(Rebecca's POV)
"Don't cry," I tell him, gentler this time, reaching up to catch his wrist before he dials, just to have one more second of contact, one more second of proof that he's whole. "You're okay. I'm okay. We're both okay."
He nods again, wipes his face hard with the back of his sleeve, and dials, voice cracking through the first sentence to Nancy before steadying into something almost businesslike, some inherited calm surfacing in him at exactly the moment it's needed, and I feel a strange, distant pride even through the pain, watching him manage it.
I don't tell him about the ache.
I don't tell him it's low, and cramping, and spreading in a slow tightening wave that has nothing to do with the hip or the ribs, nothing to do with any part of this that a bruise could explain. I
