Chapter 5

Corey came home slower than he expected. Not in the obvious sense—there was the cast, the crutches, the careful choreography of getting in and out of cars—but in the way time itself seemed to thicken. Days stretched. Mornings blurred into afternoons. Decisions that once belonged to him arrived already half-made, offered gently, as if they would be rude to refuse. Meals appeared. Someone else cleared the dishes. Someone else reached for things before he did.

At first, he told himself this was recovery. This was what help looked like.

Amanda came the first afternoon after he was discharged, flowers tucked awkwardly under one arm, guilt still clinging to her. She didn’t stay long. She didn’t sit down. She hovered, asked if he needed anything, apologised again, then left before the air between them could settle.

The second day, she stayed longer.

By the third, her visits had found a rhythm. Mid-morning, once he was properly awake. She brought soup, or bread, or something she’d made too much of. She filled the small silences with practical talk—appointments, weather, things she’d read and forgotten. When she left, the room felt oddly unfinished, as though a sentence had been paused rather than ended.

Corey noticed, but he didn’t name it. He told himself she was steadying herself. After what she’d been through, who wouldn’t need an anchor? And he had been there when it mattered. That counted for a lot.

He didn’t feel trapped. That word seemed melodramatic, unearned. What he felt was softer than that. Like standing on uneven ground and telling himself it would level out if he just stood still long enough. Amanda talked about the future without emphasis. Not plans, exactly—more like assumptions that slipped into conversation unnoticed.