Page 57 of Vital Signs

The silence that followed was deafening. Misha's face went carefully blank.

Shit. What had I done? This beautiful, damaged man had given up his family to stay with me, and I'd just tried to destroy him for the crime of caring too much.

"You're in pain," he whispered. "You don't mean that."

But we both knew the damage was done. It showed in his eyes, the way he was already retreating behind walls I'd just given him reason to build.

"Misha, I—"

"It's okay." Too controlled, too careful. "You're suffering. People say things when they're suffering."

But he wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't touch me. Just sat there holding himself together while I fell apart from guilt on top of everything else.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," I gasped. "Misha, I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't mean any of it."

"I need some air," he said suddenly, voice tight. "Just for a minute. Don't go anywhere."

He slipped outside, and I watched through the gap in the curtains as he walked away, pulling out his phone and joint. His hands trembled as he lit the joint. The lighter illuminated his face for a moment, and his composure crumbled completely.Silent tears streamed down his cheeks as he took one shaky drag before the joint fell from his fingers.

He wrapped his arms around himself, holding tight while quiet sobs shook his shoulders, and I realized what I'd done. This man had survived something terrible enough to leave him needing touch like air, and I'd just convinced him he was unwanted. Unlovable. Too much for anyone to handle.

My first thought was crystal clear and shameful: He's distracted. I could slip out, find Jimmy McCoy, score enough to make this stop.

Fucking hell, what was wrong with me?

I forced myself to move, crawling toward the van's door despite every muscle screaming in protest. Each step outside was agony, but I made it to him anyway because he needed me.

"Hey," I whispered, settling beside him in the snow.

He startled, wiping at his face. "I'm sorry. I should be taking care of you, not—"

"No." I pulled him against my burning chest, ignoring how my body protested the movement. "You've been carrying me all day. Let me carry you for a minute."

He collapsed into me then, all that careful control dissolving into sobs that shook his entire frame. I held him while he cried, my hands stroking his hair the way he'd been stroking mine. For just a few minutes, I was the caregiver instead of the patient.

"I don't know if I'm strong enough for this," he whispered against my neck.

"You are. You've already proven it." I pressed a kiss to his head. "But you don't have to be strong every second. Even caregivers need care."

And something woke up in my chest. The same instinct that had made me become a nurse, that had driven me to hold dying patients' hands, that made me choose medicine because maybe,just maybe, I could be the difference between someone living and dying.

It was buried under four years of addiction and self-destruction, but still alive. Still fighting.

This was why I'd become a nurse. Not for the science or the prestige, but for moments like this. When someone needed comfort and I could provide it. The addiction had convinced me that part of me was dead, that I was nothing but a collection of failures and chemical dependencies.

But it was still here. Damaged, buried, barely breathing, but alive.

We sat there until his breathing steadied, then made our way back inside the van. The withdrawal symptoms didn't ease. My body was still being torn apart from the inside. But holding Misha while he broke, being needed for something other than my capacity to suffer, reminded me that I used to be someone who helped people.

Maybe I still could be.

I endured hours ofdelirium and fever, begging for relief.

Through it all, Misha stayed. Even after I'd tried to gut him, even after I'd shown him exactly what kind of monster withdrawal made me, he stayed. He brought me water I couldn't keep down, held cool cloths to my burning skin, rubbed cramping muscles.

The hallucinations got stronger. Shadows moved like living things; whispers echoed from empty corners. Flashbacks crashed through me without warning, mixing withdrawal symptoms and trauma until past and present blurred together.

"You're not there anymore," Misha said softly, his hand finding mine. "You're here. You're safe."