Zeus' Mistake

Healing Sucks

The half-burnt breakfast items are properly plated and distributed, accompanied by fresh fruit and orange juice—as if this is a curated experience instead of a spontaneous culinary catastrophe. I stare at the bacon, black on one side and shiny with grease on the other, and I genuinely can’t tell if it’s edible or if I’m one bite away from an ER encore.

But somehow, it’s… good. Like, confusingly good. Maybe because it’s hot, or because bacon tastes good whether charred or worshipped, or because someone made it for me with actual effort. Or maybe because my stomach is still a cavern of pain and hunger wrapped in gauze. Either way, I’m eating like a starved orphan, and Leo looks proud enough to demand a medal.

We sit side-by-side on my bed, plates balanced on our knees, watching reruns of sitcoms that use laugh tracks like emotional manipulation. He’s way too invested in a show built around misunderstandings and s****l tension—how fitting—while I keep stealing glances at him, trying to map out whatever glitch in the universe led to him being here, in my apartment, with no apparent urgency to leave.

I can’t let this go on forever. The longer he stays, the harder it gets to make sense of what we are. Acquaintances? Neighbors? Strangers? Something weirder and more dangerous?

“Leo, it’s getting dark,” I say, because apparently my brain thinks passive-aggressive weather observations are an eviction notice.

He doesn’t react. At all. His eyes are glued to the TV like it’s brain surgery.

So I try again. “I appreciate your help this evening. And morning. I can take care of the dishes so you can go—”

I don’t get to finish. He springs forward like a caffeinated cat, snatching plates with competition-level speed. If I were physically capable of standing, I would have lost instantly. He sprints to the sink, elbows flying, acting like he’s in a reality show where failure equals death.

Anger bubbles in my chest. I’m too sore to yell, too exhausted to fight, too vulnerable to accommodate. But I am not built for dependence. I’m allergic to it.

“Leonard!” I yell, louder than I mean to. The shout knifes through my incision, and I swear my organs attempt a jailbreak.

CLASH!

He flinches so violently he drops two dishes. Glass shatters across the tile, loud enough to wake the dead. I collapse backward, palms covering my face, using every neuron I have left to keep from screaming bloody murder.

“Leonard? You think my name is Leonard?!” he says, scandalized, like I just called him Gerald the Eighth.

“I don’t know! You go by Leo, that can be lengthened, so I assumed it was your full name!”

He shakes his head, muttering about my questionable intelligence while digging through my kitchen drawers for supplies to clean up the disaster he created.

My nerves crackle. My body is wrecked. My brain is a bag of spilled screws. And this man—this golden retriever with muscles—is refusing to leave my apartment.

“Leo, I need you to leave.”

“But the mess—”

“I don’t care about the mess. I need time to myself.” My voice softens because screaming takes energy I don’t have. “Like I said, thank you for helping. Really. But I can handle basic things on my own—”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, like I suggested we take a joyride, not set a boundary.

“LEO! Get out!”

“Nope.”

He doesn’t even look at me. He tosses shattered pieces into the trash with breezy indifference, humming. Humming. As if I didn’t just banish him. As if my fury is just weather he can wait out.

“GET. OUT.”

He freezes. Back still turned. His hands clasped behind his neck. His shoulders rise, then fall, like he’s debating whether to punch a wall or meditate.

While he contemplates whatever cosmic bullshit motivates him, I decide to take matters into my own weak, trembling hands. I start moving—slow, clumsy, painful—dragging myself toward the edge of the bed. My muscles scream. My incision burns. My pride refuses to back down.

If he won’t leave, I’ll throw him out myself.

I don’t even make it halfway before he’s on me, pressing me down with careful strength, like trying to restrain a stubborn toddler without leaving marks.

My limbs flail, useless and humiliating.

“Semele.”

Just my name. Soft, but firm. And suddenly my body stops. Like someone hit a switch. Like my skeleton traded itself for gelatin. Heat rolls through me—humiliation, frustration, something darker, something dangerous.

He treats me like a porcelain figurine—lifting, adjusting, repositioning—until I’m centered on the bed again, helpless and horizontal. His fingers brush my stomach, unwrapping bandages with surgeon-level precision.

The skin is torn a little, probably from my stupid attempt at escape. I know better. I know what happens when abdominal tissue is strained. I know overstretching can lead to adhesions, tearing, and complications. But I did it anyway. Because I am stupidly stubborn and allergic to being controlled.

“Some people say my presence is healing,” he says, winking like an absolute menace.

I want to throw a knife at him. Or kiss him. Or punt him down the hallway. I can’t tell which impulse is louder.

He finishes taping new gauze into place, then smooths my dress down, his eyes flicking to mine with something unreadable—something too soft to be casual, too bold to be innocent.

“It looks like you haven’t been taking care of yourself since the accident. So I’m gonna help you. I will not take no for an answer.”

Every atom in me bristles. I hate being managed. I hate being pitied. I hate being fragile.

But I nod. Betrayed by my own traitor brain.

He grins like he just tamed a wild animal.

“Besides, the faster you heal, the faster I can finally take you on a date,” he muses.

I glare so aggressively it’s a felony.

“Too soon?” he asks, laughing at his own boldness.

I don’t dignify it with a response. As soon as he steps away, the spell—or whatever the hell that paralysis was—breaks, and my limbs are mine again. I breathe, finally, like I’ve been underwater.

“What. Was. That,” my brain whispers, terrified.

He rummages through my drawers again. “Hey, where are your pain meds? I don’t remember giving you any.”

“I didn’t get them,” I mutter.

“You had stomach surgery and don’t have pain meds?”

“I wouldn’t be able to do anything myself. And I’m returning to work soon so—”

“You’re going back to work?”

“Yes! On Monday!”

“No. Absolutely not.”

My jaw hangs open. “You do not get to dictate my life.”

“I found you. I’m taking care of you.”

“You’re not my husband!” It bursts out, unfiltered, jagged, and violent.

Silence detonates between us. Heavy. Strange.

He says something sarcastic, muffled by the blood rushing in my ears, but I don’t hear it. My thoughts are too loud. My pulse is too frantic. Why did I say that? Why drag my ghost-marriage into this?

I turn my face toward the wall, curling around a lumpy pillow like it might shield me from myself. Tears pool before I can stop them—hot, embarrassing, unstoppable.

I hate crying. I hate crying near people. I hate crying near men who think helping equals ownership.

Leo goes quiet. Not awkward quiet—thoughtful quiet. He runs water in the sink. He moves slowly, carefully, intentionally, as if loud sounds might break me.

I close my eyes and breathe through the pain in my ribs, the ache in my gut, the weird shimmer of loss inside me. Loss of dignity. Loss of control. Loss of whatever version of myself existed before all of this.

Before Mr. Fellows.

Before hospitals.

Before Leo.

Sleep pulls at me—not gentle, but urgent, like gravity. I’m too exhausted to fight it. Too empty to push him away again.

I let the tears drag me under—not because crying helps, but because unconsciousness is the only escape I have left.

I drift.

And somewhere in the dark, I swear I feel Leo sit on the edge of the bed, quiet, waiting, watching, as if he doesn’t know how to leave even when I beg him to.