Page 56 of Dose

When Raphael releases him, we return to Theon’s quarters at a pace that does not pull his stitches.

“You need to wash,” I tell him. “But the dressing stays dry.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive.”

I sit him beside the basin and wash his hair with his head tipped back, keeping the water away from his shoulder. Then I use a warm cloth to wipe the sweat, adhesive residue, and grime from his skin. It is intimate without needing to become sex. He closes his eyes and lets me care for him.

“I thought about you,” he says. “At every decision point.”

“Raphael said returning to me was part of your objective.”

“It was the condition underneath the others. Get the records. Leave the medicine moving. Bring my brothers home.” His good hand settles at my hip. “Come back to you.”

That answer matters more because he does not pretend the rest was meaningless.

We lie down with his injured shoulder supported and me curled against his right side. His arm closes around me.

For the first time since he left, my body begins to stand down.

“I cannot do that regularly,” I say against his chest. “My cardiovascular system objects.”

“You can.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It does not become easy. You get better at keeping the fear from making decisions for you.”

Lucien’s lesson in Theon’s voice.

“And I’m supposed to trust that you’ll always come back?”

“No.” His honesty makes me lift my head. “There is no always in field work. Trust that I plan around returning. Trust that my brothers will drag me out if my plan fails. Trust that I know I have something to lose now.”

I press my palm to his chest and feel the steady impact of his heart.

“Show me you’re here,” I whisper.

He does.

He stays on his back with the injured shoulder supported and uses his mouth and his uninjured hand. No frantic claiming. No attempt to prove that pain cannot touch him. He watches me, listens, and brings me apart slowly enough that every time I drift toward Atlanta, his voice pulls me back into the room.

Afterward, I settle beside him without disturbing the dressing. My fingers find the chemical structures inked across his chest.

“I want to learn these,” I say. “Your cipher. I want to be able to read it.”

“It is not a pleasant curriculum.”

“I don’t care. I want the formulas, the scars, the nightmares, the way you take your tea. All of it.”

He catches my hand and kisses the center of my palm. “All of it may take a while.”

“Good.” I return my cheek to his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside, Chicago continues without us. Inside, the floor is warm beneath the bed, and Theon’s breathing lengthens toward sleep.

Home is still a word with more meanings than I know how to hold.