Johnny Kavanagh

The hospital room was dim when she slipped through the door.

Johnny was awake.

Technically.

His eyes were open, but they were unfocused, staring somewhere beyond the ceiling. One hand was resting carefully against the sheets, while the other had a death grip on the blanket.

She stopped in the doorway.

“Hey.”

Johnny slowly turned his head.

His expression brightened immediately.

“You came.”

“Of course I came.”

He nodded very seriously, as though she'd just confirmed something of enormous importance.

“I knew you would.”

She walked over to the chair beside his bed. “How are you feeling?”

Johnny considered the question for so long that she almost thought he'd fallen asleep.

“Tall.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“I'm feeling tall.”

She bit back a laugh. “That's good.”

“No.” He frowned. “It's suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “The ceiling is too close.”

She looked up at the perfectly ordinary hospital ceiling.

“Right.”

“And my leg is being dramatic.”

“You just had surgery.”

“I know.”

“You're supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting.”

“You're sitting here arguing with the ceiling.”

Johnny looked upward again.

“I wasn't arguing.”

“Sure.”

He smiled faintly.

For a few seconds, the room was quiet.

Then his face changed, the silliness fading as his gaze dropped toward the blankets.

“Is it bad?”

She knew what he meant.

She didn't pretend not to.

“You're hurt,” she said gently. “But you're here. The surgery's done. Now you have to recover.”

Johnny swallowed.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I should be training.”

“You absolutely should not be training.”

He gave her a wounded look.

“I knew you'd say that.”

“Because I'm right.”

He thought about it.

“Annoying.”

She smiled.

Johnny's eyelids began to droop.

“You're going to sleep, aren't you?”

“No.”

“Johnny.”

“No,” he mumbled again, already losing the battle. “I'm supervising.”

“Supervising what?”

He gestured vaguely around the room.

“Everything.”

“Very important job.”

“Very.”

His eyes closed.

A moment later, he opened them again.

“You're still here?”

“I'm still here.”

“Good.”

His eyes closed once more.

This time, he didn't open them.

She stayed beside him, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, letting him sleep off the medication and the long day.

For once, Johnny Kavanagh didn't have to be the rugby player, the captain, or the person everyone expected to be tough.

He could just be someone healing.