I didn’t open a car door for a nice woman, she’d haunt me. And she was mean.”
“Nice woman is an overstatement at best,” you scoffed.
“Okay, slightly prickly but funny woman.”
You thought for a moment, “Yeah, alright.”
“So kind,” he grumbled.
No one at the gym said anything about yesterday. They didn’t react or treat you any differently. Well, that’s not exclusively true. Marci made a joke about Jack taking you home the previous day and then both of you showing up together.
Her long limbs were stretching out in downward dog. As Jack walked by her, he nudged her hip and sent her falling down on the mat. She laughed and made kissing noises at him. The ribbing seemed more focused on him than you, which you were grateful for.
“What’s Jack like in bed, then?” Gregory asked. He was getting better about bantering with everyone.
“He took me to my apartment, and fell asleep before anything could happen. Apparently, looks aren’t everything,” you replied. The group laughed and it was hard not to preen under the attention. You barely noticed you had called him attractive. There was a flush on Jack’s cheeks and you weren’t sure if yours or Gregory’s comments caused it.
The tittering stopped when Romero clapped. Thursdays were conditioning days which meant you were going to be on the ski machine for more time than you cared to acknowledge. The accommodations for your leg were trying, but it did mean you were close to nailing the pistol squat.
It was weird being physically stronger than before your accident but overall still weaker. Just because you could squat on your good leg and bench press heavy weights didn’t take away from the fact a simple flare up took you down for an entire day, sometimes more than one. It was a weird juxtaposition you had difficulty reconciling.
“How’s the leg today?” Romero asked.
“More sore than usual, walking is about my limit today,” you said.
“Got it, start at the ski machine,” he instructed.
“Who could have seen that coming,” you mocked.
Romero narrowed his eyes at you, but even his serious face chiseled from rock couldn’t disguise the hint of a smile.
“I can see your smile.”
“Fuck off. Get to work.”
Conditioning days felt like eternity while you were doing them, a rotating cycle of machines and expertly accommodated Romero-approved suffering. The SkiErg, the kettlebells, the bars, the mat circuits that left your arms shaking and your good leg screaming for mercy. Jack always seemed to end up on whatever station was closest to yours, rarely ever looking your way. He was just always there. Everytime you spied him from the corner of your eye he wasn’t paying attention to you. But you swore you could feel his eyes on you.
When you moved to resistance bands, he grabbed a set from the same rack. When Romero sent you to the sled, Jack was already loading plates on the lane beside you. It never felt deliberate enough to call out, but it happened too often to ignore.
You told yourself it was a coincidence. The gym wasn’t that big. The equipment wasn’t infinite. Jack wasn’t the type to trail people around like a lost puppy. Still, there he was—sweating through intervals, stretching on the mat a few feet away, and drinking water from the same beat-up fountain. He just existed in your orbit, like this was the most natural place in the world for him to be. And for reasons you weren’t ready to unpack, it started to feel natural to you too.
By the end of the session you had collapsed onto the mat, muscles quaking with on-purpose exertion instead of uncontrollable nerve pain. Jack walked by and handed you your water bottle. Grateful, you leaned up just enough to drink. His eyes stayed on you studying and almost…memorizing your sweaty face.
“What are you looking at?” You asked.
That seemed to snap him out of his reverie.
“Sorry, uh, zoned out.”
“Whatever you say old man,” you replied.
“Old man,” he scoffed, stomping away. You couldn’t help but smirk.
You had been down and out for nearly a week. You had been in so much pain that even the strongest NSAIDs weren’t touching it. Your neurologist finally told you to go to the ER in an attempt for more controlled pain meds. It wasn’t something you were looking forward to; you had heard the horror stories. Moreover, you were so new to being disabled, you didn’t really know what to do or say.
After a few reddit threads and changing into the nicest sweatpants you owned, you grabbed your bag and made your way to the hospital. The waiting room was a mess. It was overcrowded and full of people who should really be in urgent care. What you would give for the ability to go to urgent care.
Checking in was easy. You weren’t asked any questions you didn’t know and they already had your chart. It was a specific choice on your part to go to the hospital where your neurologist was located—you didn’t know much about healthcare but you assumed that the files transferred easier.
