A few days had passed since their first encounter. Jacob had tried to distract himself with the usual routine at the hospital—checking in on patients, organizing paperwork, offering what comfort he could—but his thoughts kept drifting back to Brinch. The blue-skinned man had stayed in the hospital longer than most of the other patients, which wasn't surprising considering the severity of his condition. But Jacob couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Brinch than just the physical pain he seemed to be enduring. There was an emotional weight that hung over him, something darker than just the visible discomfort of his knee. And Jacob knew that kind of pain. He'd felt it before. The weight of loss, of being too broken to move forward.
The hospital had become a blur of sterile hallways and unfamiliar faces, but it was the quiet moments with Brinch that stood out, moments when Jacob would find him alone in the lobby, seated in his wheelchair, his head down, looking lost in his own world.
Jacob couldn't ignore the tug he felt toward him—the pull that kept bringing him back, again and again.
This time, when Jacob found him, it was different. There was something about the way Brinch sat in the wheelchair that suggested a certain vulnerability—a quietness that felt almost fragile. The day was overcast, the cold light of a December afternoon filtering through the lobby's windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The usual hustle of the hospital seemed to ebb around them, leaving only the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of footsteps.
Jacob approached slowly, his footsteps barely audible on the polished tile. Brinch didn't notice him at first, his eyes fixed on his knee, which he had wrapped in a bandage and elevated on a small pillow. The color of his skin, that striking, deep blue, was more pronounced now that he was still, the hues looking darker under the muted light.
"Hey," Jacob said softly, standing a few feet away from him.
Brinch didn't look up at first, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was caught between acknowledging the interruption or pretending he hadn't heard. But then, without a word, he shifted slightly in his chair, just enough for Jacob to see the deep lines of strain etched into his face.
"How's the knee?" Jacob asked, keeping his voice gentle.
Brinch's lips twitched in what might have been a faint, pained smile. "It feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to it," he said, his voice raspy from the strain. His fingers were digging into the armrests of the wheelchair, the knuckles going white. "But they say the surgery will help."
Jacob nodded, stepping closer, his eyes flicking down to the swollen knee, the bandages wrapped tightly around it. It had been a few days since Brinch had undergone surgery to repair the damaged joint, and although the procedure had gone well, the recovery was proving to be a long, difficult road.
"Want me to help with anything?" Jacob asked, unsure if Brinch would accept. His question hovered between polite concern and genuine wanting. He wasn't sure why he felt such an urgency to help Brinch—it was just something about the man's quiet suffering that made him want to reach out.
Brinch finally lifted his gaze to meet Jacob's eyes. There was a sharpness in his stare, as though he were trying to gauge Jacob's intentions, but then, for a brief moment, that sharpness softened. He let out a sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of all the frustration he'd been holding back.
"You don't have to help," Brinch muttered, his voice low and thick with a weariness Jacob couldn't ignore. "I've gotten used to... dealing with things on my own."
Jacob didn't move away. He understood that instinct—the desire to push people away, to refuse help because it felt too vulnerable, too exposed. He had spent years building up walls, keeping everyone at arm's length. But there was something about Brinch that made him want to tear those walls down, if only a little.
"I know the feeling," Jacob said quietly, his voice soft but steady. "I think I've spent most of my life trying to do everything by myself. But sometimes... sometimes it's okay to let someone in. Even just a little."
Brinch's lips twitched again, this time the faintest hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicked up to meet Jacob's, something unspoken passing between them.
"You really don't have to, you know," Brinch said, his voice almost a whisper.
But Jacob could see it—the quiet desperation in Brinch's eyes, the way his hands trembled, the way he tried to hide it. He wanted to push back against that fragile wall, to show Brinch that there was someone who cared, someone who would stick around even when things got hard.
"I don't mind," Jacob said softly. He knelt down in front of Brinch's chair, slowly, as though respecting some invisible boundary that might snap if he moved too quickly. His fingers brushed against the fabric of the wheelchair's armrest, and he gave Brinch a small, reassuring look. "You don't have to be alone in this, okay?"
For a moment, the space between them seemed to stretch, heavy with unspoken things. Brinch didn't respond at first. But after a long pause, he let out a quiet breath, his body sagging a little with the release of tension.
"Okay," Brinch said, his voice barely audible. "Okay, I'll let you help."
Jacob's heart gave a small, surprised lurch. He hadn't expected Brinch to open up so easily, but there it was—a crack in the wall.
Without another word, Jacob carefully adjusted the cushion under Brinch's knee, shifting his leg slightly so it would be more comfortable. As his fingers brushed over the edge of the bandage, he caught sight of Brinch's eyes. They were soft, vulnerable, a shade of green so faint they almost seemed translucent in the dim light.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet was deep, shared—a stillness that made Jacob realize how rare it was for someone to let him into their space like this, to allow him to be close in a way that wasn't just professional or fleeting.
"How did you end up in the wheelchair?" Jacob asked softly, the question more out of curiosity than anything else.
Brinch hesitated, his eyes flickering down to his knee again. His fingers tightened on the armrests, the strain evident in the way his jaw tightened. But then he spoke, voice low, almost distant.
"A while ago, I... I had an accident. I wasn't supposed to be the one who got hurt," Brinch said, his words trailing off. "But I ended up in a mess of my own making. Now I'm here—just waiting to get back on my feet." He paused, looking up at Jacob again. "But sometimes I wonder if... if I even want to get back up."
Jacob's heart clenched at that. He could hear the echo of Brinch's pain in his words—the same kind of pain that had kept Jacob locked inside himself for so long. The fear of standing up again, of trying and failing. Of facing the world when it seemed like everything was too broken to fix.
"You don't have to have it all figured out," Jacob said gently, offering him a small, understanding smile. "You don't have to be okay right now."
Brinch's gaze softened, and for the first time in a long while, there was something in his eyes—something warm, maybe even a little hopeful. It was as if he was seeing Jacob in a new light, seeing someone who wasn't just offering empty words, but offering something real.
Jacob remained kneeling in front of him, a quiet presence, as the hours drifted by. They didn't talk much after that, but the silence between them felt different now. It was no longer thick with isolation, but filled with the potential for something more.
Something they were both too scared to name just yet.
But it was there, just beneath the surface—the first hint of something fragile and beautiful, waiting to grow.
