Page 165 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
“She’s in very good condition overall,” he continues. “Her baseline health has worked strongly in her favour. Aside from the injury, her body is responding well.”
Zach nods slightly, already absorbing that, already turning it into something practical.
“What do we need to do?” he asks. “When she’s discharged.”
“Rest,” the doctor replies. “Monitor the wound, keep the stitches clean, watch for signs of infection. No strain. Let her heal.”
We all nod.
Taking it in.
Holding onto it.
“She’s strong,” the doctor adds.
I glance back toward the room.
Toward her.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “She is.”
The doctor gives a small nod before stepping away. Zach exhales again, slower this time, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“We can take her home,” he says quietly.
I nod.
“Yeah,” I say.
My eyes settle on the door again.
Everything that matters is still behind it.
But for the first time since we got her back, it doesn’t feel like we’re trying to hold onto her. It feels like we’re actually getting her back.
thirty-six
Zach
They bring the wheelchair in like it’s already decided.
Like there isn’t going to be a discussion about it, like the moment it crosses the threshold of the room it becomes inevitable, and I see the exact second Lia registers it, the way her expression shifts, the subtle tightening in her jaw as she looks from the chair to us, already preparing to push back.
“I don’t need that,” she says, and her voice is stronger than it has been, steadier, like she’s trying to reclaim something of herself in the middle of all of this. “I can walk.”
She shifts in the bed as she says it, pushing herself up slightly, and for a moment I let myself believe she might manage it, that she might be able to prove her point, but then the movement catches, sharp and immediate, her breath hitching as her hand instinctively presses to her side, her body betraying her before she can control it.
Elijah moves before she can even finish reacting to it, his hand already at her waist, steady, firm, like he’s anchoring her in place.
“No,” he says, and there’s nothing raised about his voice, nothing outwardly harsh, but there is absolutely no room for negotiation in it. “You’re not walking out of here.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, quieter now, like she knows she’s already lost part of the argument but isn’t willing to give it up completely. “It’s just sore.”
“Angel,” he says, and the word lands softer but the meaning doesn’t change, “you were stabbed. You’re not walking.”
She looks at him, really looks at him, and I can see the flicker of resistance there, the need to hold onto control after everything that’s been taken from her, the need to not feel fragile even if her body is telling her something different.
“I don’t need a wheelchair,” she says again, and this time her gaze shifts to me, like she’s expecting something else from me, expecting me to balance it, to soften it, to give her another option.