The first hour in the waiting room, you were able to distract yourself from the all encompassing pain. People watching in an ER waiting room felt like watching a soap opera. You were positive that the couple near the left corner of the room were one snarky comment away from breaking up, and the child across the aisle from you had watched the same seven minute episode of Bluey twelve times. Their parent was mouthing along to each line of dialogue. Perhaps the most interesting person to watch was the man in a full suit, calmly sitting and reading the paper. He kept looking around like he was hoping someone noticed him reading an actual newspaper.
You quickly averted your eyes before he could see you staring. The first time you were called back was to get vitals and a quick history. The medical student looked exhausted, but they took your blood pressure–high–and your pulse—also high—before sending you back to the waiting room.
Hour two passed much the same but the pain in your leg was starting to feel like molten lava was crawling up your shin. Much of that hour passed with you listening to your audiobook tightly clenching your fists to try and distract your overworked brain. No amount of breathing or grounding techniques were working for you.
It wasn’t until the fourth hour that you were finally called back. They were kind enough to get a wheel chair for you. A few months ago you would have protested, but the leg had worn you down. It was no longer a hit to your pride to use mobility aids—it meant you were in less pain. You were in a curtained off section of the ER and with the crack in the curtain were able to watch people while mostly curled into a fetal position on your good side.
“Good evening,” a soft voice said. “I’m Grace.”
You looked up and a nurse was walking in. She asked you a lot of the same questions and you gave the same answers. Despite being new to this, you knew the drill—nothing was going to happen until a doctor saw you and that was still another hour away. At least in the bed you had a warm blanket and a bed to curl up in.
It was only thirty minutes before your curtain opened up and a doctor walked in. To your surprise it was Jack.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” you said, surprised.
“I wondered why I haven’t seen you in a few days,” he replied softly. “How’s the leg doing?”
“Well, I haven’t felt it, but I imagine this is what it would feel like if I dipped my leg in lava or acid maybe.”
“Should I mark you down as a 10 on the painscale?”
“Make it a 9, I feel like it could get worse,” you grumbled. He gave you a soft, comforting smile. You didn’t like it. You wanted him snarky. “Don’t be nice to me. I don’t like it.”
“Oh, well so sorry,” he griped. “If your pain is only at a 9 I can’t believe you thought you needed to come in. Did you try deep breathing?”
You snorted. “Thank you.”
“You’re an odd patient. Should I put in your chart you only liked to be negged?”
“Not from everyone, just you.”
“Just me?”
“You’re different. I don’t know what you want me to say,” you shrugged.
He paused and you watched him swallow harshly. “Well, I’m touched.”
“Please don’t be sincere when I’m considering cutting off my own leg,” you grumbled.
That got a laugh from him. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I dunno, it’s looking pretty good.”
“Well, I get a lot of the same pain and I have to deal with an expensive fake leg.”
“Is that why you chose an ugly one?” You inquired.
“You’re so mean,” he huffed, moving towards you. “You can request a new doctor if you want. I’ll have to inspect your leg.”
“You’ve pinned me to the ground multiple times Abbot, I don’t think my fucked up leg is going to change much. Not to mention…I trust you, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“Alright then, take off your pants.”
“Could at least say please first.”
“Pants,” he stated.
You rolled your eyes and uncurled from your fetal position. With a nurse's help you slid off your sweatpants. You suspected they were going to need to look at your leg, so you had on some spandex shorts under it, they didn’t cover much but they were better than sitting in your underwear.
Jack lightly examined your leg ensuring that none of your scars or recent surgery sites had any physical indication for your pain. Once he had finished, you were able to put your pants back on. He sat on the stool next to you and said,
“We’re going to give you a strong muscle relaxer and a nerve blocker. We’ll keep you here for an hour or so after giving you the medication, but you can’t drive home.”
“I didn’t drive here. I could barely stand,” you scoffed.
“I figured, but had to check. Grace will get you the medication and I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, okay?”
“Yeah, thanks Jack,” you said softly.
He squeezed your shoulder, saying, “No problem. Let us know if anything else feels amiss.”
You curled back on the uncomfortable bed again. The sounds from the ER hadn’t washed over you again, so you heard a deeper female voice ask,
“So that’s gym girl?”
“Ellis, don’t you have patients?” You heard Jack ask. He sounded exasperated.
“C’mon boss man, you gotta give me something. It has been a chill for a few hours.”
“Get your adrenaline somewhere other than my love life,” Jack sighed.
