By the time Sebastian returned home, Lucian had transformed the townhouse into what he proudly called a recovery-friendly environment.

There were neatly labeled medication boxes, soft cushions, bottled water beside every chair, and a printed schedule taped to the refrigerator.

Sebastian stared at it. “Did you hire a hospital?”

“No. I improved your terrible house.”

“My house was fine.”

“Your house had stairs.”

“It still has stairs.”

“Don't ruin this for me.”

Sebastian lowered himself onto the sofa, moving carefully. The doctors had cleared him to recover at home with follow-up appointments and assistance as needed.

Lucian stood over him with a notebook.

“Breakfast at eight. Medication according to the prescription. Rest after lunch. No working past six.”

“Are you running a prison?”

“A luxury rehabilitation center.”

“Does it have an escape policy?”

“No.”

Sebastian's mouth twitched.

Lucian noticed and felt absurdly victorious.

He had made a promise in the hospital. He intended to keep it, even if he had to learn every domestic skill in America.

His first attempt at rice porridge turned into paste.

Sebastian examined the bowl. “Is this wallpaper adhesive?”

“It's nutritious.”

“Is it?”

Lucian glared. “Eat.”

Sebastian tasted a spoonful and set it down. “We should order soup.”

“Coward.”

“Survivor.”

Lucian ordered soup.

The laundry went worse. He mixed Sebastian's white shirts with a new red towel, producing six pale pink garments.

When Sebastian saw them, he stared for several seconds.

“Fashion statement?” he asked.

“It's called color theory. You wouldn't understand.”

“I studied design.”

“Buildings don't count.”

Lucian carried the shirts away before Sebastian could see his embarrassed smile.

By Thursday, he had learned to prepare scrambled eggs, check prescription instructions, and arrange the living room so Sebastian didn't have to reach for things.

He was still terrible at admitting when he needed help.

A visiting therapist demonstrated safe ways to assist Sebastian with standing and moving. Lucian listened carefully, asked questions, and practiced only under supervision.

“You don't have to do everything,” Sebastian told him afterward.

“I know.”

“Then stop trying to do everything.”

“I said I know.”

Sebastian looked at the overstuffed laundry basket in Lucian's arms. “You look like you're about to fall over.”

“I'm fine.”

The basket tipped. Socks scattered across the floor.

Sebastian raised one eyebrow.

“Not a word,” Lucian warned.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

That evening, Lucian followed Sebastian from the sofa to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the hallway, and back again.

“Do you need water?”

“No.”

“Another pillow?”

“No.”

“Should I call the therapist?”

“No.”

“What if your back—”

Sebastian stopped and turned. “If you need someone to follow around, go find a dog.”

Lucian's jaw dropped.

“A dog would be nicer than you!”

“Probably.”

“And more grateful.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Lucian folded his arms. “You are impossible to take care of.”

On Friday, Lucian accompanied Sebastian to a follow-up appointment. He arrived with a folder of notes and three pens.

The therapist looked impressed. Sebastian looked resigned.

“Does he always do this?” the therapist asked.

“Only when he's decided to terrorize somebody,” Sebastian said.

Lucian ignored him. “Can he walk to the corner store? What about carrying groceries? What if he sneezes?”

The therapist answered each question and reminded them that recovery would involve good days and bad ones.

Outside the clinic, Sebastian paused beside the car.

“You asked about sneezing.”

“It can hurt your back!”

“You've been researching.”

“Obviously.”

Sebastian watched him for a moment. “Thank you.”

Lucian nearly dropped the keys. “What?”

“Don't make me repeat it.”

He hurried into the passenger seat, hiding his face behind his hair.

That afternoon, Lucian's art professor called to ask why he'd missed a studio critique. Lucian stared at the phone, guilt rising again. He had been so focused on Sebastian that he'd forgotten his own work.

Sebastian overheard the conversation.

“You're going to class Monday,” he said.

“But what if you need something?”

“I can call the therapist. Or my mother. Or a grocery delivery service. Remember those?”

Lucian frowned. “You're making fun of me.”

“A little. I'm also telling you not to disappear into taking care of me.”

Lucian sat on the edge of the sofa. “I don't mind.”

“I do. Your art matters.”

He said it so plainly that Lucian couldn't find a comeback.

Sebastian reached for the sketchbook lying nearby. “Show me what you're working on.”

Lucian hesitated, then opened to the hospital drawing.

Sebastian studied it for a long time.

“That's good,” he said finally.

“Just good?”

“Very good.”

Lucian grinned. “You could try sounding less surprised.”

“I've seen your work before.”

“When?”

“Your freshman exhibition. Your mother's gallery opening. The winter showcase.”

Lucian stared. “You came to all of those?”

Sebastian handed back the book. “Of course.”

“Why didn't you say hello?”

“You were busy.”

Lucian wanted to ask a dozen more questions, but Sebastian had already picked up his tea.

It was another strange piece of a puzzle Lucian hadn't known he was solving.

Before leaving the bedroom, Lucian glanced at Sebastian again. The man who frightened him with a raised eyebrow was sleeping with one hand open on the blanket. Lucian remembered that same hand reaching for his during a childhood thunderstorm.

He turned the phone facedown without unlocking it. Whatever the picture meant, Sebastian deserved to explain it himself.

“Then stop hovering.”

He regretted the words as soon as he saw Lucian's expression.

Lucian's chin lifted in that familiar, defiant way. But his eyes were already shining.

“Fine,” he said. “I won't bother you.”

He marched upstairs.

Sebastian watched him go and rubbed his forehead.

He had spent years pretending Lucian's tears didn't affect him. He had never been particularly convincing.

An hour later, a soft knock came at his bedroom door.

Lucian entered carrying a mug of chamomile tea, its ingredients carefully checked and prepared with Sebastian's permission.

“I made this,” he said. “The normal way.”

Sebastian accepted it. “Thank you.”

Lucian lingered. “I didn't mean to hover.”

“I know.”

“I just…”

He stared at the carpet. “When you fell, I thought I was going to lose you.”

Sebastian set the mug aside.

“Come here.”

Lucian approached reluctantly. Sebastian took his hand, not pulling, simply holding it.

“I'm getting better,” he said. “And I appreciate what you're doing. But you don't have to be frightened every second.”

Lucian nodded, blinking hard.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Later, Sebastian fell asleep with a book open on his chest. Lucian entered quietly to turn off the bedside lamp.

He noticed the crease between Sebastian's eyebrows and adjusted the pillow beneath his shoulder, careful not to wake him.

For once, Lucian didn't feel like making a joke.

He brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Sebastian's forehead and whispered, “Get well soon, you awful man.”

On the nightstand, Sebastian's phone lit up with a notification.

Lucian glanced down automatically.

The lock screen showed a photograph taken years earlier at the lake house. Sixteen-year-old Lucian stood beside Sebastian, laughing at something outside the frame.

Sebastian wasn't looking at the camera.

He was looking at Lucian.

Lucian leaned closer, heart beginning to pound.

Sebastian had hundreds of beautiful photographs: cities, buildings, ocean sunsets. Why would he choose this old, imperfect picture?

And why did the expression on his face look so different from the way he looked at everyone else?

Lucian stood motionless in the dim room, the answer forming before he was ready to hear it.