Page 128 of The Lineman

I licked my lips. “I broke my leg, didn’t I?”

Mike exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

I nodded, piecing things together. “And a concussion?”

Matty answered from across the room. “Yeah. You were lucky. You smacked your head instead of something important.”

Mike shook his head, but a tiny smile curled his lips. “You fractured your arm and a couple of ribs, too. They said there was no internal bleeding or anything too serious but wanted to keep you overnight just in case.”

I sighed. “Well. That explains a lot.”

I tried to shift, but pain flared up my leg, and I winced.

Mike’s hand immediately closed around mine.

I blinked up at him, a little startled. No one had ever hovered like this, not even when I got hurt as a kid. My mom and dad were always there, always making sure I was all right, but something about Mike’s bearing, the look on his face, the fear in his eyes—it was all different—it was so much more.

I swallowed hard. “Rodriguez?”

Mike shook his head. “We don’t know yet.”

I clenched my jaw.

Mike squeezed my hand.

The room went quiet for a long moment.

Matty returned with a nurse in tow who gave me another shot of liquid shits and giggles. Then he cleared his throat. “Okay. Now that our patient is about to return to the land of Oz to find the Wizard, Omar and I are gonna get coffee. Mike, try not to have an emotional breakdown while we’re gone.”

The nurse stifled a laugh.

Mike glared up. “Matty.”

Matty grinned. “Sweet pea, we all see it.”

Mike grumbled, but he didn’t let go of my hand.

Omar clapped Mike on the shoulder. “You need anything?”

Mike shook his head. “Nah. Just . . . coffee sounds good. Three cream and two Splenda.”

“Sweet pea, indeed,” I said, earning another hand squeeze.

With that, they left. The nurse followed.

And then it was just us.

Mike’s fingers curled around mine, warm and solid, like he was grounding himself. His thumb rubbed idly over my knuckles, and when I looked at him, his eyes were glassy.

Mike hadn’t let go of my hand.

And I hadn’t let go of his.

That connection—it was an anchor—something real amid the lingering fog in my head, the dull ache in my leg, the heavy weight of exhaustion pressing down on me.

I squeezed his fingers lightly, testing, making sure this wasn’t some lingering fever dream from the pain meds.

He squeezed back.

---