Love life?
Before you could continue thinking about whatever the fuck that comment meant, Grace came back in an IV and two vials of medication. One for the muscle relaxant and the other being the nerve block. Within a few minutes, your body relaxed as the sharp, hot pain that had been radiating through your leg began to abate. It still hurt like a bitch, but now it wasn’t the only thing your brain could focus on.
It made you sleepy and you began to realize how little sleep you’d gotten over the past few days. Moments after the pain became manageable, you were fast asleep, not even the cacophonous sound of a trauma alert roused you.
Some indeterminate time later, a soft hand was rubbing your shoulder saying your name.
“Hmm?”
“You gotta wake up, I need to get you checked on and hopefully discharged,” Jack said quietly.
You blinked heavily and wiped away the embarrassing bit of drool from your face. You would have cared more about it, but it was the first time in a few days you’d gotten any amount of sleep. Jack looked distinctly different than the last time you saw him. His shoulders were far more slumped and he had protective eyewear shoved up on the top of his head.
“Sorry,” you mumbled.
“Nothing to apologize for. You mentioned you hadn’t been sleeping. Frankly, I’m amazed you slept through everything.”
“Everything?”
“We got a nasty car accident after you got your meds. It was very loud in here for a bit,” he grimaced.
“What happened?”
“We lost a little girl,” he sighed.
He sat heavy on the side of your bed. You weren’t sure what to do here. Did you comfort the man? Did you hold his hand? Nothing sounded like a good option so you scooted over and patted the bed. Jack gave you a skeptical look and you just shrugged. He surreptitiously peered back towards the closed curtain and then slid up on the bed next to you.
You were both sitting shoulder to shoulder. It was a very tight fit, you were pressed against him, but he seemed to relax back into the bed.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. What have I missed at the gym?”
“Romero’s birthday,” he replied.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” You gasped. “I’ve never been more angry at this fuck ass leg than right now.”
“Because you missed Romero’s birthday?”
“Because I missed a chance to try and get a single facial expression from the man,” you said.
Jack snorted. “Don’t worry. It didn’t happen. Richard brought a cake his wife made. It was vegan, but frankly, some of the best cake I’ve had in years.”
“Damn. Anything else?”
“T’neysha brought a girl with her one morning and I think Marci freaked her out.”
“I thought T’neysha had a girlfriend?”
“So did we, but this girl was new and about ten years younger than she is.”
“Get it, T’neysha,” you replied.
You were sure you had text messages from everyone about this, but along with being in incredible amounts of pain, you just haven’t had the energy to keep yourself alive and also reply. Thankfully, your friends would understand, but it was such a new feeling of grief brought forth by this disability. It shouldn’t hurt to miss such mundane things, but it did.
“How are you feeling now?” Jack asked.
“Almost back to baseline,” you told him. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job,” he replied.
“According to the internet you were abnormally trusting,” you said.
“Well, I also know you and your neurologist.”
“You know Dr. Khandekar?” You asked.
“He’s the only neurologist that picks up night-time pages in a timely manner,” Jack told you.
“He’s scarily efficient,” you agreed. “How much longer is your shift?”
“I’m done once I discharge you,” he said. You glanced at your watch. It was only 3am. You knew most days he worked until seven. Briefly, you wondered if the car accident that seemed to have rattled him so much was part of the reason.
“How long will that take?”
“Not long. I’ll grab the paperwork for you right now,” he said.
Shortly thereafter, you paid—thank god for good insurance—and then Jack appeared to escort you out.
“I’ll drive you.”
“I can uber,” you replied.
“I’m feeling antsy after today,” he pressed. You stared at him for a minute and then nodded.
He helped you gather your bag, and then slung it over his shoulder with his own backpack, refusing to let you even try and hold it. It was a pointless argument, so you let him have his way and then followed him out of The Pitt. You were almost out of the ambulance bay doors when you heard a woman shriek,
“He killed her! He could have saved her but he didn’t. She was talking when we came in.”
You saw a woman being held by, presumably, her husband; she was sobbing and screaming while a nurse and another doctor tried to speak with them.
“I want him fired!” she shouted.
Jack tensed up next to you and suddenly puzzle pieces began to fall into place. Whatever happened while you had been asleep was going to haunt more than just the grieving family. The family didn’t see Jack and you suspected that was going to be for the best. So when he stopped moving, you lightly nudged him.
