"Brock—contact guard only," Graves said. "Left hand low at her back, right on the gait belt. Jenna, guard the right knee. Harper—if the lights fade, tell me."
The room shifted into motion. Jenna slid the small green oxygen tank from the wall bracket and clipped the cannula tubing into place, the hiss sharp for a breath before it steadied. Sam checked the IV pole, wheels squeaking once as he freed a snag, the monitor box bumping against the hook with a quick readout flash. Wires and tape still tethered Harper—leads flat under the gown, tubing dragging like extra weight.
"Got her." Brock stepped in close at her left side, palm warm at the small of her back, two fingers hooking under the belt at her right hip while his other steadied the side strap. His chest angled toward her shoulder, close enough that when he spoke she felt it more than heard it. The cannula whispered at her nose; the IV tugged faintly in her arm. She watched him instead of the floor—the quiet set of his mouth, the patient lift of his chest.
"You with me?" His voice low, meant only for her.
Her throat caught on the answer, rough and scraped, but it came. "With you."
Graves crouched directly in front of Harper, eye to eye. "Feet flat. Bring your heels in. Lean forward—nose over your toes. We'll stand on three, nice and steady."
The room felt thick with waiting. Brock drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, and she pulled one after it—lungs hauling air like rope hand-over-hand. Her ribs protested, the cannula hissing fast at her nose.
"Two," Graves said, voice even as a metronome.
Brock dipped his head closer, voice brushing her ear from her left. "Forward, into me. I've got you."
Her knees wavered, hunting for ground that wouldn't hold, until Jenna's palm found the cap of her patella and steadied the drift with a firm, anchoring pressure.
"Three."
They rose together. The bed let go by inches; tile met her socks like a surface she used to know. Gray pressed at the edges. The monitor ticked on. Brock firmed on the belt—contact only, steady, no lift—and stepped half a pace inside her stance so his thigh could catch if the floor slipped.
"Hold," Graves said. "Knees soft. Breathe."
Harper's knees quivered; Jenna's hand hovered beneath the cap of her patella, ready if they gave.
"Don't let go," Harper said, breath cutting dry. Her fingers found him—wrist, sleeve, the tendon to his palm—and stayed there, not to drag, just to know.
"I won't," he said, even. His thumb cleared a salt line from her temple without shifting the brace. "Look at me."
She did—eyes locking on the steady rise of his chest, the set of his jaw. For a moment the color returned, edges filling in, but the surge burned too hot. Heat climbed her face; her legs shuddered harder; sweat prickled down her spine. Each breath rasped shallow, the cannula hissing fast at her nose. The floor pitched underfoot, pressure building behind her eyes until it threatened to split.
"I need to sit," she whispered—stubborn and small in the same breath.
"We sit," Graves said at once. "Jenna, step back. Brock, guide her down—no lift."
Brock shifted no more than an inch closer, still braced at her side. "Reach back for the mattress," he told her. "Hinge at your hips. I've got you."
Her hand swept air and caught nothing. Frustration bit metallic on her tongue, coin-bitter. She swallowed it, reached again, fingertips finally grazing sheet and foam. The gait belt carved a line across her waist; her thighs burned like pulled wire.
"Control the descent," Graves coached, calm but firm. "Eyes up here. Slow."
"I should—" The word snagged on breath, broke. She bit it off and gave in to the motion piece by piece—knees yielding, ribs pumping, every inch a bargain. Brock's palm never left her back; with his other hand he flicked a loop of IV tubing clear so nothing would catch or tear.
The mattress took her weight at last. The gray thinned. Air came easier.
"There," Brock murmured, softer now that the fight was over. He stayed in her eyeline, steady as the telemetry ticked behind. "You did that."
Sweat cooled on Harper's temples; a tremor worked through her shoulders and passed. She kept two fingers hooked at Brock's wrist like a marker, as if letting go might cost the ground she'd just won. He didn't move his hand. "When you're ready," he said, quiet. "That one was ours. The next one—we'll make yours."
She nodded, a small hitching thing that failed halfway. The window blurred. She blinked hard; the sting held. A tear slid hot across the bridge of her nose; she swiped and caught tape instead, the IV line tugging at the crook of her arm. "I should be better," she rasped, wincing at the sound of it. "I can't even get to the window. I hate this."
