SIX
Livid on her behalf, Boyd looks over at Grace, meets Dawn's furious glare, and turns away. Instead, he focuses on the strips of daylight poking their way around the closed blinds and concentrates on schooling himself into a calmer state of mind.
Creating a scene is not on the cards today, nor is making any of this worse for Grace.
Idly, he wonders how he ever found the younger woman attractive. Oh, she's pretty enough, a slender, blue-eyed and darker-haired younger version of her mother with exactly the same generosity of… assets… but there's a notable edge of… brittleness… that is entirely absent in Grace.
Dawn has little of the warmth, little of the expansive tolerance he is so accustomed to; instead, she's all harsh lines and sharp corners. Quick to anger, inclined to hold onto that anger.
Rebellious, that was the word Grace had first used to describe her all those years ago when fate conspired to bring them together over a double murder in Camden. Rebellious, strong-willed, and incredibly stubborn. At eighteen, angry at the world over her parents' messy divorce, she turned her back on a place reading geography at Edinburgh University and disappeared off to the RAF, where as far as he's aware, she spent the best part of twelve years working in air operations before moving into air traffic control as a civilian. Lives near Crawley now.
He knows it caused Grace a lot of stress and heartache. Knows that Grace took the blame for not forgiving Dawn's cheating, alcoholic father. He also knows that Dawn has never asked why. That she has never heard some of the more uncomfortable and upsetting stories that Grace has given him a glimpse of in the last few weeks.
Shaking his head, Boyd bites back a sound of annoyance. All this is irrelevant. There is no reason for her antagonism today, not when the situation is as it is.
"There was no cause to believe anyone would be there," Grace is saying, and to his attuned ears, it very much sounds like the raspiness in her voice is getting worse.
"Even so," Dawn begins, and from the corner of his eye Boyd can see the scowl that is shot his way.
"No." Grace holds up her good hand, her voice firm. "There is no fault here, darling, and if you can't accept that, then at least drop the subject please. I'm too tired and in too much pain to argue with you."
"I'm not arguing with you," snaps Dawn. "I'm arguing with him."
"I have a name, you know." Boyd keeps his voice mild, though he is nettled.
Rage visibly flares. And any attempt he thought he might have at engaging with her dies as Dawn gets to her feet, bristling. "Shut up," she snarls, stepping out from behind Grace's bed and advancing on him. "How can you lie there and be so… so dispassionate… about all of this when it's your doing? Look at her. Look at my mother. At the state she's in. You did that. You!"
The accusation hurts, feeds into the guilt that's been eating into him since the moment things started to go so horribly wrong, back in the deserted house. He doesn't physically flinch, but mentally and emotionally...
"Dawn!" Grace raps hoarsely. "That's enough!"
He looks past the younger woman to her. "Let her get it out of her system, Grace."
Angry children. That's something he understands far too well. The memories of a young, raging Luke being dragged away by uniformed officers is every bit as vivid now as it has ever been. He switches his gaze back to Dawn, regards her steadily and silently.
"Don't you care?" Dawn demands. "Don't you care at all?"
Grace speaks before he has to. "Of course he does. Stop it, Dawn. You're not being fair."
"Fair?!"
"I think you should leave now." Grace again. "Come back when you're prepared to behave like a reasonable adult."
Boyd sees that hit home. Sees the flash of anger and hurt that crosses Dawn's face before she locks it down. To his surprise he feels incredibly sorry for her. He clears his throat. "Let's just all calm down, eh? There's no need for – "
Dawn rounds on him again. "Shut up. Just... shut up!"
He wants to stand up. Wants to do what he always does when he's under attack – square his shoulders and unsheathe his claws in preparation for battle.
He can't. The slightest tensing of muscle reminds him just how sore and debilitated he is. Instead, he takes the most direct course of action available to him. "Blame me if you want to – God knows I blame myself – but have a care for your mother. She's not in any state to cope with this. Any of it. You're right, it's my fault. My unit, my fault."
It seems to work, at least a little. The level of hostility directed at him remains high, but there is less venom in Dawn's voice as she says, "At least you accept that."
"Always," he tells her. "In many ways the police force is no different to any of the armed forces. We operate on the acceptance of rank. My orders, my responsibility."
"Except," Grace puts in, sounding less breathless, "that I'm a civilian, and I don't take orders."
"I know what he means," Dawn tells her. Looking back at Boyd, she asks, "Will there be an inquiry?"
