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The apartment was silent. Vincent had left early, and the sound of the sea beyond the window seemed to mock the man who couldn’t reach it.
Jerome stared at his useless legs. He covered them with the blanket, then pushed it away in frustration. He didn’t want to keep depending on anyone—not on Vincent, not on the man who loved him with a tenderness that hurt more than pity.
He braced himself against the armrest, forcing his body upright. His arms shook, breath shallow. Just one step, he told himself. Just one.
The fall came fast. A sharp thud against the floor, a flash of pain, the taste of blood. He bit back a sound, pride burning hotter than the sting on his skin. He refused to call for help. He refused to let Vincent see him like this—collapsed, broken, less than what he once was.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. The clock ticked relentlessly. When Jerome tried to move, a choked noise escaped his throat.
Then the door opened.
“Jerome?” Vincent’s voice, at first calm, turned to panic. “Jerome!”
He dropped to his knees beside him, eyes wide, hands trembling as they cupped Jerome’s face. Jerome tried to turn away, but Vincent wouldn’t let him.
“Don’t,” Jerome whispered. “Don’t help me.”
“Shut up,” Vincent murmured, his voice breaking as he wiped the blood from Jerome’s temple with a damp cloth. “Just… please, shut up.”
Jerome looked at him. There was no pity in Vincent’s eyes—only love. Fierce, desperate love. And that undid him. The walls crumbled. He clutched Vincent’s shirt, shaking, tears slipping free until he was sobbing into his chest.
Vincent held him close, heart pounding against his ribs.
“You don’t have to do it alone anymore,” he whispered.
Jerome closed his eyes, exhausted. For the first time, he didn’t argue. For the first time, he let himself be lifted.