"I know," he said, not arguing it away. He eased the gait belt so it wouldn't cut, smoothed the tubing flat on the sheet. She pressed the heel of her hand under one eye like she could cork it; another tear slipped crooked down her cheek. A raw cough snapped up; she stopped when it hurt and bit her lip, angry at the wet and the shake and the way the room still swayed when she looked up too fast.
"Come here," he murmured, close enough that his mouth brushed her crown.
He dropped the rail and eased onto the narrow mattress, angling himself against the raised backrest. One foot stayed on the floor for balance, the other bent on the bed so she fit between his legs. With one hand he gathered the IV slack, the other smoothing a lead flat. Then he guided her back, slow and steady, until her shoulders settled to his chest.
His near arm came across her collarbones, palm warm over her sternum, well above the binder cinched at her ribs. Her fingers curled over his wrist where his pulse lived. His other hand settled low at her hip, steady and anchoring, careful around the gait belt. He breathed slow on purpose, the rhythm running through his chest into her back and under his palm, an easy pace she could follow without thought.
"Three days," he said into her hair. "That tube was doing your work three days ago. None of this comes back fast."
"I hate this." It came out small and furious. Another tear gathered; he caught it with the corner of the washcloth Graves had left on the rail and stayed close, his cheek resting against the top of her head.
"Hate it with me," he said. His thumb traced a slow line along her collarbone. "But don't turn it on yourself."
Her fingers tightened around his wrist where his pulse lived. Behind her, his chest rose and fell in a rhythm she could ride without thinking; under his palm on her sternum, her breath found a slower track. He drew one deeper on purpose, and she matched it—shaky, then steadier.
He eased his hand to the hollow at the base of her throat, working a small circle until the tight there gave a little. "You stood," he said, voice low. "You told us when to stop. That's strength I trust."
She let her head fall back into him, lashes clumped, jaw unclenching. The tremor in her legs dimmed to a hum. "I wanted to walk," she whispered, more to the room than to anyone. "Just… stand and go."
"You will," he said, and left it clean. "Not this morning. This morning we steal inches." He drew the blanket up over both their knees, fabric whispering. "Borrow my breath until noon. Then we try again. You set the pace; I'll keep you steady."
Her grip on his wrist firmed. He rested his chin lightly on her crown and counted in a murmur she could follow without looking. "In. Slow out. In. Slow out."
The room leveled to it. The window steadied in her sight. The heat behind her eyes cooled to something she could carry. He pressed his mouth to her hair—one quiet, steadying kiss—and held the line while the air settled around them.
Her breathing grew heavy under his hands. The tremor in her legs traded for a slack that spread through her whole body, eyelids dipping, jaw unhooking by a notch. The hand on his wrist softened by degrees until her fingers just rested there like a tag.
He felt the exact moment she gave him her full weight—shoulders sinking, knee leaning into his leg, the binder warm beneath his forearm—and he didn't move. One foot stayed planted on the floor, the other stretched along hers under the blanket. Any shift would wake her. He let his own breath go quiet and watched the oximeter's green line climb and fall in its lazy rhythm.
The door eased a finger's width and a slice of hall light cut a thin line on the floor. Knuckles slid in sideways—soft sneakers, a to-go cup pinched in two fingers. His eyes went straight to Harper, took in the cannula, the slack weight against Brock's chest, the way her hand still curled at his wrist. Something flickered across his face—relief, quick and private—and he tipped his chin.
"You good?"
"Parked," Brock kept it low.
Knuckles set the coffee on the tray within reach for later and turned the cup so the seam faced out—his little superstition. "What'd I miss?"
"Got her on her feet," Brock said, low. "First time. She held a few minutes, then called it."
Knuckles' mouth moved a millimeter, the ghost of a grin that didn't quite show teeth. "That'll empty the tank." He eased the door almost shut behind him and dragged the visitor chair in sideways, planting it between door and bed like a quiet barricade—knees out, elbows loose. "You stuck?"
"All the way to the hip."
"That's home base, then." He slid a folded hoodie from under his arm and nudged it under Brock's ribs for the frame edge. Brock, slow as tide, shifted an inch without jostling her; the numbers on the screen kept their lazy climb and fall.
