Page 60 of We Can Stay
I nod, already rearranging my schedule in my head. “Then tell me what I can do over the next few days to help you through.”
That softness returns to her eyes, the one that makes my chest feel too tight for my ribs. I duck my head and kiss her gently, mindful of her pain.
“Thank you,” she breathes against my lips.
“Anytime,” I whisper back.
And I mean it. Every word. While Flick’s situation reminds me a little bit of when Jessica started struggling with her mental health, this outcome will be completely different. It took Jessica years to admit she needed help, and Flick is doing what her body is asking of her.
Plus, this time around, I won’t make the same mistake of letting the romance die out while focusing on health. With Jessica, I got so invested in helping her that one day we woke up and realized we were better off as friends than anything else.
This time, I’m wiser. Confident.
I’m also with a woman who’s right for me, and that makes all the difference.
“How about some dinner?” I ask, standing up. “I make a killer chicken noodle soup.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
“Great. You just rest and I’ll get started.” I lean forward and press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then head to the kitchen.
The familiar ritual of cooking grounds me—dicing onions, carrots, celery. The knife work gives my hands something to do while my mind processes everything. Flick trusts me enough to call when she's vulnerable. She's letting me see her at what she probably considers her worst.
She has no idea that to me, she's never been more beautiful than she was sitting on that kitchen floor, fighting through pain but still managing to give clear instructions. Still thinking of her cat even when she could barely move.
The soup starts to simmer, filling the condo with the scent of herbs and comfort. I peek around the corner to check on her. She's dozed off, face relaxed in sleep, Cat pressed against her hip.
Yeah. I'm definitely falling for this woman.
Maybe I've already fallen.
I turn back to the stove, adjusting the heat to keep the soup at a gentle bubble. However long this flare lasts, whatever she needs—I'll be here. Not going anywhere.
That's a promise I intend to keep.
CHAPTER 18
Sebastian
“Here’s your tablet.” I reach across Flick’s nightstand to plug the charger into the wall, careful not to jostle the bed. The soft glow from her bedside lamp catches the exhaustion etched around her eyes, and my chest tightens. “Your phone’s right here too, fully charged in case you need anything while I’m?—”
“Sebastian.” Her voice carries that particular mix of fondness and exasperation she’s perfected over these past few days. The corner of her mouth lifts despite the pain I know she’s fighting. “I’ve got it. Thank you. Remember, I’ve been dealing with flares on my own for years.”
The words land like a gentle rebuke, and I pause mid-reach for the water glass I was about to refill. She’s right, of course. She’s managed without me before. But something about that independence, that practiced self-sufficiency born from necessity rather than choice, makes my jaw clench.
I settle onto the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Her hand finds mine automatically, our fingers interlacing like they belong that way. “And you shouldn’t have had to,” I say quietly.
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see her shoulders tense. She turns her face toward the window, where rain streamsdown the glass in rivulets. I’ve stepped in it—triggered that guilt she carries about keeping her chronic illness private, about the support system she’s denied herself by maintaining her walls.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, but she squeezes my hand.
“I know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s just... complicated.”
And it is. We both understand she’d have more help if she opened up to others, shared more. But that choice isn’t mine to make. What I can do is be here, present and willing, for whatever she needs.
It’s a role I find myself cherishing more than I expected. Even now, with my practice overflowing, the emergency clinic chronically understaffed, and the sanctuary deal hanging by a thread, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here on the edge of her bed, holding her hand while rain drums against the windows.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years filling every moment with work, with purpose, with motion. Now I’m discovering the profound satisfaction of simply being still with someone who matters.