It seemed to get his legs working again and he led you to his car.
“Do you need a minute?” you asked when he slid into the car.
“No,” he said shortly.
“Okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Your tone did.”
“My tone did no such thing.”
“I’m fine,” he stressed.
“And I’m not asking if you’re fine or not. I’m asking if you need a minute before operating heavy machinery,” you said softly.
“I don’t like it when you get soft and kind either,” he grumbled. You snorted.
“Take a breath so you don’t kill us, Abbot,” you then said with more of an edge to your voice.
“I’ve driven a humvee while getting shot at,” he replied.
“Before or after moving to Pittsburgh?” You asked.
“I can’t believe I offered to drive you home,” he grumbled. You smiled.
When he pulled up next to your building, he parked and turned off the car. You weren’t expecting that. Frankly, you had half expected to badger him into coming up with you. The idea of him going home alone when he was worked up like this didn’t sit well in your gut. Jack typically didn’t broadcast his bad days—he white knuckled them while silently lifting weights until his arms couldn’t move anymore. You had seen it enough times, though you’d been too wrapped up in your own shit to care.
He was a silent shadow as you unlocked the front door of the building and then the second door to the stairs. You’d lived in this building for years. At first you weren’t thrilled to be on the first floor, but now that you only had to go up a couple of steps, you were grateful. Unlocking the door, you let Abbot walk in first.
Your place was a mess, as it often was after a flare up.
“Have you eaten recently?” Jack asked quietly. “Eating will help.”
“Not since dinner. I can make something,” you said heading towards the small kitchen.
“I can do it. I don’t trust you to cook.”
“You’ve never had my cooking. How would you even know?”
“I just gave you hospital grade muscle relaxers. I’m not letting you near a stove.”
“Oh my god, I’ll just order something. Christ.”
Jack made a grumpy noise in the back of his throat but moved towards your couch. Normally, you might have made a jab at him making himself comfortable, but frankly, you wanted him to. As much as you both sniped at each other, you didn’t want him to leave so instead you said,
“You’re hovering more than my roomba.”
“Do you prepare these insults when you’re bored or something?”
“You’re literally folding a blanket.”
“I’m trying to clear off the couch to sit down.”
“I’m so sorry my post-flare apartment isn’t clean enough for you,” you intoned.
Jack didn’t respond, but did continue to straighten up your living room. It was kind of funny to watch him putter around. You had your pain flare set-up down at this point. On days where your leg was not cooperating, your couch was more centrally located than your bedroom, so you often made a cocoon of blankets and pillows there. You had a rolling cart of supplies stashed just beside it full of medication, gatorade, snacks, and icy hot patches. The patches never really worked, but sometimes they were enough of a placebo to give you a modicum of relief.
“This is a good idea,” Jack said, putting back some of the medication on the cart.
“Bound to have one at some point. The only things open are Chinese and some 24-hour burger place.”
“A 24-hour burger place sounds like food poisoning,” he replied, still studying the cart. You suspected he was looking at your medication. It would feel nosy if he weren’t a doctor. Or maybe it should even if he’s a doctor. Maybe it didn’t feel nosy because he was Jack.
“Hard agree. Chinese it is,” you said.
The pillows and blankets were placed on top of your recliner, and Jack had finally taken a seat in the same corner of the couch he fell asleep on the last time he was in your apartment. He had taken off his shoe and leg, placing his one socked foot on the coffee table and crossing his residual limb over it. It was nice to see him comfortable.
You eased onto the couch next to him and extended your bad leg out on the couch. While sitting up there was a few inches of space between your foot and his hip. Keeping it extended seemed to help you the most so you tried your best when you could. Jack didn’t indicate he even noticed.
“What do you want?” you asked. He rattled off an order and you hit submit, adding an extra tip for the late hour.
The pair of you were silent for a moment until he said,
“I’m not going to talk about it.”
“Still didn’t ask you too.”
“You want to.”
“Sure, but if you wanted to tell me you would. I can just put on a shitty comedy show and we can sit here in silence until the food comes.”
“Okay.”
And that’s what you did. You were quietly relieved when he offered to get the food when it was delivered, and the two of you continued to eat in silence while the show played quietly in the background, neither of you paying much attention.
“The girl crashed really suddenly,” Jack finally said. The TV was so low you didn’t feel compelled to mute it.