Knuckles angled his chair so he could watch the crack of hall and the glow of the monitor "I'll keep the hall quiet. If anyone knocks, I'm the wall."
Brock breathed with her, low and even. "She got mad."
"Good," Knuckles said. His eyes went back to Harper, lingered a fraction longer than usual. "Kid like her? Better pissed than scared. Mad'll carry her farther than sitting still ever did." He tipped his chin at Brock's planted foot. "You're gonna cramp there. Roll it once—she's out cold."
Brock shifted slow, and Harper didn't stir.
Knuckles settled, a sentry at ease. The room held steady: slow rise under Brock's palm at her sternum; the monitor's green line climbing and falling; the kind of quiet that mends.
After a while, Knuckles slid the to-go cup an inch closer on the tray without the lid creaking. He slid the cup closer on the tray. "Brought you one. She can't drink it, so it's yours either way."
A minute went by, then two. Knuckles tipped his head toward the window strip. "Sun finally found us," he said, barely above the machine hum.
"About time," Brock murmured.
Knuckles' mouth twitched. "You look welded there."
"Feels like it," Brock said. His eyes dropped to Harper against his chest. "She just… fit."
"Statue's a good job for you," Knuckles said. "Pays terrible, hours worse." He let the joke sit, then added quieter: "You ever tell her what you told me?"
Brock didn't pretend not to know what he meant. "Not with that word," he said. "With the rest."
Knuckles nodded once, satisfied. "She'll hear it anyway."
They sat with the quiet. A pump clicked and hushed. Hallway noise drifted, then dulled against the door left barely open. Knuckles rolled his ankle, mirroring Brock's planted foot without thinking. "You remember that winter the power died and we did watch in the dark for three nights?" he said. "Same air in here. Cold at the edges, warm where you hold it."
Brock's breath changed—amused, tired. "You fell asleep with a radio digging into your spine."
"Still have the mark," Knuckles said, deadpan. He shifted forward a touch, voice even lower. "You did good. Held her steady long enough she forgot the fight."
Brock's answer lived more in the way his hand settled at Harper's sternum than in words. "She stood," he said after a beat. "That's hers."
Knuckles shook his head, quiet. "And she's still here because you're steady. That's you."
Harper's lashes stirred against her skin, once, then again. The hand resting over Brock's wrist twitched, not to grip, just to know he was still there. A swallow shifted under his palm; her breath caught and eased. She felt the steady weight of his chest at her back, the rhythm she'd matched in sleep—and then her eyes opened, slow but clear, to the room.
Knuckles leaned in only enough to land in her line, elbows on his knees. "Hey, trouble," he whispered.
Her gaze fixed on him, hazy but sure. Her lips tugged clumsy around the words. "Hey, Knuckles."
"Right here." He kept his face low so she didn't have to chase it. "Scared the hell out of us. In the truck back—you flatlined. Keir worked you the whole way. You wouldn't remember. You were already mostly gone."
She swallowed, winced at the scrape in her throat. "Keir?" The name rasped out, disbelief more than a question. The thought of his hands driving her chest down, keeping her here, stuck.
Knuckles' hand settled light over the blanket at her shin, a touch she could keep or ignore. "Keir's drilled on it more than the rest of us. He kept you here."
Her eyes shut against the sting. "I don't remember any of that. I thought I died."
Brock's arm tightened above the binder, pulling her a fraction closer. "You didn't," he said into her hair, steady and certain. "You're here. That's what counts."
She gave the smallest nod, settling deeper back against Brock's chest. The water cup was already on the tray; Knuckles slid it closer, turned the straw so Brock could reach it without shifting her. With his other hand he straightened the folded napkin by the tray—a quiet tic. "Contraband's for him," a flick of his chin at Brock. "You get the fancy straw."
A dry sound escaped her that might've been a laugh. Brock thumbed the handset, raising the head of the bed a fraction without jostling her. "Want a sip in a minute?"
Another tiny nod. Knuckles let it be, eyes going back to her face, letting the quiet do the work. "Good to see you, kid," he said, softer.
A dry sound might've been a laugh. "Still kicking." Her eyes slid to him. "What now?"
