Weeks blur together in a haze of careful movements and growing silence.
Ryan comes home in a wheelchair that the doctors insist is temporary, but something else broke in that hospital room, something the doctors can't see on their scans or measure with their tests.
"Do you need anything?" I ask, wheeling him into the living room with practiced care. "Water? Food? I can make lunch—turkey sandwich the way you like it."
"I'm fine."
"You haven't eaten since breakfast. You need to keep your strength up for healing."
"I said I'm fine, Grace." His voice is flat and empty, carrying none of the warmth I've known for six years.
He won't look at me—hasn't really looked at me since that hospital room when everything changed.
I park the wheelchair by the window, warming the blanket I tucked around him this morning.
He used to love sitting here on lazy Sundays, watching the neighborhood kids play basketball in the street, making comments about their form. Now he stares at nothing with eyes that don't seem to see.
"Ryan, please. Talk to me about anything, I don't care what. Just say something."
His jaw tightens and his eyes stay fixed on some distant point I can't see or understand.
"I'm tired," he finally says with the same words he's used every day since coming home. "I'm healing, and I need time."
I kneel beside the wheelchair, taking his hand in both of mine. "I'm your wife. Whatever you're going through, you don't have to go through it alone. In sickness and in health, remember?"
He pulls his hand away and tucks it under the blanket like he's protecting it from me.
"I need to rest," he says. "Can you take me to the bedroom?"
I wheel him down the hallway in crushing silence, help him transfer to the bed and pull the curtains closed to block out the afternoon sun.
He turns his face to the wall immediately, dismissing me without words, and I stand in the doorway watching my husband disappear into himself piece by piece.
That night, I try again with renewed determination.
I sit beside him on the bed and run my fingers through his hair the way he used to love, the way that used to make him hum with contentment and pull me closer for lazy kisses.
Now he flinches like my touch burns his scalp.
"Ryan..."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't touch my own husband?"
"I can't right now, Grace. I just can't."
"Can't let me be your wife?" My voice cracks with frustration and hurt.
He turns his head away and stares at the wall.
"I'm still here," I whisper desperately. "I'm still your wife. That hasn't changed."
"Everything's changed."
"Not this. Not us. Not what we mean to each other."
He laughs—a hollow, broken sound.
"You don't get it," he says quietly. "Every time I look at you, I see what I never could give you. The family we planned, the children we talked about—it was never possible, and I'm not even man enough to—"
He cuts himself off, shaking his head and unable to finish the sentence.
"Ryan, that doesn't matter to me…"
"It matters to me." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are red-rimmed and empty. "Please. Just leave me alone tonight."
I swallow the words I want to say and rise from the bed. In the bathroom, I change into the lingerie he used to love, the black lace and silk set.
The fabric clings to every curve, and I remember how his eyes used to darken when he saw me in this, how his hands would reach for me before I even crossed the room.
When I come out, he glances over once, takes in the sight of me, and looks away to stare at the wall. "Goodnight, Grace."
I stand there in lace and silk, feeling more naked than the fabric leaves me, more exposed than if I wore nothing at all, more rejected than I've ever felt in my life.
"Goodnight," I manage, the word tasting like ash on my tongue.
I climb into bed beside him, and he lies on the edge as far from me as possible without falling off. I stare at his back, watching his shoulders rise and fall with each breath.
"I love you," I whisper into the darkness.
He doesn't respond.
I have never felt more alone in my marriage than I do right now, lying inches from my husband while feeling like he's on another planet entirely.
***
The dreams start the following week with vivid intensity.
Cole's hands gripping my hips rough and demanding, pulling me hard against his body while his mouth trails down my neck.
His teeth grazing my collarbone, lips moving lower past my breasts and down my stomach with deliberate slowness.
That sculpted chest pressing against my bare skin, all hard muscle and warm flesh, strong arms pinning me in place with exactly the force I've been craving.
Those blue eyes burning into mine as he positions himself between my thighs, wearing that confident smirk that makes my stomach tighten.
His voice comes low and rough, dripping with want: "I've thought about this for so long, Grace. You have no idea."
"We shouldn't... we can't—"
"I don't care. Do you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, just pins me down with his weight solid and heavy, his muscles flexing as he moves—slow at first, teasing, then deeper and harder with increasing intensity.
My back arches off the bed while my nails rake down his shoulders, and his name tears from my throat.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Good... God, Cole, it feels so..."
I wake gasping with my heart slamming against my ribs, sweat dampening my t-shirt, and between my thighs I'm wet and aching.
Then the shame crashes in like a tidal wave.
Ryan lies beside me, and I just dreamed of his best friend fucking me with a vividness that makes me feel sick.
I press my hands over my face, trying to slow my breathing and will away the arousal still pulsing through my body like electricity.
I slide out of bed and pad to the bathroom, locking the door behind me with shaking hands. The mirror shows me a stranger—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, lips parted, a woman I don't recognize staring back at me.
What is wrong with me?
Ryan is shattered, needs patience and support, needs me to stand beside him. And instead, I'm dreaming of another man's hands on my body with increasing frequency and detail.
I grip the sink until my knuckles turn white, head bowed and chest heaving.
It doesn't mean anything—just dreams, just my body reacting to weeks of rejection and loneliness. It's biology, hormones, physical need, nothing more.
But shame doesn't care about logic, and the shame knows what I felt when I woke up. I splash cold water on my face, then meet my own eyes in the mirror with forced determination.
"Get it together," I whisper harshly. "He's your husband's best friend. He's off-limits."
The woman in the mirror doesn't look convinced at all.