Chapter 88 Yours
"I can't... I can't manage the sweatpants," he confessed, the words clearly costing him a massive amount of pride. "The drawstring. I can't untie it with one hand."
My heart broke for him all over again.
"It's okay," I said softly, stepping into the bathroom with him and closing the door behind us. "I've got it."
He stood rigidly in front of the toilet, looking everywhere but at me.
I knelt down in front of him. I kept my movements quick and clinical, not wanting to drag out his discomfort. I untied the knot of the drawstring with deft fingers and pulled the waistband of the sweatpants and his boxers down a few inches, just enough.
"I'll turn around," I said, standing up and immediately turning my back to him, facing the sink.
I listened to the rustle of clothing, then the sound of him relieving himself. The silence in the small room was heavy with his mortification.
When he was finished, he cleared his throat softly.
I turned back around, keeping my eyes fixed on his face, giving him as much dignity as the situation allowed. I knelt back down and pulled the fabric up, securing the drawstring.
When I stood up, he was staring at me.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick.
"You don't have to thank me for this," I replied, walking over to the sink to wash my hands. "It's just anatomy and fabric, Tristan. It's not a big deal."
"It is to me," he said quietly. "I'm used to being the one in control."
I grabbed a towel and dried my hands. I turned to look at him.
"You're going to have to learn to let go of the control," I told him honestly. "For a little while. You have to let me carry the weight."
He nodded slowly, understanding the necessity even if he hated the reality of it.
"Come on," I said, offering him my arm for support. "Let's get you back to the sofa."
\---
By Thursday, the tension of the physical limitations was beginning to crack, giving way to something deeper.
The pain medication made him groggy, but it also lowered his defenses. The walls he normally kept so meticulously constructed were crumbling.
It was late in the evening. The city was dark, the only light in the bedroom coming from the small lamp on my nightstand.
It was time to change his bandages.
Dr. Aris had shown me how to do it before we left the hospital. It required a sterile environment, steady hands, and a strong stomach. The wound was still ugly—a deep, jagged hole stitched together with black thread, surrounded by angry red and purple bruising.
"Alright," I said, walking into the bedroom carrying a tray of medical supplies: saline solution, sterile gauze, medical tape, and scissors.
Tristan was lying in bed, his eyes closed. He opened them when he heard the clink of the scissors against the tray.
He didn't say anything, but I saw the slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw. The bandage change was the most painful part of the day.
"I'll be as quick as I can," I promised, setting the tray down.
I carefully unfastened the heavy sling, gently supporting his right arm while I lowered it to rest on a pillow beside him. He hissed sharply through his teeth, the movement pulling at the healing muscle.
"Sorry, sorry," I murmured.
I began to peel the medical tape away from his skin. I moved slowly, inch by inch, trying not to pull the hairs on his chest.
When the old, blood-spotted gauze was finally removed, the wound was exposed.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look at it clinically, not emotionally. I couldn't afford to let my hands shake.
I soaked a sterile sponge in saline solution and began to gently dab around the edges of the incision, cleaning away the dried blood and plasma.
Tristan’s breathing grew shallow and rapid. His left hand gripped the bedsheet, twisting the fabric into a tight knot.
"You're doing great," I whispered, keeping my focus on the wound. "Almost done."
"It's not the pain," he grunted, his voice incredibly strained.
I stopped wiping, looking up at his face. He wasn't looking at the wound. He was looking at me. His eyes were dark, intense, and filled with a profound, agonizing vulnerability.
"Then what is it?" I asked softly.
"It's you," he breathed. "It's watching you touch me like this. So carefully."
He reached up with his left hand, his fingers lightly tracing the line of my collarbone, right where the red laser dot had rested just over a week ago.
"I remember seeing the laser on your shirt," he said, his voice trembling. "I remember the exact second I realized I couldn't stop her with words."
"Don't," I said, my own throat tightening. "Don't go back there."
"I have to," he insisted, his thumb stroking my skin. "Because I need you to understand. When I jumped... I didn't think I was going to survive it. I thought I was dead."
A tear escaped my eye, falling hot and fast onto his bare chest.
"But I didn't care," he continued, his voice breaking. "I didn't care about the company. I didn't care about the legacy. My only thought was that if you died, the world ended anyway. So it didn't matter."
I dropped the saline sponge onto the tray. I couldn't maintain the clinical distance anymore.
I leaned over him, burying my face in his neck, careful to avoid the exposed wound.
"You survived," I sobbed quietly against his skin. "You stayed with me."
He wrapped his good arm around my back, holding me tightly against him.
"I'll always stay," he promised fiercely, pressing a kiss to my hair. "I'll bleed out a thousand times before I let anyone take you away from me."
We stayed like that for a long time, the medical tray forgotten beside us.
The reversal of roles was complete. I was the caretaker, the anchor holding him down while his body healed. But in the dark quiet of the bedroom, I realized that he was still holding me up.
He was still the Titan. He had just learned to build his strength around me, instead of using it to control me.
"We need to finish cleaning it," I whispered eventually, pulling back slightly.
He offered a weak smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"I'm yours," he said simply. "Do whatever you need to do."