Page 117 of Made for Wilde
“Baby, look at me.”
I shake my head and still avoid his gaze.
“Charlotte.” His voice softens. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I raise my eyes to his.
Koda shifts and winces slightly. He pulls me between his legs where he sits. His hands frame my face and hold me so I can’t look away.
“This isn’t on you,” he says firmly. “I knew what I was getting into. We both did.”
“But he was your best friend.” My voice breaks on the words. “And now he?—”
“I love you.” Koda’s thumbs stroke my cheeks and wipe away tears. “I love our baby. Nothing changes that. Not even this.”
Fresh tears blur my vision.
How can he be so calm? So certain? His body is a map of pain. Each bruise and cut is a landmark of my father’s betrayal.
Yet he sits here comforting me as if I’m the injured one.
“I don’t regret anything,” he tells me, his voice dropping to that deep rumble that vibrates through my chest. “Not one second with you. If this is the price, I’d pay it again.”
Something flickers across Koda’s battered face.
Relief. Gratitude. Love so intense it steals my breath.
I lean forward and rest my forehead against his. I’m careful to avoid his injuries.
“I don’t deserve you.”
His arms encircle me and pull me closer despite what must be agonizing pain in his ribs.
“You deserve everything. And I’m going to spend my life making sure you get it.”
We stay like that for long minutes. My tears gradually subside. Eventually, I pull back and finish tending his wounds in silence. When I help him remove his ruined shirt, the bruises mapping his torso make me wince.
But Koda never complains. He just endures every touch without complaint. His jaw is set in that familiar expression of stoic determination I’ve come to know so well. He doesn’t wince when I press too hard on a tender spot. Doesn’t curse when I accidentally catch the edge of a cut with the washcloth. He just breathes through it. His chest rises and falls in measured rhythm like he’s meditating through the pain.
The silence stretches between us as I work. Only the soft drip of water from the faucet and his controlled breathing break the quiet. This is Koda at his most vulnerable and somehow his strongest. Accepting care without complaint and bearing pain without self-pity.
When I’m done, I shake two ibuprofen tablets into my palm and hand them to him along with a glass of water. “Here. This should help with the swelling.”
He swallows them without argument and slowly pushes himself up from the toilet seat. I hover beside him and am ready to catch him if he stumbles, but he moves carefully on his own toward the door.
The journey to the living room takes twice as long as usual.
“Should I call Dana?” I ask as Koda finally lowers himself onto the couch with visible effort. “She should probably know what happened.”
“No.” His response is immediate and firm. “I’ll deal with her in the morning.”
I want to argue, but something in his tone stops me. He’s already handling more than any person should have to. Adding his sister to tonight’s burden seems cruel.
Hours later, I lie in our bed and listen to Koda’s steady breathing beside me.
Sleep claimed him quickly. His body finally surrendered to exhaustion and pain. But my mind won’t quiet and won’t stop replaying the events of the day.
This morning feels like a lifetime ago. The showcase victory that seemed so important now feels hollow.