He nods. "There will."
"Good. That's something."
"Dawn," Grace says, gentle now, "come and sit back down. Tell me how Nathan's doing."
It's a clever misdirection, Boyd thinks, as Dawn reluctantly obeys. He realises he is being deliberately ignored as she moves the chair a fraction, enough to turn her away from him. It's okay. Better that she cold-shoulders him than she continues to upset her mother.
They talk quietly as he stares up at the ceiling. He hears most of it, filters the important and interesting details from the general flow and files them away for further reference. It's a skill he has honed over many, many years, the ability to pick out what's useful and what's not from a general stream of conversation.
When Dawn finally takes her leave, she does not say goodbye to him. It doesn't matter.
"I'm sorry," Grace says.
"Don't be," he tells her, turning his head to study her. "You all right?"
"Tired," she admits, "but otherwise, not too bad. I think some of the dizziness is easing."
"Well, that's a good sign."
"Yes."
Things have become awkward again. They are saved by the arrival of one of the healthcare assistants to bring fresh jugs of water and clear away the gathering detritus.
As Boyd sips at the wonderfully cool water, a horrible reality begins to make itself known. Fluid in... equals fluid out. The room has its own tiny bathroom – sans bath, he assumes – but as he discovered the previous day, he is in no state to make use of the facilities it offers.
Fuck.
Well, there's nothing for it. To the bustling healthcare assistant, he says, "I need a bottle."
Grace looks in his direction. "She's just given you some fresh water."
"Not that sort of bottle."
"What – " She breaks off, and to his immense satisfaction, a little colour rises in her cheeks – the parts of her cheeks that are not bruised. "Oh."
He refuses to squirm. Lifts his chin.
"Of course," the healthcare assistant says, absolutely unflustered. "Give me a moment."
Biology has a lot to answer for. Really.
The bottle, one of those disposable pressed cardboard affairs, duly arrives. Curtains are briskly swished, and there he is, in his own little cave, with a single thickness of fabric between him and mortal embarrassment.
And again, fuck.
"Would you like me to sing?" Grace's voice inquires. "Or hum, or something?"
She's enjoying it far too much. Or she is just as embarrassed as he is, and is falling back on grim humour to get through it. Either way, he glares in her general direction. "Fuck off, Grace."
"Suit yourself," she says.
Silence falls. Horrendous silence.
"Well now I can't go," he complains, "and it's all your bloody fault."
In the end, he is saved by the arrival of someone behind the curtain who introduces herself to Grace as Doctor Jones. Half hypnotised by the strong Welsh accent – he once had a serious crush on a Welsh girl called Alys in his early twenties, even dated her for a while – Boyd finds the ensuing discussion on the other side of the room both distracts him, and provides enough noise to allow him to deal with nature.
"Your airway looks like it's improving," Doctor Jones is saying, "but ideally we want the chest tube to be out and everything to be functioning at a more normal level before we operate."
There's clearly some sort of examination going on because Grace suddenly yelps in pain and the doctor swiftly apologises, her tone sincere. It just about stops Boyd from grinding his teeth.
"The swelling is starting to come down a bit," Doctor Jones continues, "but not a lot."
"How long will it take?" asks Grace. "It's disconcerting not to be able to see out of one eye."
"A while," is honest reply. "And it will most likely get worse again after surgery."
"Okay." Subdued. Rather more so than Boyd would have liked to hear. Shifting the filled bottle to the tray table, he carefully tucks his hospital gown and blankets back into place.
"How does your throat feel?"
"Raw."
"Can you swallow?"
"Just about. Little sips of water. I managed some Weetabix this morning but that was mushy, of course. I tried a bit of soup yesterday as well."
She sounds so weary that Boyd wants to make the doctor leave, wants to bar anyone from entering the room until Grace has had a long sleep.
"How was it?"
There's confusion in Grace's voice as she asks, "Eating?"
"Yes."
"It was okay. Painful to swallow, but a little bit less so today. It all comes back up again though."
There's quiet, just the sound of cloth rustling. Boyd assumes the doctor is looking at Grace's throat. Is proved right when he hears her ask Grace to open her mouth, to swallow, to move her jaw.
Finally, the conversation continues. Doctor Jones is calm, very steady in her approach as she asks, "I know you were punched, several times by the looks of things, but how did it happen?"
