Chapter 87 Recovery
Tristan was a terrible patient. Not because he whined or complained about the pain—which I knew was agonizing, despite the heavy rotation of analgesics—but because his instinct to control everything clashed violently with his physical inability to do so.
He was essentially one-armed. The heavy sling immobilized his right arm completely, securing it against his torso to prevent any movement of the shattered collarbone. The graft repairing the subclavian artery was delicate; Dr. Aris had been explicitly clear that any sudden jerks could be catastrophic.
Consequently, Tristan hated being still.
It was Tuesday morning, three days after bringing him home. The city below was waking up, the pale sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I walked into the bedroom carrying a tray with oatmeal, fruit, and a cup of black coffee.
Tristan was not in bed.
He was standing by the window, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His chest was bare, showcasing the stark, jarring contrast of the white, bulky bandages against his tanned skin. He was staring out at the Manhattan skyline, his left hand clenched into a tight fist at his side.
"You're supposed to be resting," I said, setting the tray down on the nightstand.
He turned slowly, his face tight.
"I've been resting for two weeks," he grumbled, his voice rough. "If I spend another hour staring at that ceiling, I'm going to lose my mind."
"Dr. Aris said short walks around the apartment. Not standing for an hour," I reminded him, walking over to him.
"It hasn't been an hour," he argued, though a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead betrayed the exertion it took just to stand upright.
"Sit down," I ordered, pointing to the edge of the bed.
He glared at me, the old, stubborn Titan flashing in his amber eyes. For a second, I thought he was going to argue. But then his left shoulder slumped, the fight draining out of him as the pain likely flared.
He walked slowly back to the bed and sat down heavily, leaning back against the pillows with a suppressed groan.
"Thank you," I said, picking up the bowl of oatmeal.
He looked at the spoon I was holding. He looked at his immobilized right arm.
"I am not letting you feed me," he stated, his jaw setting stubbornly.
"Tristan, your left hand is shaking. You're exhausted."
"I am not a child, Mina. I can eat."
He reached out with his left hand, trying to take the spoon from me. His fingers trembled violently. He grasped the handle, but as he tried to bring it toward the bowl, his lack of coordination—he was fiercely right-handed—caused the spoon to clatter against the ceramic edge, spilling a glob of oatmeal onto his sweatpants.
He swore, a harsh, clipped curse, dropping the spoon back into the bowl.
The frustration radiating off him was palpable. It wasn't just about the oatmeal. It was about the helplessness. He was a man who moved mountains, who dictated markets, and right now, he couldn't feed himself breakfast.
"Okay," I said softly, setting the bowl back on the tray. "No oatmeal."
I grabbed a clean napkin and gently wiped the spill from his pants.
He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes averted, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"I hate this," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I hate feeling useless."
"You're not useless," I said, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. "You're healing."
"I feel pathetic."
"You took a bullet from a high-powered rifle," I said, my voice firming up. "You survived a massive arterial bleed. There is absolutely nothing pathetic about you, Tristan Johnston."
He finally looked at me.
"It's just..." He sighed, resting his head back. "I wanted to take care of you. When we got out of that trap... I wanted to be the one to fix the mess. And instead, I'm a burden."
"Stop," I commanded gently. I reached out and cupped his left cheek. "You are not a burden. Taking care of you... it's a privilege."
He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch.
"Now," I said, picking up a slice of apple from the tray. "Since you refuse to be fed with a spoon, you're going to have to compromise."
I held the apple slice up to his mouth.
He opened his eyes, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. He leaned forward and took the apple from my fingers, his teeth grazing my skin lightly.
We established a new system. Finger foods only when he was too tired to manage the utensils left-handed.
Later that afternoon, the reality of his limitations hit again.
I was working at the dining room table, reviewing the revised lighting plans for the estate. Tristan was on the sofa, supposedly resting, while Nero slept curled up on his good side.
"Mina," Tristan called out. His voice was tight, strained.
I dropped my pen and hurried over.
He was sitting up, his face pale.
"Are you okay? Is it the shoulder?" I asked, my heart instantly accelerating.
"No, the shoulder is fine," he said, his jaw locked tight. "I need... I need to use the bathroom."
"Okay," I said, holding out my hands to help him stand. "Let's go."
He ignored my hands. He pushed himself up using his good arm, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him.
I hovered close, ready to catch him, but he steadied himself and began the slow walk down the hall.
When we reached the bathroom door, he stopped. He turned to me, his expression a mix of embarrassment and absolute misery.