Brock's hand tightened lightly at her sternum. "Now you breathe. That's all."
Knuckles leaned back in the chair, half to the hall, half to her. "I'll keep the door. I'm not going anywhere."
─•────
Thirty-six hours later, the med bay showed its relief—pumps rolled back to the wall, only one monitor left ticking a steady green blink. The curtain was tied so the sun spilled full across the tile. The cannula lay coiled on the pillow. By the window, the chair waited with its arms turned out, a blanket folded over it like someone had smoothed it flat with a palm. Knuckles had the visitor chair angled at the door, coffee on his knee, watchful without hovering.
Graves checked Harper's numbers, then flicked a look at Brock. "You lead," she said. "We're here if you need us." Jenna set the belt on the bed, gave Harper's shoulder a squeeze, then both of them slipped toward the edges, leaving the middle open like a cleared ring.
Brock looped the canvas belt around Harper's waist, careful not to snag the IV, then crouched until he filled her eyeline. "We do this your way," he said, quiet but certain. "I'll match you."
Harper curled two fingers into the belt, tugged until it bit against her ribs. It held. Her breath shivered once before she caught it and shaped it into something steady. "Okay," she rasped. "Count with me."
"Always." His hand landed beside hers on the strap, close enough she could steal steadiness, far enough it didn't steer.
"One." She tipped forward, nose over toes, teeth set.
"Two." His chest rose where she could see it, an anchor she could pace herself against.
"Three."
Her body remembered. Hips under, calves firing, binder straining but holding her together. The bed let her go and the floor stayed firm under her socks. A sway tried to take her, but it ran into Brock's stance and broke flat.
"Edges?" he asked, voice low, almost in her hair.
She scanned the room, braced for the blur—and was startled by the stillness. "Quiet," she said, more surprised than proud. "I've got them."
"Good. Window's left." His breath skimmed her temple. "Lean to me. We take it together."
Heel, then toe. The strap whispered against his fingers, no pull, just promise. Her ribs flared with each inhale, but the tread caught and held. "Right," she muttered, claiming the step for herself. Sunlight crept up her shins, heat like a hand. She counted the distance under her breath, not seconds this time but territory. "Three… four…"
"Don't hoard the air," he murmured, a ghost of humor under the patience. "There's more waiting."
She let it out, drew another, shaky but larger. "Five."
Her quads burned, knees threatening to shake apart. His palm stayed low at her back—warmth, not pressure—and the wobble steadied into stillness.
"Left," he said, softer now. She felt the pivot through his frame before the word reached her.
"Armrest?"
"Half step back. Reach. I've got you."
Her fingers brushed empty air once, then landed on vinyl. The chair was there, real, solid as a kept promise.
"Slow," he told her, gentler now, almost tender. "Start with your hips."
"I'm out of heroics," she breathed, and the ghost of a smile cracked through the strain. She hinged, ribs grinding, lungs pulling double, and let the chair take her weight. The tremor buzzing through her thighs gave up by degrees. Sun laid a square of gold across her knees—proof she'd carried herself into the light.
Graves' pen scratched once and stilled. "We'll give you the room," she said. Jenna flicked two fingers in a quick salute and ghosted out behind her. The door closed soft, leaving just them and the sunlight.
Brock was crouched in front of Harper, and he eased one finger from the strap, leaving the rest to Harper. "Room still steady?"
"Big," she said, breathy but pleased. "Not spinning. Just… big."
"Big's good," Knuckles said from the door. "Means the window looks like a window again and not a cliff edge."
Harper loosened her grip on the armrest but didn't let go of the chair. Her eyes stayed on the glass, the light beyond it. "How far was that?"
"Seven steps to the turn," Brock said after a beat, mouth tugging at the corner. "Eight if you count landing the chair."
She huffed a thin laugh. "We're counting it. Eight feels better."
"Eight, then," he said, tucking the number away like it was more than math. Because it was. He stayed low a moment longer, his hand still on the strap, then pushed up into the chair at her side. Close enough she could lean, clear of her knees if she needed the space.
A knock came, soft against the door. Knuckles was up before it finished, easing the handle just enough to take a tray from the nurse's hand. He slid it in one-handed, balanced on his palm, and shut the door with his hip.