Grace coughs, lets out a little moan of pain that makes Boyd clench his fingers. If only he could hold her, comfort her in some way. "He – the suspect – he found me trying to use a police radio. I struck him with something, a branch, maybe, and he…"
She trails off, and despite how hoarse she sounds, Boyd doesn't miss the fear in her tone as she continues. "He hit me. That's when the eye happened, I think. I can't remember how many times he hit me. Well, punched. It was… several. And then he wrapped his hands around my throat, choking me, and he said, well, you know the sort of threats that men like that make. I couldn't breathe. And then he let go and I fell. He kicked me, told me to get up but I couldn't, so he dragged me to my feet and wrapped an arm around my neck and squeezed."
There's lead in Boyd's chest. Lead, where there should be air.
Seething anger, horror, devastation, heartbreak; they all churn through him, a tangled mess of emotion and thought.
There is a kindness in Doctor Jones voice that he has yet to hear from the other surgeons. "Did you lose consciousness?"
"Yes." Grace. Flat. Unemotional now.
"Do you think that was his intent?"
"Absolutely." Total conviction. It chills him to the bone.
There's a moment of silence, though another rustle of cloth tells him something unspoken is happening. "What happened afterwards?"
Grace makes an odd sound, then sighs. "I came round as he was dragging me. That's why – " Through the curtain he can just see enough of a shadow to indicate that she's gestured with her good arm. "When we got back to the house where Boyd was, he used a hand first, to stop me breathing for… well, it felt like a long time. He threatened me. And then he had me in a headlock, he was talking to Boyd but I can't remember what he said."
"All right, thank you for telling me. I appreciate that it probably wasn't easy."
Whatever Grace says in reply, it's too quiet for Boyd to understand.
"There is something else you need to consider," Doctor Jones continues. "It's possible, given the damage to the eye socket and how hard you were hit, that you might have damage to the eye itself."
There's a beat of silence, in which he feels a ripple of pain as his stomach muscles tighten. "You mean," asks Grace, "I might not be able to see?"
"I mean that there may be some visual disturbance, yes. How much, I don't know. You might be fine, but you might not. I just have to warn you."
"Okay, thank you. I understand."
The discussion continues a little longer, with the doctor explaining how the surgery will happen, what she will do to repair the damage. Grace asks very few questions.
"Right, you look like you need to sleep. I'll come back and see you in a couple of days. I want the swelling around your airway gone before we even consider taking you to theatre, and that eye needs to come down a lot, too. Do you have any questions for me now?"
Grace declines, and the doctor leaves, her shoes squeaking against the flooring as she goes.
Shellshocked, Boyd sits perfectly still, struggling to make his brain process everything he's just heard.
Every time the darkness begins to lift a little, he thinks, it quickly comes crashing down around them again.
If the worst happens to them both...
He can't think like that. He can't.
Out of nowhere he has the strong urge to speak to his mother.
Clara is in her eighties now, but she remains every bit as... idiosyncratic... as she ever was. She was a dancer when she met his father, just after the war. A vibrant, headstrong young woman living a strangely bohemian life amongst the misery and rationing of wartime London. Disowned by most of her family, solid, proud East End folk, she was an odd match for the dour, taciturn Second Lieutenant Douglas Boyd of the Royal Fusiliers, but they were married within three months, and remained devoted to each other until Douglas died in the late 'eighties following a long battle with cancer.
Clara has always been unconventional, her parenting style vague but affectionate, and she has always adored the son who inherited much of her fierce, free-spirited independence and all of her endless curiosity. Conversely, her relationship with Susan has always been more strained, less warm and open.
He wonders what Clara will say when – if – he tells her there's more than an outside chance that he could lose his leg. Probably she will surprise him – she usually does.
She will undoubtedly take Grace under her wing, too – Grace having lost both her parents. Maybe, Boyd thinks, they could both go to his mother's big, rambling house – a former rectory – on the Surrey/Hampshire border. When they are released from the hospital to get on with their convalescence.
One eye, one leg. Worst case scenario.
What the hell will happen to the pair of them?
Grace will do better than he will. A half-blind psychologist is still a psychologist. A one-legged copper is... an ex-copper.
The healthcare assistant speaks from the other side of the curtain: "All done, Mr Boyd?"
"Yeah," he responds, not at all surprised when she immediately swishes the curtain open and takes the full bottle away without a word.
