Hope and exhaustion war in the set of Leif’s jaw and the droop of his shoulders. The storm outside has softened to steady rain, tapping the windows in a gentle rhythm.
Jared turns to him. “Do you think you’ll be okay?”
“Yeah,” Leif says, but his eyes have gone glassy.
The adrenaline that carried him through his confession has drained away, leaving him pale beneath his bruises. His hand trembles as he reaches for the empty water glass.
“Let me get this,” Jared says, gathering glasses from the table. “Grady, do you want anything?”
“No, I’m good.” Grady tucks the folder back into his messenger bag. “I’ll move my things to the couch in the office for the night.”
That gains Leif’s attention, and he straightens. “Oh, no, I can take the couch. Or…” He swallows hard and casts me a furtive look. “I can go to a different hotel for the night.”
“Nonsense. You’re staying here for the night.” Grady rises and grasps his cane. “And don’t fight me about the couch. You’d never fit.”
“Not sure you’ll fit much better.” Jared comes back from the kitchen and walks with him. “I’ll help with your bag.”
Grady opens his mouth to protest, before he gives a rueful shake of his head. “I appreciate it. The knee likes to quit when I get too tired.”
“No need to risk a tumble,” Jared teases.
Leif attempts to stand, swaying as he braces one hand on the table. The split in his lip has closed, but it’s angry red, the side of his mouth swollen beneath the bruise spreading across his cheekbone toward his eye.
“I’ll help you to the guest room,” I tell him, wanting to wrap my arm around his waist for support but holding myself back.
His personal space has already been violated. I won’t touch him without an invitation.
He blinks at me with uncertainty. “You really don’t have to put me up for the night. I’ve interrupted your Friday evening plans enough already.”
“You’re not driving anywhere tonight.” I move to his side. “Not with a possible concussion.”
Leif doesn’t argue, which tells me more about his physical state than anything else could. He leans into my offered support, his weight settling into my side with care, as if afraid to burden me too much.
I guide Leif down the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath our feet in the familiar pattern I’ve memorized over years of midnight trips for water or restless pacing.
His breathing is shallow and quick, his muscles stiff.
“Here we are,” I say, pushing open the door.
The cedar dresser I refinished last spring stands against the far wall, its woodsy scent mingling with the lavendersachet I tuck between the sheets after each washing. Amber lamplight from the bedside table spills across the quilt that I pieced together during last winter’s snowstorm, and the pattern reminds me of ripples in still water.
Leif stops on the threshold, his eyes moving around the room.
“Sit before you fall,” I tell him, guiding him to the bed.
He sinks onto the mattress, lifting a bandaged hand to where the bruise has spread far enough to begin to swell his eye shut.
I realize he’s still clutching the now-warm ice pack in his right hand, forgotten while discussing Grady’s plan. I take it from his unresisting fingers.
“Let me get you a new one.”
I hurry from the room, almost colliding with Jared on the way out. Concern creases his brow as his attention shifts toward the open doorway, but all I can do is give a helpless shrug. We won’t know until later how much this has affected Leif.
In the kitchen, I swap the ice pack for a fresh one, fill a glass with water, and return to the guest room.
When I enter, I find Leif still sitting where I left him.
“Here.” I place it in his slack hand and guide the cloth-wrapped ice back to his cheek. “The cold will keep the swelling down.”