Chapter 92

Chapter 92
KAIA

The sterile white walls of the hospital waiting room seemed to close in around me as I clutched the plastic chair arms, watching the clock tick past midnight. Every few minutes, I caught myself glancing toward the emergency room doors, hoping to see Adrien emerge with nothing more than a bruise and a lecture about reckless playing.

When Dr. Patterson finally appeared, her expression was professional but kind. "The X-rays show a hairline fracture in the left radius," she explained, holding up the films against the light. "It's not displaced, which is good news, but he'll need a cast for three to four weeks minimum."

I nodded, trying to process the information while my heart hammered against my ribs. "Will he be okay? I mean, long-term?"

"Complete recovery is expected," she assured me. "But he'll need to take it easy. No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity. The fracture needs time to heal properly."

When they finally wheeled Adrien out, his left arm encased in bright white plaster from wrist to elbow, he looked smaller somehow. Vulnerable. The confident hockey player who'd dominated the ice just hours ago was replaced by someone who winced when he tried to adjust his sling.

"Hey," he said softly when he spotted me, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You didn't have to wait."

"Of course I did." The words came out more fierce than I intended. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck." He tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. "Actually, I think the truck would've been gentler."

To better focus on his recovery, Adrien chose to move back to his apartment in Brentwood.

The moment I stepped into the apartment, the ambiance felt like a soothing balm to my soul.

Cream-colored cashmere carpets blanketed the living room, while sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, resting warmly upon the plush cotton sofas. The open-concept kitchen featured a walnut breakfast bar, scattered with a few of Amy’s fashion magazines and an elegant coffee set.

There was none of the aloof grandiosity typical of old-money estates; instead, every corner breathed a sense of 'living'—the warmth of a home meticulously cared for.

"Amy’s back at school catching up on her final assignments this week; it’s just me for now." Adrien sank into the sofa, a fine layer of sweat glistening on his forehead. With his left arm encased in a heavy plaster cast, he looked uncharacteristically dishevelled.

I watched him struggle with simple tasks—reaching for a water glass with his right hand while his left hung useless in its sling. When he accidentally knocked over a bottle of pain medication, scattering pills across the coffee table, something in his expression crumbled.

"Fuck," he muttered, staring down at the mess. "I can't even... this is ridiculous."

"Adrien." I knelt beside him, carefully collecting the scattered pills. I looked up at him, my decision crystallizing. "Let me take care of you for a while."

The relief in his eyes was unmistakable. "You don't have to do that, Kaia. I know you probably have plans for the break—"

"My only plan is making sure you're okay." And it was true. The thought of leaving him alone in this state made my chest tight with anxiety. "Besides, Christmas is still a few days away. I'm not going anywhere."

The next three days fell into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. I'd arrive each morning to find Adrien already awake, usually struggling with some simple task that his cast made impossible. Making coffee. Buttoning his shirt. Opening a book.

"I used to be independent," he grumbled on the second day as I helped him navigate a particularly stubborn jar of pasta sauce. "This is humiliating."

"It's temporary," I reminded him, finally conquering the jar with a satisfying pop. "And there's no shame in needing help."

He watched me pour the sauce into a pan, his expression thoughtful. "You know, for someone who supposedly doesn't remember me, you're remarkably good at this."

The comment sent a flutter through my stomach. It was true—caring for him felt natural in a way I couldn't explain. Like muscle memory that transcended conscious thought.

Feeding him lunch became an exercise in torture. Not because he was difficult, but because of the way he looked at me when I brought the spoon to his lips. Like I was precious. Like this simple act meant more to him than it should.

"You're staring," I said when he forgot to chew, too focused on watching my face.

"Sorry." But he didn't look away. "It's just... thank you. For this. For staying."

"Don't thank me yet," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "Wait until you see what I got you for Christmas."

I'd been working on his gift in secret—a scarf I'd started knitting weeks ago, long before the accident. The deep green wool reminded me of his eyes, and I'd spent hours perfecting each stitch, though I couldn't quite explain why it felt so important to get it right.