Grace is watching him from the other bed. At least, he thinks she is watching him. Believes she is.
She says, "You heard all that?"
"Yeah," he says again. "I did."
"I never thought," she says, a wobble in her voice, "that one day I would end up trying to give myself trauma counselling."
"Don't," he urges, all the anger and guilt flaring again. "Don't, Grace. It might not be that bad. You heard her – there may be a problem. May not will."
"And you might lose your damned leg," she snaps at him. "It's only a possibility, but you're obsessing over it, aren't you?"
"No," he tells her, believing he's telling the truth. "Not obsessing. I just... I have to accept the possibility, that's all."
"Not easy, is it?" There's anger in her voice, but he's really not sure who it's directed at. "Accepting that you're a heartbeat away from being a cripple. Or a blind old woman with no future."
All he wants to do is put his arms around her. And he can't.
He's at a loss. Desperately wants to comfort her, but he's just too far away. And no matter what he says, he has a hunch that it will be the wrong thing. That right now, her stress level is just too high to respond to anything he might be able to verbalise.
His sharp ears picking up a tiny sniff while his brain is busy trying to find a way to help her is the first clue; when he swivels his head round to look at her, eyes trying to pick out her face in the gloom, the second clue is the slight hitch of her shoulders.
She's crying.
Tentatively, he tries, "Grace?"
She doesn't respond, at least not verbally. This time though, the sniff is bigger. She knows the game is up, that she can't hide it from him, and now she begins to cry in earnest.
It's not about her eyesight, he knows. It's about everything that has happened, all the pain, all the limitations, the frustrations, the problems that will come from work, the hurdles still facing them. It's the trauma, spilling over and bleeding off a little of the fear and the horror.
Grace is sobbing now, one hand clutching her blanket in a death grip, the other covering her less-damaged eye.
"Grace," Boyd calls softly, his voice breaking. "Oh, Grace…"
She's coughing, clutching her ribs in agony, her battered face horribly contorted with the pain. She can't breathe through her nose, he realises, and where she's crying so hard, her upper body is shaking with the effort and the coughing fit is making it worse.
"Please, Grace," he calls, trying desperately to soothe her, "it's going to be okay. I'm right here."
She doesn't respond to him. Boyd stares, distraught. She can't hear him, he thinks. She too far gone into what he supposes would ordinarily be a cathartic release of pain and stress, but she's hurting herself in the process, making it worse.
It's hideous. It's utterly, incomprehensibly hideous to see her hurting so much.
Grabbing the call button, Boyd jams his thumb into it. Is relieved beyond measure when Lisa walks into the room.
"How can I – " She stops when he points. "Doctor Foley?"
"I don't think she can hear you," he says. "I think this is a trauma response."
"I think you're right," she says grimly. "I've only heard part of the story, but it sounds like the two of you have really been through it."
"We have," he acknowledges, his eyes still on Grace. "Can you move me closer?" he asks, inspiration striking. "I'm not going to do anything stupid," he says quickly, in response to the askance look on her face. "Listen, quite apart from anything else, she's my best friend. We've known each other for years. I just want to comfort her."
Lisa stares at him, but she's wavering.
"Please," beseeches Boyd. "She saved my life – most of her injuries happened while I was lying helpless on the floor and she was trying to raise the alarm. Please, just let me help her."
It's the right thing to say, it seems. Lisa springs forward, drags his tray table aside. Undoes the brakes, drops the side rail and pushes his bed across towards Grace. "Press that," she instructs, gesturing as he nears Grace, finds her bed rail in the way. He pushes it aside, as instructed, and is finally able to touch her.
Grace is still coughing, on the verge of choking on the tears and mucus that she can't clear away. She's so lost in whatever dark space she's drifted too that she doesn't hear him calling her name, doesn't even flinch as he reaches out and takes her good hand in his.
"Can she have more painkillers?" Boyd asks, glancing over at Lisa. "She looks like she's really hurting."
The nurse glances at the clock and nods. "I'll get them drawn up. Poor thing." She pulls a handful of tissues from the dispenser, hands them to Boyd and then disappears to get the promised pain relief.
"Grace," he murmurs, bringing her fingers to his lips and kissing them gently. "Grace, it's okay. I'm here and you're safe. It's going to be all right, I promise." He strokes her hair, inordinately gentle. Slides down his bed and shifts awkwardly onto his side, propping himself up on one forearm to bridge the gap between the beds. It takes effort, and clenched teeth, but if he rolls his hips to the side, gently rotating his plastered leg on the pillow it's resting on, he discovers that his stomach muscles and stitches survive.