“Did she come in an ambulance?”
You didn’t remember much about your accident, but you were pretty certain you were in an ambulance at some point.
“Yeah, we were looking at her and the next minute she’s coding. She wasn’t strapped into her carseat properly and when they were hit, we think she was knocked into something causing internal bleeding. She bled out without spilling a drop.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
You waited to see if he would bring up the screaming woman you saw while leaving.
“Her mom…obviously was distraught. She thought her kid was fine. When Ellis and I suggested the seatbelt wasn’t secured properly, she lost it.”
“God, that is rough,” you murmured. He paused, and then changed the subject,
“How’s your leg?”
“Baseline,” you replied.
“Does it hurt when it’s touched?”
“Not often,” you replied.
He placed his hand on your ankle, and began rubbing absent-minded circles with his middle finger on the bone. You wondered if he even realized he was doing it.
“Have you had a parent blame you for their child’s death, recently?” he asked. You suspected it was meant to be a joke. But timing in combination with the way his voice wavered a bit at the end suggested that he was hitting his breaking point.
“Fuck it,” you grumbled.
You maneuvered slowly, due to your own ability and to give him a chance to tell you to leave him alone, until you were seated next to him. Your bad leg propped up against the coffee table as well. Instead of staying like that, you wrapped an arm around him and pulled him against your shoulder.
He didn’t cry. But he laid against breathing heavily. You made sure you had both arms wrapped around him. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but you got the impression he needed some kind of human connection.
Eventually, he made a move to get up.
“I’ve taken up a lot of your time,” he said thickly.
“I don’t really like the idea of you going home alone,” you told him.
“I’m not going to kill myself,” he almost snapped.
“Not my concern,” you said simply. You really weren’t worried about him killing himself. You just didn’t want him to be alone. “You’ve had a shit day, you shouldn’t be on your own if you don’t want to be.”
“I don’t want to…”
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it. But if you really don’t want to stay that is fine, too. But I will be checking in on you in a few hours.”
Jack sighed and you knew before he said anything that he planned on staying.
“Fine,” he said. “But you need sleep. In a real bed and not on your couch.”
“That couch is comfortable as hell,” you replied.
“And I’m sure I’m about to find out.”
You didn’t actually plan on letting him sleep on the couch, but side stepping his obnoxiously chivalry had to be done sneakily. So instead of responding, you offered to let him shower. Your bathroom had the same accessibility additions he needed. He had his workout clothes in his bag which he changed into once he was clean. Then you said,
“You also need to sleep in a bed.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“I’m not sleeping in your bed and leaving you on the couch.”
“I have a giant bed,” you began. “Humor me.”
“It’s not…appropriate.”
“Says who?”
“Says every ethical mandate I’ve learned in the last thirty years,” he grumbled.
“You’re not my doctor. And also, by treating me, you violated a couple of those mandates of yours.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it. “How dedicated are you to arguing about this?”
“So dedicated.”
“Fine.”
You tried not to smile victoriously. He really was a pushover at times.
He followed you into your bedroom. He removed his leg and leaned it against the side closest to the door. You pulled back your duvet and before getting in shimmied off your sweat pants, leaving you in just your shorts. Jack was wearing his athletic shorts and old Army t-shirt. He was stiff as he got into bed.
Per your PT’s requirements, you did a couple stretches before getting in bed next to Jack. You weren’t lying about the size of your bed. It was massive and took up most of your bedroom. There was a person size gap between the two of you.
“I can build a pillow wall if that makes you feel better,” you said with a smile.
“Fuck off and go to sleep.”
You snorted, and not long after closing your eyes managed to drift off.
When you woke up Jack was still sound asleep. Out of the two of you, he tended to sleep during the daytime while you normally had work. You had, of course, called in sick that week. For a while you watched him breathe tucked on your side. Your leg was barely in pain that day. The nerve block was always the most effective way to silence your overactive nerves. You turned on your side to look at the man a few inches away from you.
He was slack jawed, messy hair and completely asleep. He looked, for the first time, relaxed. You hadn’t planned on letting anyone get this close, not after everything, not when your life still felt like a series of ugly scars, physical therapy, and countless accommodations. But Jack hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t asked for anything. He’d just showed up to exist next to you. And now, with the room still and your leg mercifully quiet, you realized the feeling curling low in your stomach wasn’t just gratitude or comfort or shared experiences. It was softer. Warmer. A little terrifying. You might actually like him—and not in the distant, theoretical way you’d kept everything else lately, but in the very real, inconvenient, this-man-is-in-my-bed-and-I-don’t-want-him-to-leave way.