"Delivery," he said, keeping it light. Broth with steam curling off it, half a grilled cheese cut on the diagonal, applesauce with a foil lid, water with a bendy straw. He set it within Brock's reach, then dropped back into his chair, knees out, eyes soft. "You get the good stuff," he told Harper. "He's still on stolen coffee."
Brock lifted the bowl, tested the heat with a breath across the surface. "Small sips," he said, voice low. "Let your throat ease into it." He waited for her chest to settle, then brought the spoon up in that quiet rise timed with her inhale.
She took it, cautious. Warmth slid down without catching; salt and fat bloomed on her tongue. Her shoulders let go a notch she didn't know she was holding. The look on her face lit brighter than the sun across her knees. "More."
He fed her a second spoon, then set the bowl back for a beat, giving her space to breathe on her own before chasing another swallow. His eyes stayed on hers. "How's it sit?"
She licked a drop from her lip, breath easing. "Mm. Smooth. Throat's better. Chest still sore, but I'll take it."
"Better than Lawson's cooking I bet," Knuckles said, like it was a professional verdict. It pulled a dry laugh out of her that she regretted and didn't. Brock's mouth tugged, not quite a smile, not quite a scowl.
"Don't make me laugh," she said, hand pressed lightly above the incision on her side.
"Noted." He held up both palms, surrender. "Only tasteful humor."
Brock unwrapped the sandwich and set half on a napkin where she could see it and decide. "Try the soft corner," he said. "Two small bites, we stop if your throat argues."
She eyed the triangle like it was a puzzle, then flicked her gaze up at him. "Diagonal cut. Like a five-star joint."
"Don't let it fool you," he said. "That's still hospital cheese."
She took a bite, slow, then another, and chased it with water. The straw bent obligingly; his hand stayed at the base of the cup so she didn't have to hold and think at the same time.
She ate like that—small, deliberate, stopping when her breath asked her to. He kept the rhythm steady, spoon and cup offered only when she was ready, never rushing. Knuckles ran interference on the world outside with silence. Voices drifted in the hall and went no farther. The sun inched up until the square on her knees stretched to a rectangle halfway to her thigh. She let her head fall back against the chair, throat eased, breath even. "Thanks," she murmured, not just for the food.
Brock brushed a crumb from her lip with his thumb, quiet as the room itself.
─•────
The plastic band at Harper's wrist gave with a clean snick into Graves's palm; the last strip of adhesive tugged her skin before it let go. The IV was gone. The telemetry dots had left faint pink ovals, ghost marks that would fade. The binder hugged under one of Brock's shirts, soft cotton against her ribs where tape had been.
Brock locked the chair—one foot braced on the axle, his hand light on the handle. The belt lay loose at her waist, the blanket squared across her knees.
"When she's vertical, the binder stays on," Graves told him, brisk but not unkind. "No stairs alone. Flat walks only—three a day. Pain by mouth, on schedule. Anything green, bright red, fever, sudden dizzy or hard belly—you call and you bring her back."
"I've got her," Brock said. His voice carried the checklist back. "Binder when up, no heroics. First odd thing, we're here."
Graves touched Harper's shoulder, warm and brief. "You fought for this step. Don't waste it. Call me if it turns."
Harper caught Graves's hand at her shoulder, squeezed once. "Thank you," she whispered, voice rough but certain.
Graves gave a short nod, then let go and crossed to the door. The latch clicked; the panel sighed open, spilling the hall ahead. Brock bent to her eyeline. "Your word."
She looked down the strip of corridor, then up at him. "Now."
He popped the brakes and started them home. The corridor held its breath—matte paint, concrete gone soft with wax, the low electrical hum that lives in old buildings. No footsteps, no voices. Brock kept one hand on the handle and the other easy at the back of her shoulder so she knew where he was without being steered. The wheels rattled past the supply alcove, past a dark window that threw their shapes back at them and let them pass.
"Better than my driving?" he asked, just enough wry.
She huffed. "Anything's better than your driving."
At the elevator he bumped the button with a knuckle. The light clicked on; the doors opened clean. He backed the chair in so the footrests cleared the lip, set the brakes with his toe, and stood with one hand on the rail because that's how he's built. The car hummed up—numbers winking past, a soft sway when they slid through one floor and then the next. He glanced down; she was watching the panel like it was a small, polite miracle.