Slowly, he shuffles sideways, is eventually able to get close enough to tilt his head and kiss the top of hers. Someone has washed her hair, he realises. Rinsed away the blood and muck. She smells faintly of antiseptic. He finds her ear, nuzzles it gently. Whispers again that she's safe, that he's there.
Her sobs tear into him, each one a tiny knife stabbing deep into his heart.
Boyd keeps up his soft mantra, murmuring over and over against the warm, soft skin of her temple that he's there with her. Eventually, he feels a tiny squeeze of her fingers around his, feels a wash of relief like warm water pouring over him.
"You're safe," he promises once again. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere." He rests his cheek very gently against the side of her face. Raises his head and, glancing quickly at the doorway, he takes a chance. Brushes the softest of kisses against her lips. "I love you," he breathes. "I really, really do."
Her fingers clench around his just as footsteps return. Boyd eases back slightly, raises his head. Squeezes Grace's fingers, conveying a silent promise as her sobs slowly ease.
Lisa reaches for the cannula. "Medication time," she says, her voice soothing. "You're sweating again. This'll help. We can't have you in so much pain, can we?" Her tone is almost musical, is quietly reassuring. Grateful, Boyd returns to stroking Grace's hair, talking softly. Watches as whatever it is in the syringe takes effect, as she visibly relaxes under his touch.
"It's quick," Lisa says, watching. "I think she'll probably fall asleep. She's long overdue a nap – I'm surprised she's lasted this long, especially with all the visitors." Sharp eyes survey him, even as her hands use the tissues to gently wipe Grace's face. "You need one too. You're starting to look pretty bad."
"Thanks," he mutters, piqued.
"Anytime."
He waits until Grace is calm, sound asleep from the combined effects of the medication and her tears. Only then does it dawn on him that his body is really starting to protest the awkward position.
Lisa is grinning at him. "Need help?"
Boyd scowls, and nods.
"Hold on," she orders, dragging the beds apart again. Once he's back in place, she helps him slide back into the middle of the mattress. Hands him a paper cup with some pills in it, and a glass of water.
"Thanks. For everything." He means it. Sincerely.
"You're welcome. Now get some sleep. You need it."
Boyd sinks back into his pillows as she walks out. A nap is on the cards, certainly, but first he reaches for his phone. Thumbs through to a familiar number, presses call. The line connects and he feels his own eyes prickle with unshed tears. "Mum?"
"Peter!" She sounds bright and happy, pleased to hear his voice. "You just caught me on my way out of the door."
"Yoga?" he guesses.
"Chakra Reading," she tells him. "My energies need realigning."
It's so typical of her, he thinks, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat and the unshed tears. "Oh. Okay. Well, I won't keep you then."
"Little Peter?" she says, reverting to the nickname his closest family have used since childhood. "What's the matter?"
She always knows. Always.
"It'll keep," he mumbles. "Go and have your chakras fiddled with."
"Tell me," she insists.
So he does. The abridged version, at least, accurate but short on detail. He finishes with, "Everything's such a mess, mum."
"Oh, Peter." She sounds composed. Sympathetic, but composed. "I'll call Rob. We'll be there tomorrow."
"No," he says, but half-heartedly. "It's all right. Susie's been in. I just needed..."
"I'll call your uncle," she insists. "I'd come today, but – "
"Your chakras need fixing," he says. It's a poor attempt at humour.
"Little Peter, you are my favourite son – "
"I'm your only son," Boyd points out, some of the heart-freezing gloom lifting from him.
"Be that as it may, when have I ever not been there when you needed me?"
He can think of more than a time or two, but it seems ungrateful to say so, so he simply makes an indefinite sort of noise and then says, "Clara?"
"What?"
"Bring Buster with you."
"Buster?" He can almost hear the frown. "They won't let him in, surely?"
"Tell them he's a service dog."
"He's a scruffy little terrier, Peter, not a Labrador."
"Tell them he's an emotional support dog, or something, then. Smuggle him in under that ridiculous poncho of yours if you have to, but bring him."
"I didn't think you liked him that much." There is an easily discernible note of suspicion in her voice.
"I don't," Boyd says, picturing the little grey dog under discussion. "He bit me just for sitting on the damned sofa last time I was home."
