The bed is raised slightly. Even that small chanical shift pulls across her abdon, creating a spreading heat beneath the sutures.
"On three," the nurse says.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
They guide her upright.
Pain spreads imdiately through her abdon, deep and tight, as if sothing inside her has been pulled too far and forced to rember movent before it is ready. The muscles along the incision engage in protest, stiff and unwilling, and a dense pressure blooms beneath the sutures. Her knees flare next, a hot, tearing burn beneath the thick bandages as muscles activate for the first ti with intention rather than reflex.
She gasps sharply.
"I’ve got you," Zane says.
Her hands clutch at his shirt, fingers curling into fabric because it is the only stable thing in reach. The cotton wrinkles beneath her grip, grounding her in sothing solid while her body recalculates gravity.
"Your kneecaps were lacerated by glass, injurung muscle and tendons," the nurse reminds gently. "They were cleaned and sutured. That is why they feel tight, and painful."
mory flickers through the haze. Shattered glass. Crawling across tile. The tallic sll of blood mixing with glittering fragnts.
"Of course they were," Willow mutters.
Her feet touch the cold tile, and reality floods in through sensation. The floor is solid and rciless, cool against the thin hospital socks. Her body sways before she can stop it, equilibrium uncertain after days horizontal.
"Weight slowly," the nurse says.
Willow shifts carefully. Her right knee trembles beneath her as she transfers pressure. The bandage pulls against fresh sutures, and the skin feels swollen and overstretched, as if it might split despite knowing it will not. Her abdon tightens reflexively to compensate for instability, and that tightening radiates deeper pain through her core.
"One step," Zane says softly.
She lifts her right foot. The motion pulls through her center first, a deep internal tug that forces her jaw to clamp shut to keep from making a sound. The burn beneath her knee flares as she lowers her foot back to the tile, carefully, deliberately, asuring the descent.
The second step is worse because she anticipates it. Her left knee protests sharply as weight transfers. The pressure along her abdon contracts in response and she nearly folds forward before she can stop herself.
Zane’s arm tightens around her waist instantly, absorbing her imbalance.
"Breathe."
She presses her forehead briefly against his chest, inhaling the faint scent of him beneath antiseptic air.
"I hate this."
"I know."
They move slowly, step by negotiated step. Each shift of weight requires calculation. Each small motion demands cooperation from muscles that feel reluctant and overexposed. The short distance to the bathroom stretches unnaturally long, as though they are walking through resistance rather than space.
Inside, the nurse steps out to give them privacy. The door closes softly.
Zane looks down at her carefully.
"I can step out."
She shakes her head.
"No."
The word is soft but absolute.
He stays. He steadies her when her knees shake. He supports her weight when her abdon pulls unpredictably and tightens beneath the dressing. He helps her lower herself slowly and precisely, mindful of the drain pocket at her side, mindful of the sutures that tug with every change of angle, mindful of the bandages that restrict ease.
Humiliation flares briefly, hot and sharp, but it dissolves almost imdiately. Not with him. Not here. There is no pity in his eyes. No impatience. Only attention.
Standing again is harder. Her muscles are already fatigued, her knees burning with aggravated tenderness. Her abdon pulses with fresh irritation from movent, the dull ache now layered with sharper threads that pulse with her heartbeat.
Halfway back to the bed she falters. Her knees soften beneath her, not dramatically but enough that her balance tips forward.
Zane reacts before gravity finishes its work. His arms close around her firmly, one bracing her waist, the other steadying her shoulder so she does not fold in on herself. He does not panic. He absorbs her weight as if it is nothing, grounding her until the tremor passes.
"Easy," he murmurs near her temple.
She nods faintly, breath shallow, pride stinging more than the pain.
"Let’s wash your hands first," he says gently.
He guides her toward the sink in careful incrents, keeping his body aligned with hers so she never feels unsupported. He turns on the water, tests the temperature with his fingers before bringing her hands beneath the stream. He holds her wrists lightly so she does not have to lift them fully, helping her move her fingers through the soap. The simple act feels monuntal.
When she sways again, his forearm tightens across her back, not restraining, just anchoring.
"I’ve got you," he says quietly.
She believes him without question.
When she is finally lowered back into bed, relief does not arrive first. Heat does. Her abdon feels swollen from the inside, as if the effort of standing has irritated sothing delicate beneath the sutures. The constant ache now carries a deeper undercurrent, heavier and more insistent. Her knees throb beneath the thick bandages, tight and reactive from use after days of stillness.
She closes her eyes, but darkness does not soften sensation. It sharpens it. The mattress presses against muscles that feel overstretched and strained. The drain shifts lightly when she inhales too deeply, and even swallowing pulls faintly along her abdon, reminding her that everything in her body is connected.
Zane notices the subtle change in her breathing pattern.
"Worse?"
She nods carefully.
"It’s deeper now. Like it’s angry."
He reaches toward the call button but pauses when her fingers tighten around his.
"Wait."
He studies her face.
"I just need a minute."
He nods and shifts closer, sliding his hand beneath her forearm so her wrist is supported without pressure on the IV site. His thumb moves in slow, steady circles against her skin. The motion is quiet and rhythmic, not distracting, not demanding, simply present.
The compression cuffs inflate again around her calves, squeezing firmly before releasing. The chanical cycle continues as though indifferent to her exhaustion.
Her body feels managed, monitored, directed. Her blood flow controlled. Her breathing asured. Her pain negotiated in carefully calibrated doses.
"I didn’t think it would hurt this much," she admits.
"They cut through muscle," he says gently. "And your knees were torn open. Your body’s reacting."
"I know that logically."
"Logic doesn’t make it easier."
She lets her head tilt slightly toward him. Fatigue spreads through her limbs now, heavy and draining. Her thighs tremble faintly beneath the blanket from delayed strain. The muscles around the incision feel tight and overworked, as if they have been asked to perform a task they were not ready for.
The nurse returns to check on her. Zane explains the increase in pain simply, without embellishnt. The nurse adjusts the dication slightly and inspects the drain site with calm efficiency.
"Activity will irritate it," she says. "That does not an you hard anything."
Willow nods, though fear lingers at the edges of her thoughts, the quiet worry that movent might undo fragile repairs.
After the nurse leaves, the room quiets again. Zane helps her shift slightly onto her side to relieve pressure. The adjustnt is slow and deliberate. He supports her abdon gently with one hand while guiding her hip with the other, careful not to disturb the dressing or pull at the drain.
Even that minimal change sends a wave of discomfort through her core, but it redistributes the strain enough to make the ache less concentrated.
"Better?"
"Less sharp."
He adjusts the pillow beneath her shoulder and smooths the blanket over her knees, hands steady and unhurried.
"You’re not even annoyed," she says quietly.
"At what?"
"At ."
His expression changes instantly, hardening with sothing protective and absolute.
"Never."
She believes him.
The pain does not vanish. It hums beneath her skin, constant and present. Her knees throb in slow pulses. Her abdon reminds her of every breath she takes.
But there is sothing else in the room too. A man who upgraded an ICU suite because he could. A man sleeping on a sofa instead of going ho. A man who does not flinch at drains, stitches, bandages, or humiliation.
The compression cuffs inflate again, steady and chanical.
Her eyelids grow heavy.
"Stay," she whispers.
"I’m not going anywhere."
This ti she does not question it. The pain still throbs. Her body still feels foreign and fragile.
But his hand remains wrapped around hers.
And for now, that is everything.
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