Devil's Desire [h.s.]

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Zayn took his role as my physical therapist very seriously.

After my discussion with Harry about how I hadn't wanted to hire a professional and figured I could do most of the exercises on my own, Zayn had taken it upon himself to step in. Not even a full two weeks later and my arm was feeling considerably better than it had.

The two of us were sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of the lake, knees nearly brushing against one another, as he assessed me. He was watching while I proved how long I could squeeze a foam roller for without my hand and forearm spasming or losing their strength. This was the last exercise we would do before wrapping up—to gauge the progress.

"That's good," he said softly, his fingers drifting over mine as he felt them begin to twitch. "Longest you've gone yet."

Harry never drifted far. He was a few dozen feet back, sitting at the patio table, watching. He was always lingering close by, as he'd done since I'd first opened my eyes. When I glanced back at him, Zayn's hands covering mine as he took back the roller, his eyes met mine. Months ago, even weeks ago, I'd have expected to see jealousy or anger simmering in them, but today they just looked sad. Exhausted.

My fingers flexed, opening and closing, in my lap. Despite the uptick in strength, they still lacked the ability to perform finer motor skills. Not that I hadn't tried. The first few days after we'd begun our sessions, Zayn and I, I'd gone into the guest bedroom where Harry had stored a bunch of paint and easels, and sat on the floor, placing one of them before me as I attempted to paint something. Anything. My fingers shook too much, and every brush stroke strayed outwards, looking unkempt and messy.

That isn't to say Harry hadn't been overjoyed when he'd come bursting into the room and seen me on the floor, canvas displayed before my crossed legs. He'd dropped to his knees, hand drifting to my back, asking what else he could get me. If I'd wanted any specific paint colours, different brushes, canvases in other sizes. I hadn't said anything, simply turned around and hugged him.

The only time Harry and I were ever really apart was when he'd meet with Zayn and Morgan. They weren't secret meetings, and I supposed I could go and listen in, but the stress alone that I noticed it caused Harry whenever any discussion of Damien or Derek or anything else to do with them was brought up in front of me didn't seem worth it. It wasn't like they'd give me any substantial role in their plan going forward—that is to say if one even existed—so I just fell back and stayed out of it.

Because I was trying. I was really trying. I was desperate to make Harry feel better, to get him to talk to me about what he was feeling, considering I could read on his face just how much he seemed to be stressing about things he refused to vocalize. Things including me, including Derek, including what had happened the night I'd been shot.

Every morning I would wake up on that stupid, fucking bed with all of the medical machines surrounding us, the ones Angela needed to check my blood pressure, draw my blood, give me an IV if she felt I wasn't getting enough fluids in me during the day, and every morning Harry would either be asleep in my lap, his arms curled around me, as he slept in the arm chair, or already gone. I wasn't sure he'd slept in a real bed in months. And it infuriated me.

As much as he wanted me to get better, to completely heal, I wanted that for him as well. I wasn't sure how else to communicate this to him other than grabbing his shoulders and screaming at him. I refrained, of course, because the sight of me exerting that much energy might as well send him to an early death.

It paralyzed me, though. I had quite literally gotten a brain bleed from the amount of stress I'd been under the past few months since I'd met him. I was forgetting more things as the days wore on. Now here he was, clearly undergoing even more stress at my own wellbeing, refusing to take care of himself, even though patient fucking zero—his own girlfriend—was proof enough as to why that was a horrible idea.