Page 61 of Penalty Kiss
"That's..." He swallows hard. "That's a small thing."
"Small things add up. Memory gaps, emotional volatility, decision-making impairment—these aren't character flaws, they're symptoms."
I want to reach for him, to offer comfort, but something in his posture tells me he wouldn't welcome it right now. He looks like a man drowning in his own head.
"Look, I get that you want to help someone who's in trouble. Your protective instincts were always stronger than your common sense." There's affection in Dr. Wilder's voice now, the kind that only comes from years of loving someone despite their flaws. "But you're not equipped to handle a dangerous situation right now."
"She needs me," Cam says quietly, and the simple certainty in those words makes my chest tight.
"And she needs you healthy. Not heroic."
The conversation continues—clinical questions about sleep patterns, headaches, cognitive exercises. I listen to Cam answer with clipped precision, each response revealing more about his condition than he probably realizes.
He's been downplaying it. The memory issues, the confusion, the way he sometimes loses track of conversations mid-sentence. I've seen it, made mental notes, quietly compensated without thinking about what it costs him to live in thatfog.
When he finally hangs up, the silence stretches between us like a chasm.
How do I tell him that staying with me might be hurting his recovery?
"He's worried about you," I say finally. "About the PCS symptoms. About you being here with me instead of focusing on getting better."
Cam's jaw tightens. "And?"
"And he thinks you should come home to Dallas. For more tests. A comprehensive evaluation."
"Absolutely not." His response is immediate, definitive. "I'm not leaving you to deal with this alone."
"Cam—"
"No." He frames my face with his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Whatever he said, whatever he thinks is best—I'm not going anywhere."
"What if he's right? What if staying here is hurting your recovery?"
Something flickers in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe even fear. But when he speaks, his voice is steady.
"Then that's my choice to make. My risk to take."
"Is it, though? When your judgment might be compromised?"
The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. Cam drops his hands, stepping away from me like I've slapped him.
"My judgment," he repeats slowly. "Is that what you think? That I'm too brain-damaged to know what I want?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Isn't it?" His voice is quiet, dangerous. "My family thinks I'm too impaired to make my own decisions. And apparently, so do you."
"I think you're willing to sacrifice your health for someone you've known less than a month."
The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive and frightened.
"I think you're so used to being the protector that you can't see when you're the one who needs protecting."
We stare at each other across my small kitchen.
"You want me to leave," he says finally. It's not a question.
"I want you to get better."
