The sight of Alex sleeping was disarming. He was sprawled awkwardly on the small velvet couch, the cashmere blanket tossed half off, his dark hair falling across his forehead. He looked younger, less formidable, stripped of his CEO posture and the heavy weight of his vigilance.
I watched him for a long time, the familiar ache in my bandaged arm a dull counterpoint to the quiet peace of the room. He had sacrificed his comfort, his privacy, and his sacred efficiency for my simple need, and his rumpled shirt was the strongest admission of care he could ever offer.
When the pain medication finally allowed me to move, I used the call button not for assistance, but to request Martha bring the wheelchair back in, and to alert her that I would attempt to make coffee.
I was dressed, slowly, painfully, in soft clothes when Alex finally stirred.
He woke with the immediate, sharp awareness of a predator, his eyes snapping open. He saw me, and the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
