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“You’re really going to help me pee?” I ask, half-mortified, half-in love with this dork.

“I’d build you a new porcelain throne and attach it to the headboard if it’d make you comfortable,” he says, lowering me gently onto the closed toilet seat. “You want privacy or are we officially at the ‘all bodily functions shared’ stage?”

I glare up at him, cheeks blazing. “Don’t look at me like I’m a wounded animal.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “JoJo, you’re my favorite wounded animal. Besides, you did the same for me when I got that concussion in peewee hockey, remember?”

“That was different,” I mutter.

“Sure,” he teases, “but you still wiped drool off my chin, so I think we’re even.”

“Give me thirty seconds,” I mutter. He grins, closes the door almost all the way, and hums ‘Eye of the Tiger’ until I call him back in.

Brogan reappears, all business, like he’s running the world’s tiniest rehab center. “Alright, let’s get you back to base camp.” He loops an arm around my waist and carefully lifts me up.

“Can I brush my teeth first?” I ask, feeling self-conscious about hospital breath.

He grabs my toothbrush and toothpaste, squirts out the perfect amount, and sits on the edge of the tub, coaching me through it like I’m learning dental hygiene for the first time.

“You missed a spot,” he teases, taking over and brushing gently, careful not to jostle my sore ankle.

“You are so weird,” I mumble around the toothbrush, but it feels intimate in a way that’s brand new and ancient at the same time.

Once I’ve splashed some cold water on my face, he walks me back to bed, moving slow, as if I’m made of glass—or maybe like he’s worried he’ll drop his favorite trophy. Once I’m settled, he fusses with the comforter, arranges my pillows behind my back, then grabs the bolster from the end of the bed and props my ankle up just right, checking the angle with the focus of a man diffusing a bomb.

“Too high? Too low? You want another pillow?” he asks, already fluffing a spare just in case. He tucks the blanket around me, presses a gentle hand to my knee, and gives me that crooked grin. Then he checks my position again, and even runs his fingers through my hair to untangle the “hospital knot” at the base of my neck.

“You look like a baby bird,” he says softly, working out a particularly stubborn snarl.

“I feel like roadkill,” I reply, but I lean into his touch anyway.

“Anything else, Your Highness? Water, snack, painkillers, Netflix remote, ceremonial crown?”

I eye the bear claws like they hold the answers to the universe. My mouth waters, but my pride’s still trying to catch up with the part where Brogan didn’t run.

“Ah, time for sugar and yeast.” He walks over, all easy confidence and stupid perfect hair. “Eat this before the pain meds. You know the drill.”

“You’re bossy this morning,” I say, but I take the pastry because my stomach’s already making pathetic noises.

“I’m always bossy. You just like it more now.”

I freeze mid-bite. My gaze snaps up to meet his. That cocky smirk is on full display, but there’s something behind it. Softness. Intention.

“Smooth,” I murmur.

He shrugs, dropping the pharmacy bag onto my nightstand. “I’m just saying. You love it.”

“I think there might be drugs inyoursystem.”

“Then take one of these, and we’ll be on equal ground.”

I roll my eyes, but do exactly as he says. Because it’s easier to take meds and make dumb jokes than it is to ask why my heart is still trying to recalibrate after confessing a decade-long crush under the influence of anesthesia.

While I swallow the pill, he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out something familiar. The old bracelet. The one I gave him in third grade. The elastic’s worn out, the beads faded and cracked, but he holds it like it’s a damn crown jewel.

“I fixed it,” he says.

My hand flies to my nightstand drawer. I pull mine out, the one he gave me. I still wear it sometimes, even if it’s just been tucked under my sleeve for the past fifteen years.