A month ago the thought would have sent you into a tailspin, but that morning—or really early afternoon—it felt almost…inevitable.
Staying alive had required more energy than you ever expected. The energy to go to the gym, the energy to stay in touch with friends and family, the energy to stay employed; it was a lot. Romance had never really seemed worth the allocation of your small reservoir of energy. Romance was exhausting and full of expectations, and you didn’t trust your body not to punish you for it.
The worst part was that you’d been bracing for the one-year mark of your diagnosis like it was going to knock the wind out of you, the official confirmation that this wasn’t just a bad recovery, this was your new reality. It passed a few weeks ago and nothing happened. There had been nothing monumental about the date. You acknowledged it, were angry for an hour or two, but then moved on because you had to make lunch for yourself and do your PT stretches.
Still, it was an adjustment and people still treated you fucking weird at times. It was either pity or bizarre inspiration. Neither felt comfortable for you. Yet, Jack was one of the only people to never make you feel that way. Not once. He was as close as you’d felt to normal since the accident. You could be sharp and tired and scared and he didn’t flinch, most of the time he pushed back.
And now that you let yourself notice it, you couldn’t unsee all the little tells. The way he always ended up on the station beside yours. The way he looked at you for half a beat too long sometimes. The way he swallowed and went still when you were too close to him. The way Ellis said “love life” and he didn’t correct her. The way he came inside when he could have dropped you at the curb.
The way he was sleeping in your bed right now because you asked him to, because you insisted, because he didn’t want you on the couch and you didn’t want him going home raw and alone. The space between you in the mattress was respectful; just two friends sharing a bed. It was something you’d done countless times with other friends. Even with that distance you felt his warmth. It was something that didn’t leave with him.
You stared at him longer than you should, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, his face slack with sleep, silver hair mussed against your pillow. The thought arrived, finally battling through your pathological avoidance. You really liked him. You liked him in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest feel fluttery. You liked him in a way that made you imagine this—this exact scene—repeating itself until it was ordinary: the morning light, the stupidly big bed, and Jack only a short reach away from you.
You liked him enough that the idea of waking up with him a few inches away felt less like an added drain to your low energy reserves and more like something you wanted every day.
As Jack woke up, the bed felt softer than his own. He briefly worried he had gone home with someone. It didn’t sound like him, but he had been a mess. He remembered why he had been a mess and realized a few things in quick succession. He had gone home with someone, but that someone had been you.
He remembered you lightly bullying him into sleeping in your bed. And even though he shouldn’t have, even though he thought it might hurt more than help, he agreed. You had fallen asleep almost immediately, but he had stayed awake for another hour, too wired to finally shut his eyes. Instead he watched you breath, relieved that for the first time in a week you were finally getting the rest your body needed.
In a weak moment, when the clock ticked over to 0600, he gently brushed your hair out of your face, relishing in how your skin felt against his finger tips and how your hair moved just so, at his direction. He was gone for you not long after he realized you were his match in deadpanned, existential jokes. But truly getting to know you had ruined him for everyone else.
There was no one on this earth who could compare with your grumpy, stubborn, and quietly kind person. Falling asleep next to you had probably been the highlight of his year.
So when he opened his eyes, he was half expecting you to either be still asleep or already beginning your day. He didn’t expect to see you staring back at him.
“How did you sleep?” you asked softly. Your hand was resting on the bed in between the both of you and it took his full strength not to reach over and grab it.
He didn’t tell you that for the first time in a few months, he didn’t have slightly panic inducing dreams he couldn’t remember when he finally jolted awake. Instead, he slept in oblivion, waking up the best rested in a while. He always knew he slept a little better with someone next to him. He thought it had to do with his body feeling protected. But he was rarely comfortable enough with someone to do so.
“Good,” is all he said. You didn’t move, so neither did he.
“Do you have plans today?” you asked.
“None,” he answered.
You nodded and kept staring. It was a little weird. It was like you were looking for something.
“And how are you feeling after your shift?”
“What’s with the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Answser the question, old man,” you shot back.
