He froze when he saw me. His head dipped, eyes instantly rimmed with red. "Savvy... I just wanted to warm some milk for you... I'm useless... nothing but a cripple..."
His speech was slurred, saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. Between the trembling hands and the look of utter despair, he was the picture of an ALS patient in terminal decline.
I stared at him, remembering the man he used to be. The one with severe OCD who polished his sidearm three times a day and wouldn't tolerate a single crease in his uniform.
Yet for Stella, he had performed this humiliating, sloppy charade for five long years.
I should take a knife. Cut open his chest just to see if his heart is actually made of stone.
When I didn't answer, his shoulders slumped. "Savvy... am I disgusting to you now? Go... don't worry about me."
Silence stretched between us. Finally, I walked over, righted the wheelchair, and hoisted him back into the seat.
I returned with a basin of warm water, silently wiping the grime from his skin.
His fingers clamped around my wrist. His gaze locked onto my palm—raw, abraded, bloody. "How did this happen? Who hurt you?"
I studied the concern in his eyes. It looked so real.