The bell pinged. "Home stretch," he murmured.
The doors parted on the residential hush: warmer air, coffee ghost, a hint of lemon from something wiped too hard. The carpet took the rattle out of the wheels; lights ran soft along the baseboards; door numbers climbed in quiet order. He didn't hurry. At his door he set the brakes with that double click and crouched into her eyeline so he wasn't a voice above her. The keypad waited at his shoulder, little green ready light blinking like it knew them.
"Watch the lip," he said, keying the code.
"I see it."
The latch clicked. He eased them over the shallow threshold, front wheels tipping and landing on the rug. The room breathed out—sun on the floor, the faint clean of soap, the air that already smelled like him instead of hospital. He swung the chair a half turn so she faced the window and set the brakes, close enough to the waiting armchair that the next move could be hers.
"Stand for it?" he asked, fingers already finding the belt beside her hand.
"Please," she said. Her throat caught, but the word carried. "I want it standing."
"Good." He snugged the buckle a notch, nudged her toes under her knees. "Lean to me."
She rose with him—no count this time, just their breath catching the same rhythm. Hips under, calves alive, a sway that ran out against the steadiness of his stance. Two careful steps, and the glass filled her vision. She stopped close enough to feel its cool; he stepped in behind, a half-shield, a half-embrace, one foot outside hers.
His palm settled warm at the small of her back; the other hand lay easy at the belt, contact only. When she let herself lean, his chest was there. His forearm crossed high above the healing ache, the flat of his hand open over her sternum so she could feel the steady lift beneath his skin. His jaw brushed her crown and stayed.
"Stay," she said, not asking this time.
"All day," he answered, voice low in her hair.
The room turned gentle around them: dust drifting in the sunbeam; the rug pressing its weave into her socks; glass cool under her fingertips while the sun warmed her cheek. She matched her breath to his until she didn't have to think about it. A fogged oval bloomed on the pane with each exhale, fading, returning, proof she was still here. When her thighs began to sing—the good kind before the shake—his thumb moved once at her sternum, a quiet check-in. The hand at her back floated and returned, not bracing but reminding: he had her, here, home.
Her forehead rested a breath against the glass, fogging another small oval. "Brock?"
His answer came low, immediate. "I'm here."
Her throat tightened. "I'm sorry."
His hand shifted at her back, thumb drawing one line just to keep her tethered. "For what?"
"For leaving." The words scraped out, small and breaking. "For going out alone. I just—" Her eyes blurred; she blinked hard, a smile trying and failing through the tears. "I just wanted fresh air. I didn't think anything would happen. I thought—I thought I could make it quick. Pick up something for you. Pastries, for when you got back and—"
"No." His voice cut through, firm but quiet. Both his hands came up, turning her away from the glass, cradling her face between his palms. Thumbs brushed salt from her cheeks, his brow almost against hers. "Don't. Don't ever apologize for being human. For wanting air. For wanting to surprise me."
Her breath caught against his skin.
"You have freedom," he said, slower now, every word steady as the hands that held her.
"You're allowed to step outside. What happened to you isn't yours to own. Not one piece of it. Don't ever think it is."
Her mouth trembled under his thumb. She shut her eyes, and the tears came anyway, tracking warm across the heel of his hand. He didn't let go.
His hands still framed her face when he leaned in, lips pressing to her forehead. He didn't move after the first brush—just stayed, his mouth warm against her skin, her head cradled there like he could keep her safe by sheer will if he didn't lift it. She felt the quiet tremor in his breath where it touched her brow.
When he finally eased back, it was only to guide her, gentle as gravity, down into the waiting chair. He crouched in front of her, big frame folding close, one knee to the rug. His eyes were level with hers, raw in a way he never let anyone else see.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," he said, voice rough.
Her mouth opened. "No, Brock—"
But he shook his head, cutting it off before it could grow. "If you'd had a phone—if I'd put one in your hand—you wouldn't have been alone. I could've called, tracked you, gotten to you before it was too late." His jaw worked; he dropped his gaze, fighting the shake in his throat. "I should've kept you safe."