“Not that much older than you.”
“Question. Answer it.”
“Fine, I feel unhappy about it but I have therapy tomorrow, so I’ll deal with it then. Don’t make me deal with it when I just woke up, you slave driver.”
You gave him a rueful smile. “I just needed to check.”
“For what?”
“That you weren’t, I don’t know, emotionally vulnerable?”
“For what reason?” He asked confused.
“Did you know that you don’t make me feel inspirational?” you asked.
“That feels like an insult,” he scoffed.
“Well, it isn’t. God, ever since my leg got fucked up people have been so weird about it. They pity me, are overly helpful, or worse, tell me i’m inspirational as though I had a fucking choice,” you grumbled.
“That sounds familiar,” he said. The urge to run his fingers over the edge of your jaw was becoming all encompassing. He needed to get out of your bed but he couldn’t make himself move.
“I’m sure. But when I’m around you I feel the most normal I’ve felt since that fucking car hit me.”
A pinprick of pride began to bloom in Jack’s chest at your words. “I’m happy to hear that, but why did you think you needed to check my mental status before you told me?”
“Because I also wanted to say I think I like you a lot and I wondered if you felt the same way. I suspect you do, since you’re sleeping in my bed, but I wanted to check.”
Jack blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.
“Out of all the things you were going to say, I don’t think I would have ever guessed that,” he breathed.
“That is not an answer to my questions and in fact, raises my stress level significantly,” you replied.
Jack smiled and laughed, “I like you a lot, too.”
“Like, romantically?”
“Yes.”
“Like, you want to kiss me?”
“Ideally in the next few seconds if you’re amenable,” he replied.
For the first time since he met you, he saw you grin. It was bright and made his heart skip a beat—not medically accurate, but exactly what it felt like in his chest. You played your cards close most of the time, although if the cards were annoyance or the urge to bully him—those were played pretty openly. So it was a rare treat to see such joy light up your face, especially when it wasn’t related to ribbing him.
“I thought so, but it’s really good to hear you say it.”
“C’mere,” he said, pulling you both to the center of the bed. He reveled in the little squeak you made at the movement. “Can I tell you something now?”
“Can you kiss me first?”
“No,” he said quietly.
He smiled, as he cupped his hand over your jaw and stroked your cheek with his thumb. It was exactly how he hoped it would be. You were warm under his touch and he couldn’t help but grin back at you, at the contact, at this weird satisfied feeling he never thought he would get to feel.
As much as he wanted you, you wanted him back.
“Fine, hurry it up, though, Abbot.”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for months and before you joined the gym, I only went a couple times a week. I started going everyday just for a chance to see you.”
If possible, your smile got bigger. “That’s pretty sweet. But you should kiss me now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jack shifted closer, the mattress dipped between you, the space closing until your knees brushed and your foreheads were almost touching. Your bad leg stayed carefully extended behind you, but your good knee bent instinctively toward him, anchoring you in place. The hand not resting on your cheek, wound under your ribs, holding you against his body.
His nose brushed yours first. He hesitated. Your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt at his waist. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft and exploratory. Your mouths moved together slowly, learning the shape and rhythm of each other, all awareness shrinking to the narrow space of the bed.
His thumb traced a small arc along your cheekbone, while your free hand slid up to his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him. You stayed on your sides, bodies parallel, close. When he pulled back, just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours and his breath fanned warm across your lips.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured.
“Glad to hear it,” you replied, your voice steady even as your heart thudded against your ribs. You stayed there, inches apart, his knee brushing yours, his hand still cradling your face.
Then suddenly he shot up, and began to roll over.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
“I want to take you on a proper date,” he announced.
“Ugh, I don’t want to get up,” you whined.
You saw Jack grab his leg and fiddle with his socket sleeve. There was a movement when he went to put on the prosthetic and then he let out a harsh sigh.
“What now?” you asked.
“My leg is too swollen to fit in my socket,” he grumbled.
“Oh no,” you said, not at all sympathetic. “Now it seems like we can’t get out of bed.”
He rolled back over to you and poked your side.
“I’m going to take you on a date.”
“And I’ll let you, but for now, just lay here with me and we can watch stupid TV and order unhealthy food.”
“Can we kiss some more?” He asked.
“Don’t need to ask me twice,” you said, leaning over to press your lips against his.