On Christmas Eve, I presented the wrapped package with nervous hands. "It's not much," I said as he carefully unwrapped it with his good hand. "But I thought—"

He went very still when he saw the scarf, running his fingers over the soft wool with something like wonder. "Kaia," he breathed. "You made this?"

"I know it's probably not your style—"

"It's perfect." His voice was rough around the edges. "How did you know green was my favorite color?"

I didn't have an answer for that. Just like I couldn't explain how I knew he preferred his coffee black, or that he unconsciously hummed when he was content, or that he got a small crease between his eyebrows when he was thinking hard about something.

"Try it on," I said instead.

He let me drape it around his neck, careful to work around his sling. The color brought out the flecks of gold in his eyes, and when he smiled—really smiled—I felt something shift in my chest. Something warm and dangerous and entirely too comfortable.

But then his expression faltered slightly, and he looked almost embarrassed. "I... I haven't gotten you anything yet," he admitted, his fingers still touching the soft wool. "I've been trying to think of what would be perfect, but with everything that happened..." He gestured helplessly at his cast. "I'm sorry. I wanted to give you something special."

"You don't need to give me anything," I said softly, touched by his obvious distress about it. "You being okay is enough."

"No, it’s not enough," he gritted his teeth in frustration. "You’ve done so much for me, and now I’m useless. I can’t drive, I can’t even write properly—"

"Adrien." I reached for his good hand. "Stop. This isn't about keeping score."

But I could see the disappointment in his eyes, the way he kept glancing at the scarf like it represented everything he felt he was failing to give back.

That evening, we settled on his couch to watch It's a Wonderful Life, my shoulder pressed against his good side. The apartment was warm and dimly lit, the Christmas tree casting colored shadows across the walls. It felt peaceful. Right.

I was almost dozing when Adrien shifted beside me, his breathing different somehow. When I looked up, his face was flushed, his jaw tight.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting up straighter.

"Nothing. It's nothing." But his voice was strained, and he wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Adrien." I touched his cheek, turning his face toward mine. "Tell me."

The admission came out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other in embarrassment. "I can't... with the cast, I can't... take care of certain things. And it's been days, and I..." He closed his eyes, his cheeks burning. "God, this is mortifying."

It took me a moment to understand what he was asking, and when I did, heat flooded my own face. "Oh."

"Forget I said anything. I shouldn't have—"

"Do you trust me?" The question surprised even me, but once it was out, I knew it was the right one.

He opened his eyes, searching my face. "With my life."

"Okay." My heart was racing, but my voice was steady. "Okay."

I'd never done anything like this before—at least, not that I could remember. But somehow, my hands seemed to know what to do, moving with careful certainty as I helped him. His breathing grew ragged, and he whispered my name like a prayer, his good hand tangling in my hair.

When it was over, he pulled me close, pressing his lips to my temple. "Thank you," he murmured against my skin. "For everything. For being here. For—"

"Don't," I whispered, suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy of what we'd shared. "You don't have to thank me."

We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other and the golden glow of Christmas lights. I was just starting to think that maybe this was what happiness felt like when my phone rang.

"Don't answer it," Adrien said softly, his arm tightening around me.

But when I saw the caller ID, my stomach dropped. "It's my mom."

I accepted the call with trembling fingers. "Hi, Mom."

"Kaia, sweetheart." My mother's voice was crisp, businesslike. "I need you to come home for Christmas. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But I thought—"

"This isn't a request, anak. There are things we need to discuss. Important things." Her tone brooked no argument. "I've already bought your ticket. The flight leaves at two."

I looked at Adrien, who was watching me with growing concern. "Mom, I can't just—"

"You can and you will."

The line went dead, leaving me staring at my phone in confusion and growing dread. Whatever my mother needed to tell me, it was serious enough to summon me home with less than twenty-four hours' notice.

"What's wrong?" Adrien asked, his voice gentle.

"I have to go home," I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "Tomorrow."

And somehow, I knew that everything we'd just shared—this perfect, fragile bubble of intimacy—was about to shatter.