Her hands lifted, threading through his hair, drawing his face closer like she could anchor him the way he'd anchored her. "You weren't too late," she whispered. "I'm here. You got me here."
His eyes closed, lashes damp against her skin where he leaned into her touch. "I know," he managed, voice breaking. "But—before. Before it all happened. Before you—before you were hurt that bad. Before you almost died in the back of that SUV."
Her fingers combed slow through his hair, steady as breath. He bowed his head into her palms, shoulders braced like the only thing holding him up was the fact that she was still here to touch him.
They stayed like that, his head bowed into her hands, her fingers combing slow through his hair. The quiet thickened—just the city's hum beyond the glass, the room warm around them, no machines to cut through it.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red but steady. He thumbed at her cheek, tracing the last salt track away. "You want to stay out here a bit," he asked, voice low, "or get into bed?"
Her breath shivered out; she leaned back into the chair just enough to feel how much her body hated it. "Bed," she admitted, quiet but certain. "I want to be in bed."
Something eased across his face—not quite a smile, but close. "Good," he said. His hand firmed at her shoulder, the other finding the belt slack. "Let's get you home all the way."
Brock slipped the blanket over her knees and eased the belt slack so it wouldn't bite. One foot braced on the axle, he swung the chair from the window toward the hall.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," she said, though her voice dragged with the weight of it.
The wheels whispered across the rug, then onto the cooler stretch of the corridor floor. His quarters held their usual quiet: matte walls, the faint oil tang of cleaned gear, the low hum of the vents. He turned them through the doorway, careful with the footrests, and locked the brakes with a double click at the side of the bed.
He crouched into her line. "Same as the chair. Up with me, turn, sit. I'll carry whatever you can't."
Her hand found the canvas strap, two fingers hooking in. "Okay."
"Good girl," he said under his breath, more vow than praise.
He slid his palm low at her back, two fingers into the belt at her hip. "On three," he murmured. "One… two…"
She tipped forward into him; his stance caught her, solid as stone. Hips under, knees hunting, the belt firm in his hand. "Three."
They rose together. For a breath the world tilted, then leveled against his chest. He pivoted her slow until the edge of the mattress pressed against her calves.
"Reach back," he said softly. "It's right there."
Her hand skimmed air, then quilt. She lowered, ribs catching, thighs trembling, until the bed caught her weight. He eased the belt loose, slid the tubing clear so nothing snagged, and guided her back against the pillows.
The breath she let out shook, but relief lived in it. She shifted just enough to see him in the lamplight. "Better."
He smoothed the blanket over her legs, brushed her hair back from her damp temple with his knuckles. "Better," he echoed.
He stayed close as she settled, loosening the belt, tugging the tubing free. For a moment it seemed he'd straighten and step back. Instead, he toed off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and eased onto the mattress beside her. The bed dipped under his weight, steadying, not jarring.
Her eyes found him, tired but intent. She turned—slow, stubborn—with a breath that caught against the pull in her side. He reached to steady her, but she shook her head, pushing through until she'd curled against him, her cheek at his chest.
He drew her in without hesitation. One arm looped around her back, hand wide and sure against her ribs above the ache; the other smoothed her hair where it clung damp against her temple. He bent, pressing his mouth into her crown, a long exhale sinking into her skin.
"You're home," he murmured, voice rough.
She winced once, then softened, her body finding the line of his like it had been waiting. Her fingers caught in the fabric of his shirt, holding on. "Missed this," she breathed, thready but certain.
He tightened his arm fractionally, jaw against her hair. "Weeks too long," he said. "Not letting you out of reach again."
The quiet of the quarters folded in around them—vent hum, the low shift of fabric, her breath syncing to his chest. For the first time since the rescue, the space felt lived in.
They lay in the quiet, her body curved into his, the rise of his chest steady under her cheek. His hand drifted slow up and down her arm, mapping without hurry, fingers brushing over the pale ridges and pink scatter of half-healed scars. She watched him trace them like they weren't damage but lines he meant to memorize. Her gaze slipped lower, to the blanket stretched over her legs, and in her mind she saw what lay beneath—bruises fading, stitched seams, the raw map of survival.