"So...?"
"I know someone who will like him."
"All right," she accedes with a sigh. "I'll do what I can. Is there anything else you need? Shall I bring Spot?"
"No."
"When you were a little boy – "
"Fifty years ago."
" – you always had Spot with you when you weren't well."
"I don't think a floppy velvet rabbit is quite going to cut it this time." Boyd ignores a stray flash of memory, refuses to be dragged back years in time. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
"You will," she tells him. "I'll bring some healing crystals."
"Don't you bloody dare," he says, and ends the call. Nothing has changed, but, still, he feels a little better.
He dozes, drifting on a hazy sea of colour and unidentifiable shapes as the painkillers do their work and his body relaxes. He dozes, he wakes, and in very short order he dozes again, not wanting to listen to the old man at the end of the ward yelling.
It is dinner time that wakes him properly, the smell of hot food drifting into his nostrils. His stomach growls, and for the first time since he woke up from surgery, Boyd feels truly hungry. Ravenous, even. Some sort of tomato and vegetable chicken pasta thing arrives. He wolfs down the whole lot. Demolishes the fruit and yoghurt that came with it, drinks down the mug of tea. Grins when he uncovers a bar of chocolate.
It can only be a good thing, he thinks. A sign that he's somewhat on the mend.
Grace doesn't stir. Doesn't even twitch when he fumbles his cutlery, dropping the knife with a heavy clatter on his plate. Pushing his tray table aside, he slowly manoeuvres himself onto his side, rearranges the pillows, and lies quietly, studying her.
The bruising is really starting to come out now, her face mottled brilliant purple and blue. It's creeping into areas where the skin was pale when he first saw her on his ill-advised foray down to this ward. The swelling around her neck is a little better, perhaps, but the skin there is heavily marked as well.
It hurts so much, still.
She doesn't blame him, but he does. He –
Boyd stops that line of thought cold. He can't play this game. Just can't.
In her sleep, she is peaceful. The rise and fall of her chest is slow, steady. It's reassuring. The twitch of her fingers against some invisible annoyance is amusing, tugs at his heartstrings. He remembers holding her hand earlier, squeezing those fingers, feeling the warmth, the softness of her skin against his.
She looks so small, so delicate lying in the big, bulky hospital bed. He's self-aware enough to know that that alone is playing on his protective instincts. And when it comes to her, those instincts have always been heightened. Was it all inevitable, he wonders, still staring at her.
At some point she has pushed the blanket back and with the steady glow of light from the hallway beyond he can clearly see the outline of her breasts beneath the ugly gown.
Memory crashes over him, unbidden. Just a few short days ago they were on her sofa. Kissing, caressing, touching. For a few, blissful minutes he'd ploughed through the barriers holding him back from taking her upstairs. It was heated, it was passionate. His hands had found their way beneath cloth, he'd heard her moan his name in pleasure.
And then… reality. Determined not to mess things up, he'd eased back. Kissed her good night, long and sweet and lingering. Taken his leave.
All very PG.
She'd melted into him, held him tightly and wished him sweet dreams, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes as he left, one she wasn't quick enough to hide. It kept him awake all that night.
Why? Why didn't he stay? Boyd berates himself now, for his stupidity. He'd wanted her, she'd wanted him, yet that final barrier was so hard to cross. A momentous choice, at the time.
And now…
It seems trivial, ridiculous.
When they are recovered, he vows, there will be no more wasted opportunities. No more wishing he had acted, wishing he'd spoken sooner.
A procession of beautiful women could walk through the room, yet he would only have eyes for her, Boyd thinks, still watching her. That tells him everything he needs to know.
His mother will see, the minute she walks through the door tomorrow morning, what is going on. She will see, and, he hopes, she will approve. He thinks she will.
He knows she will.
Clara has only ever wanted him to be happy.
Grace will like her, Boyd thinks. Something churns in his belly. Nerves. Very few women have been introduced to Clara over the years. It's something he hasn't considered until now.
On the bed beside his, Grace sighs. Drags a hand up towards her face. Mumbles something unintelligible. God, does he want to kiss her. Properly. To hold her in his arms and feel her snug against his body, to know she is warm and safe. To feel that strange alchemy of love and reassurance and sanctuary that he always feels when he holds her.
Instead he settles for calling her name, for smiling at her as she swims her way out of the fogginess of slumber.
tbc...