That night, after cleaning him up and bandaging his hand, Rowan lay beside me.
“I meant what I said earlier. About the dance.”
“I know.”
“I wanted people to see us. Not what’s missing, but what’s still here.”
I traced his arm. “Then show them. But not alone.”
He glanced at me. “You’d help?”
I snorted. “I’m your wife. You’re stuck with me.”
A small smile broke through. “Good.”
The next morning, he rolled into the living room with the prosthetics on his lap.
“Okay. Round two.”
I crossed my arms. “You sure you don’t want coffee first?”
“I’m already nervous. Let’s not add caffeine.”
I helped him adjust the straps, careful this time. His skin was bruised, pressure-marked, toughened in places, broken in others.
“Does it always hurt this much?” I asked.
He exhaled. “Some days more than others. Some days I hate them. I want to rip them off. But then I remember why I’m doing it.”
I softened. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I know. But I want to.”
We practiced in small bursts.
“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got me. Lean if you need to.”
“I will absolutely need to, Mik.”
He pushed up, gripping my shoulders, his whole body shaking.
“Easy, honey. I’ve got you.”
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