Before the weight of it could pull her further, his fingers slid under her chin and tilted her face back up to him. His eyes caught hers, steady and close. "Don't look at them like that," he said, voice low but certain. "Every mark just means you're still here. I'll take all of them if it means I get you back."
She stared at him, eyes wide and wet, holding herself stiff against the tide. Her breath snagged once, twice, before she could stop it. He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead again, lingering there, his hand cradling her face.
"Shhh," he murmured against her skin. "I've got you. You're safe."
It broke something loose. Her hands fisted in his shirt, and the tears came hot, unspooling faster than she could wipe them. "I was so scared," she gasped, words shaking apart. "I thought—" Her throat caught; she forced it out anyway. "I thought no one was coming. That you'd never find me. That I'd bleed out on that floor, alone in the dark—"
"No," he cut in, fierce but quiet, pulling her tighter against his chest. His hand slid into her hair, steadying her as she shook. "Never. I was already coming. You hear me? Already on my way."
Her sobs racked through her ribs, painful and raw. "I thought it was over. I thought—I was gone."
He hushed her again, his voice breaking now too, but he held the line. "Not gone. You're here, Harper. I've got you. Always."
She pressed her face into him, the salt of her tears soaking his shirt, her body trembling with all the fear she hadn't let herself speak.
He held her through it, her face pressed to his chest, her sobs shaking both of them. His hand never stopped its slow path through her hair, his breath low and steady against her crown. For a long time he said nothing—just stayed, because words felt too small against what she'd carried.
When her breathing began to hitch less, he let out one of his own, rougher than he meant. His cheek pressed to her temple. "I was scared too," he said, voice low, almost hoarse.
She stilled, just enough to hear him.
"When that video came through…" His jaw tightened against her skin. "I didn't think I'd make it in time. And then—down those stairs—seeing you hanging there—" His arms clutched her tighter, like he could erase the memory if he held her close enough. "I couldn't get to you fast enough. You wouldn't wake up. And in the truck—when you crashed—" His breath broke, chest shuddering under her cheek. "I've never been that scared in my life."
Her eyes blurred fresh, but she tipped her face up, catching his jaw with her hands, pulling him where she could see him. "Brock." Her thumbs traced the hard lines of his cheek, gentle against the stubble. "You got to me. You did. You pulled me out. You kept me breathing. I'm here because of you."
He shook his head, trying to swallow it back, but she ran her fingers into his hair, holding him steady. "Look at me," she said, fierce through the tremor. His eyes found hers, rimmed red, raw in a way she'd never seen.
"You weren't late," she whispered. "Not once."
Her words landed heavy, but she kept her hands on him until his eyes finally lifted to hers—red-rimmed, raw, searching. For a beat the air between them held, thick with everything neither could say. Then she leaned up, closing it, and his mouth met hers.
It was soft, almost tentative at first, but the need in it was unmistakable—the kind born of fear survived and distance bridged. His hands slid to frame her face, careful of every healing seam, while hers clung in his hair. Their breaths broke uneven against each other, salt and warmth mingling, until it steadied into a kiss that felt less like an answer and more like proof.
The kiss broke on a shaky breath. She pressed her face into the curve of his throat, curls damp against his skin, and held there. His arms wrapped around her, close but careful, and she stayed curled into him, listening to the uneven drum of his heart under her ear.
They sat in the hush, the room shrinking down to the vent hum, the rhythm of their breathing, the heat of skin on skin.
"Harper?" His voice was rough when it came, almost like he wasn't sure if he should break the quiet.
She shifted, lifting her head, eyes searching his.
For a long moment he just looked at her, the words fighting the wall of hesitation he always built. Then his thumb brushed her cheek, tracing the tear tracks there, and his jaw set. "I love you."
It came low, unpolished, like it had cost him to push it out—but once it was said, it hung steady between them, true as breath.
She stared at him, the silence stretching long enough that he almost faltered. His mouth worked once, the start of a stammer—"I didn't—"
Her hands came up, firm against his face, stopping the words before they could break. She kissed him, soft but certain, her whisper slipping against his lips. "I love you too."
The fight bled out of him all at once. He melted into her, kissing her back with a gentleness that held none of his usual restraint, just the raw truth of it. His forehead leaned to hers, their breaths mingling, and the room felt whole in a way it never had before.