My heart stopped.
Then he sucked in a sharp breath and pushed himself up again, jaw clenched like he refused to stay down.
I dropped to my knees at his side. “What are you doing, honey? Talk to me, Rowan.”
He tried to laugh, but it sounded broken. “Seems like I’m making a mess. Like I’m trying to,” he stopped, eyes darting to Mom.
“Talk to me, Rowan.”
“This, this is what your life will look like, Mikayla. Struggle, pain, and always picking up the pieces. This is what I’ve been trying to prevent.”
I turned, heat rising. “No, Mom. This is what it looks like to fight for someone you love.”
Rowan stared at the floor. “I wanted to surprise you. I promised you a first dance at our reception, remember? And we have a few more days before our delayed reception… I thought I could figure it out. And be enough for you.”
My throat ached. “You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”
He shook his head, stubborn. “I wanted you to have what you deserve. I wanted you to have your dance. I didn’t want you to look back and wish you’d married someone else.”
“This is what I’ve been trying to prevent.”
My chest tightened. I reached for his face, forcing him to look at me. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he muttered.
“Talk like you’re already not enough.”
He shook his head, stubborn as ever. “You deserve the full thing, Mikayla. Not half a moment. Not something… adjusted.”
My mother watched us, silent. Something in her face changed, pride, or maybe even shame.
I let out a breath, half laugh, half frustration. “You think I married you for a dance?”
“Hey. Don’t do that.”
“That’s not what I —”
“You think I’m sitting here, keeping score?” I cut in gently.
He blinked, thrown off. “Mik…”
“I married you,” I said, softer now. “Not your legs. Not what you lost. You. The man who tries, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”
My husband’s shoulders dropped a little.
“I didn’t want you to look back and regret it,” he said. “I didn’t want your mom to be right.”
My husband’s shoulders dropped.
I glanced toward the hallway where my mom had gone quiet. “She doesn’t get to decide what my life looks like.”
He let out a small, tired laugh. “She’s not subtle.”
“That’s one word for it.”
***
That night, after we cleaned Rowan up and bandaged his hand, he lay beside me, staring up at the ceiling.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “About the dance.”
“I know.”
“I wanted people to see us,” he continued. “Not what’s missing, but what’s still here.”
I traced a line along his arm. “Then show them. But not alone.”
“I meant what I said earlier.”
He glanced at me. “You’d help?”
I snorted softly. “I’m your wife. You’re stuck with me.”
A small smile broke through. “Good.”
***
The next morning, he rolled into the living room with the prosthetics on his lap.
“Okay,” he said, like he was bracing for impact. “Round two.”
I crossed my arms. “You sure you don’t want coffee first?”
“I’m already nervous. Let’s not add caffeine.”
He glanced at me.
***
I helped him adjust the straps, more careful this time. Up close, I could see everything, the bruising, the pressure marks, and the way his skin had toughened in some places and broken in others.
I hesitated. “Does it always hurt this much?”
He didn’t look at me. “Some days more than others.”
“Rowan…”
He exhaled. “Some days I hate them, Mik. I want to rip them off and forget the whole thing.” He glanced at me then. “But then I remember why I’m doing it.”
I softened. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I know. But I want to.”
“Does it always hurt this much?”
***
