Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

64. Bitter, Pt. 2

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"Come on, (Y/N). You're doing great."

I looked back at my physical therapist, leaning fully on the rickety walker in front of me while she held onto me by my underarm. Striker walked beside me, silently watching me take each unsteady step. He pulled the back of my hospital gown closed, keeping my exposed backside covered, and his tail encircled the back half of my frame in case I lost my balance.

I bit my lip hard as I tried to breathe through the pain. Each step tensed the muscles in my abdomen, sending a new bolt of that sharp, stabbing pain through my torso. My legs turned to jelly, and my knees began to buckle beneath me. I stopped abruptly, looking down at the tile floor.

"Just a few more steps," encouraged the therapist. "You can do it."

I shook my head, my breathing growing a little heavier. "I — I think I need to sit down. . ."

I felt Striker wrap his tail around my rear, and after a moment I snaked my arm around his neck for support. The physical therapist released my underarm, and before she could walk away to find a wheelchair, Striker bent down and hooked his arm under my legs, picking me up bridal-style. I whimpered at the pain that followed the sudden movement, burying my face into the crook of his neck. I clutched his shirt in my balled fist and held onto his neck for dear life as he carried me down the hall back to my room.

Striker gingerly set me down on the hospital bed, yanking down the skirt of my gown and pulling the white bedsheets over my lower body. "Do you need medicine?" he asked, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I shook my head. "I don't think I can get anything yet," I answered, reclining back onto the raised head of the bed.

"Well, I suppose that'll do for your exercise today," said the physical therapist, who had followed Striker tentatively back to the room. "You did really well."

"It doesn't feel like it," I remarked.

"You beat yesterday's distance by about six feet,  so I'd say that's pretty good." She smiled and walked toward the door. "We'll see you tomorrow. Just take it easy 'til then."

When she left the room, I dropped my head on the pillow behind me and let out a tired sigh. I kept my eyes closed for a moment, then looked at Striker. "Thank you," I said.

He half-smiled, perching himself on the side of the bed and lacing his fingers with mine. "Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'."

I mirrored his expression and gave his hand a quick squeeze. We sat in a peaceful silence for a few minutes before Striker brushed his fingers through my messy hair, settling his hand on the side of my head.

A soft smile tugged at my lips. "I love when you do that, y'know."

He chuckled. "I figured," he murmured. "S'why I keep doin' it."

My smile widened at his words, and I reached toward him and curled my fingers around his red bandana. Striker followed my cue and leaned toward me, one hand resting on the mattress beside my head, the other taking hold of my chin. His eyes burned a bright yellow amidst the white fluorescent lights, and they softened when they fixed their gaze on me. He glanced down at my mouth for a moment before looking me in the eyes again. That gesture alone caused a swarm of butterflies to rage in my stomach, and it was a wonder the sensation didn't exacerbate my pain further.

A familiar smirk crawled across his face, and he moved closer until his lips were firmly planted on mine. I tilted my head to deepen the kiss, and he released my chin to weave his fingers into my hair. I let out a contented sigh, and Striker seized the opportunity and licked my bottom lip. I gladly conceded, parting my lips and granting him entry.