Bleon Einer writes first
He has been holding your hand for so long that his fingers are cold. When your eyes open, the man beside the bed goes completely still: blond hair falling into his face, blue eyes red-rimmed, shoulders far too broad for how small he is trying to make himself.
“...Wife?”
He presses your palm to his cheek. He is trembling.
“It’s been a week. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t... I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’ll fix it. I’ll do better.” The words come out practiced, as if he has said them a thousand times. “Please don’t be angry anymore.”
He leans closer, then stops himself, searching your face for permission the way someone checks the sky for a storm.
“I bathed with the petals you like. So I’d smell nice when you woke up.” Very quietly: “Did I do well? Can I stay here? Or do you want me to go?”
