Page 26 of Light

Dinner was easy and loud. Light cracked jokes like he was auditioning for a stand-up show and Tyler laughed so hard at one point he had to clutch his side and beg for mercy.

It was strange, having someone else at the table. Strange, but not bad.

Light didn’t hover, didn’t act like he needed to insert himself into everything. He just was. Sitting back in the chair too big for him, tossing a grape at Tyler across the table and pretending not to notice when it hit him in the forehead.

I let myself laugh too, and for the first time all day, the heaviness in my chest loosened a little.

After dinner, the routine kicked in without even having to say anything. Tyler knew the drill. So did I.

I guide him through the motions, helping him stretch out the stiffness in his legs, then setting up his nebulizer and chest physiotherapy.

Light sits quietly through the whole thing, watching everything like he’s memorizing it.

At first it makes me nervous, but the longer it goes, the easier it feels to have him there. Another set of eyes. Another set of hands if I need them.

Tyler finishes his treatments and gets ready for bed. His cheeks are pink and flushed from the therapy, but he’s smiling. That’s what matters.

Tyler wiggles under the covers, his body small against the mattress.

"Goodnight, buddy," I said, smoothing his hair back.

"Night, Ma. Night, Light!"

"Night, little man," Light called back, giving a lazy salute.

We leave the door cracked just the way Tyler liked it, a soft strip of light pouring in to chase away the shadows.

I watch him for a few minutes longer before I start setting up the couch for Light to sleep on. I yank the cushions into place, drag out the spare blanket and a clean pillow from the hall closet.

I feel him behind me before I hear him. His heat. His attention.

"You know," Light says, his voice quieter now, "I never asked. What’s wrong with him?"

I pause with the blanket half-folded in my hands.

Turning, I meet his gaze. There’s no pity in his eyes. No judgment. Just a rough kind of curiosity.

"Tyler has PCD," I say softly. "Primary Ciliary Dyskinesia."

Light frowns. "That’s a mouthful. What is it?"

"It’s a genetic disorder," I explain. "The little hair-like structures in his lungs, the cilia, they don’t work like they’re supposed to. Which means he can’t clear mucus out of his lungs. Makes him prone to infections. Breathing issues. That kind of thing."

Light’s brows pinch together. "Is it... is it gonna get better?"

I shake my head. "No. There’s no cure. It’s just... management. Day by day. Treatment by treatment."

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just keeps standing there, absorbing it all.

"He’s tough," Light says finally.

My throat tightens. "He is. Tougher than me most days."

Light steps closer. Not touching me. Not yet. Just close enough that I can smell the leather and soap again. That I can feel the low, humming heat coming off him.

"You're tough too, Melissa," he says. His voice is so rough, so low, that it feels like a caress along my skin. "Most women would've folded already. You’re still standing."

I hate the way my heart jumps in my chest. Hate it because it’s dangerous. Because it’s stupid. Because I know better.

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