Chapter 1: First Request
The air in Hannah’s apartment had settled into a permanent stale haze. It smelled of antiseptic wipes, the faint floral decay of old coffee grounds, and the unmistakable, chalky scent of plaster. From her throne of misery—a hideous hybrid wheelchair-recliner that the medical supply company had assured her was “top of the line”—she could see the entire universe of her confinement. A half-empty water glass sat just beyond the arc of her fingertips on the side table. The television remote taunted her from the floor, a sleek black rectangle on the taupe carpet.
She was a bug pinned to a board, her wings splayed and useless.
The double hip spica cast was a monstrosity. It encased her from her ribcage down to her knees on one leg, her ankle on the other, holding her legs in a permanent, rigid V. White, bulky, unyielding. It itched in places she could never hope to reach. Every nerve in her body screamed for a shift, a twist, a moment of relief, but the plaster held her in a merciless hug.
A knock at the door. Two firm, polite raps.
Her stomach clenched. She knew who it was. “It’s open,” she called, her voice raspy from disuse.
The door swung inward and Leo filled the frame. He had to duck slightly under the lintel. He carried two brown paper grocery bags in one arm as if they weighed nothing. His dark eyes scanned the dim room, taking in the landscape of her despair—the nest of blankets, the tower of graphic novel drafts on the coffee table, the single glaring lamp.
“Hey, neighbor.” His voice was a low rumble, warmth itself. He kicked the door shut with his heel.
“Leo.” Hannah tried to muster a tone of finality, a dismissal. It came out as a sigh.
He moved into her space with an easy familiarity that set her teeth on edge. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was the guy from 4B, the one with the too-easy smile who said hello in the hallway. The one she’d expertly avoided for six months. Now he was putting groceries away in her kitchen, the soft clatter of cans a domestic sound that felt like an invasion.
“Got your list,” he said over his shoulder. “Soup, crackers, that weird kombucha you like. The clerk tried to convince me to buy flowers. I told him you’d probably use the vase to brain me.”
A reluctant snort escaped her. “He wasn’t wrong.”
Leo emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his jeans. He wore a faded navy t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. Former firefighter, she remembered her friend Sadie telling her in a gossipy whisper. Now a carpenter. He looked like a man who knew how to use his hands, for building or for breaking.
His gaze landed on the remote on the floor, then travelled to the water glass just out of her reach. He didn’t say anything. He just walked over, picked up the remote, and placed it in her lap, on the flat plane of plaster over her thigh. His fingers brushed the denim of her shorts where they emerged from the cast’s upper edge. A spark of something–annoyance, awareness–shot through her.
He picked up the water glass. Instead of handing it to her, he held it. “Thirsty?”
She was parched. Her mouth felt cottony. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Hannah.” He brought the straw to her lips. His other hand came up, cupping the base of the glass, his knuckles grazing her chin. The water was cold. It was humiliating. She drank, her eyes locked on his, defiant.
When she was done, he set the glass back, within her reach this time. He didn’t move away. He braced his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning down, bringing his face level with hers. The scent of him washed over her—sawdust and soap and clean, warm skin. It was overwhelmingly, aggravatingly pleasant.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur that vibrated in the space between them. “I’m going to keep coming over. I’m going to buy your weird drinks and pick up your remote. I’m going to figure out how to help you wash your hair without drowning you. I might even try to make you laugh.”
She could feel his breath on her neck. Her heart hammered against the prison of her cast. “I didn’t ask for a nursemaid.”
“You didn’t ask for any of this.” His eyes were dark and impossibly kind. That kindness was worse than pity. Pity she could rage against. This felt like a trap. “But you’ve got me. So, how about we try something new?”
He was so close. His gaze dipped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. One of his hands left the armrest. His fingertips, rough and calloused, traced the very edge of the plaster where it met the sensitive skin of her hip. The touch was feather-light, exploratory. It wasn’t medical. It wasn’t clinical. It was a question.
Her breath hitched. The sensation was a lightning bolt in the stagnant room. It had been so long since anyone had touched her without causing pain.
“I’ll help you with everything,” he whispered, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “Everything you need. But you have to ask for it. You have to use your words.”
A shudder ran through her. It was part anger, part something else entirely, something warm and treacherous uncoiling in her stomach. He was offering a deal. A transaction. Her autonomy, what little she had left, in exchange for… care.
“Ask nicely,” he added, the words a soft, gravelly command.
She wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to throw the remote at his head. But the remote was in her lap, and her arms were trembling with the effort of holding herself upright. The water glass might as well have been on the moon. She was utterly, completely at his mercy.
The words tasted like ash, but she forced them out. Her voice was a cracked whisper, stripped bare.
“Please.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, not in triumph, but in something like relief. As if he’d been waiting for her to finally break the seal. His thumb stroked a slow, comforting arc on her hip.
“Good girl.”
The two words hung in the air, molten and heavy. Good girl. They shouldn’t have felt like a key turning in a rusted lock. They should have felt condescending, infuriating. A hot flush climbed her neck, but it wasn’t solely anger. It was a terrifying, unwelcome wave of relief.
Leo didn’t crow. He didn’t smile like he’d won. He simply nodded, as if she’d passed a test they’d both known she was taking. His thumb still rested on her hip, a point of searing warmth against the cool plaster.
“Okay,” he said, straightening. The loss of his proximity was a sudden chill. “First order of business. You’re sitting in a crater.”
“It’s a recliner.”
“It’s a torture device disguised as La-Z-Boy.” He moved behind her. She stiffened, unable to see him. “Your neck is at a forty-five-degree angle. You’re going to have a permanent headache. We’re fixing your pillows.”
“I’ve already fixed them. A hundred times.”
“You fixed them from the front, trapped in this thing. You haven’t seen the warzone from the back.” His hands slipped behind her shoulders, one broad palm flat between her shoulder blades. “Lean forward. Just a little. As much as you can.”
It was an intimate instruction. To move, she had to trust he was there to support her. She swallowed, then let her torso tip forward an inch. The cast was monstrously heavy. Immediately, his arm was a solid bar across her back, taking the weight. He smelled like oak and sunshine.
He rearranged the cushions with quick, efficient tugs. The lump behind her head vanished, replaced by firm support. “Now lean back.”
She did. The world realigned. The ceiling, previously a skewed plane of stucco, leveled out. The tension in her neck and shoulders, a constant scream for weeks, softened to a dull murmur. A sigh leaked out of her, unbidden.
“See?” His voice came from beside her now. He was crouched by the chair, eye-level. “Sometimes you just need a different angle.”
She looked away, embarrassed by the simple comfort. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He stood, looking around the room. His gaze was practical, assessing. “We need a system. Remote goes in the cupholder here. Phone charger gets taped to this arm. Water glass always on a coaster on this side table, straw pointing toward you.” As he spoke, he moved, implementing his own plan. He pulled a roll of blue painter’s tape from his back pocket—of course he carried tape—and began securing the charger cord.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, but the protest was weak, rote.
“I know.” He tore the tape with his teeth. The casual, physical act made her stomach do a slow flip. “You’d rather sit here thirsty and in pain than admit you need a hand. I get it. It’s incredibly stubborn and borderline stupid. But I get it.”
A laugh burst out of her, sharp and surprised. “Bastard.”
“There she is.” He grinned, a flash of white in the dim room. “Now. Food. You need to eat something that isn’t saltines.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be when you smell it.” He vanished into her kitchen again. The clatter of pans, the hiss of the stove, the rich aroma of garlic and onion warming in olive oil—it was an assault on her sterile tomb. It was life. She listened, her body