He discharged himself from the emergency department against medical advice once they started discussing another admission. Alistair and I had both argued with him all the way home, until he stopped talking to either of us. I understood why he'd done it - we'd be in a gross amount of debt just from the ambulance trip and the few hour stay if we couldn't sort the insurance issue - but that didn't mean that I approved of it.

I thought he was about to cry when he realised we needed to change our bedding before he could lie down. It wasn't until we were standing in the bathroom, and I was tugging his clothing off of him while he bit down on his lip to stifle it, that the day got the better of him.

"I'm sorry I had to come home, I know you're tired," he whispered to me, wincing as he bent his arm back to free it from his sleeve. The fabric had been all but fused to his skin with the blood that had soaked into it and dried, the uncovered wounds starting to seep again once they were disturbed. He apologised for that too. Wouldn't look at me when I sighed. The harsh breath he sucked in trembled.

"Carlisle…" I didn't know what to say to him.

He'd locked up, and it was suddenly impossible to help him undress. "If you- this is going to be my life forever, but it doesn't have to be yours. You can still get our marriage annulled for another week," he told me quietly. The absolute sincerity in his voice broke my heart.

Trying not to touch him where he was sore, I guided him against my chest, running my hand down his spine when he hid his face in my shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere," I promised quietly, pressing my lips against his neck. "We need to get you cleaned up so you can go to bed; it's been a long day, and I think you'll feel better once you've been able to get some sleep."

"Okay."

It took far longer than I anticipated. He still had gravel in the grazes that hadn't been sutured, bleeding as they rubbed against his clothes, and he roughly scrubbed them clean to get it over and done with. My heart was pounding as I stole the cloth out of his hands to commandeer the task before he worsened anything, the dressings I put over them seeming barbaric compared to what the nurses had stuck down. We quickly found that he couldn't lift his hands above his head without the dizziness becoming incapacitating, leaving him at my mercy to try and get the blood out of his hair, and he couldn't lean forward without vomiting, entirely unable to tolerate the strain it put on his neck. He mumbled an apology every time he winced under my hands, and I tried to monitor his complexion to make sure he wasn't about to pass out on me.

He still looked uncomfortable by the time we made it to bed, albeit so exhausted that he was past caring. He caught my hand as I pulled the blankets up. "You'll still sleep with me tonight? Even though you're upset with me?" The question came out so anxiously that it didn't leave me with much wriggle room, even if it hadn't been my intention to stay here.

I sat on the edge of the bed, trapping one of his hands in both of mine. "I'm not upset. Of course I'm sleeping here; why wouldn't I?" I already knew why he was thinking that way - or at least I thought I did.

"We've been fighting since what happened this morning, and I've made things worse by refusing to stay in the hospital, and now you're forced to help me," he explained. His voice wobbled despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

"You're my husband, Carlisle, you aren't forcing me to do anything. I'm sorry if I've been harsh with you today; I haven't meant to be." I brought his knuckles to my lips, lightly running my thumb over the bruising on the back of his hand.

"I hurt you- I know that I hurt you this morning because I-" He ripped his hand from mine, locking his fingers around my wrist to pull up my sweatshirt sleeve.

I pushed the fabric back down before he could get anywhere. "It's barely scratched now; it'll be gone by tomorrow." The marks had already faded down to slightly inflamed lines, not all that noticeable unless you were looking for it. The wrist he'd bent did twinge a little when I flexed it, but otherwise I was unscathed. "You had a flashback this morning, didn't you?"

"I think so. I thought you were him, when you were trying to get me to stop, and I didn't mean- I never wanted to hurt you, and-" He cut himself off when he tried to move his legs, his pelvis protesting to the change in position enough to make him hold the air in his lungs.

"I know; don't worry about it anymore." I waited until he'd made himself take a few deep breaths, until I was sure that he wouldn't freak out the second I turned away, before standing up again. "I'll be right back." Once he'd agreed, I rushed to shower, throwing on some pajamas before hurrying to the kitchen to feed the ever-starving cat, tossing a blanket over Alistair who was passed out on the couch.

I didn't know how to touch Carlisle once I was lying beside him. He couldn't move without causing himself pain, and repositioning him myself didn't seem like a good idea. "You okay?" I whispered through the darkness.

"Just sore," he whispered back. "I'm okay."

I felt around under the covers until I found his hand, threading our fingers together and shifting it to hold against my stomach. "I'm glad you're home."

.

.

It took an hour and a half on the phone to straighten out the issue with the insurance. Most of it was spent on hold, watching Al attempt to make - and burn - pancakes on the stove top. It was a fucking good thing we were married; the bill we'd be footing would be terrible, but the policy I was under from my job would partially cover my husband. Alistair eavesdropped on the conversation while Carlisle slept through it.

We'd started putting things into boxes to make the move a little smoother. It went by far faster with Al helping me, and I tried to remember when I'd started enjoying his company, when we'd moved past only tolerating each other. He organised things with the same practicality as my partner, and I followed his directions despite it not being his apartment.

"Why do you two have so much shit?" he grumbled eventually. "Actually - why do you have so much shit?"

"Why are you so sure it's mine?" I countered.

"Because Cullen left the dinner set we bought together with me when he moved out, and I've only ever seen him use one pan when he cooks." He grinned at me as he taped yet another box closed, this one full of glassware, clearly pleased with himself. The observation made me chuckle a little despite it being mostly accurate; I'd managed to convince Carlisle to branch out a little in the time we'd spent together.

I rolled my eyes at him. "I'm not a hoarder, you two just lived like barbarians."

"I'm not complaining, if it means that I don't have to furnish another kitchen when we move in together." He let that hang between us while I considered whether perhaps we did have too much stuff, and if it really was worth keeping another set of wine glasses for the once a year we actually had guests to drink from them. Maybe I did have a problem after all. "Are we going to need a cleaning schedule?" he asked eventually.

I wasn't sure if he was still making fun of me. "Are we frat boys? I think we'll be fine, Al, it's never been a problem - unless you plan on becoming a slob."

"One for cooking, then? Do Carlisle and I get to be responsible for making dinner sometimes?" Definitely baiting me.

"Sure, but I retain the right to order take-out if it's inedible," I told him, biting down on the inside of my lip to keep from smiling while he huffed his disapproval.

"We're not that bad." They were somehow collectively worse in the kitchen; whatever culinary skills they had independently would completely disintegrate the second they were in charge of a meal together. God knows what they use to survive on.

"Whatever you say, Al."

"What are we having tonight?"

"Carlisle and I are going to have ravioli-"

"As if he's about to eat a bowl of pasta," he interrupted. "Five dollars says he won't even touch the sauce?" Grinning, he held out his hand to shake mine.

"I'm not betting on whether my husband is going to be able to eat, Alistair." I shook my head at him, trying to stifle my amusement. I already knew damn well that he wouldn't be able to get it down, that it would only be Al and I having the meal and I would be lucky to even get him to make eye contact with it. I had a little more faith in the tin of soup in the cupboard. Toast, if he was nervous about that. "You're a tyrant."

"No, I'm realistic - and hungry and working for free."

This time the eye roll was involuntary. "I guess you can stay for dinner."

.

.

Carlisle required less help than I'd assumed he would. Despite the injuries, he crawled his way out of bed by himself the next morning, able to dress on his own and wander into the kitchen before either of us knew he'd woken up. Fox trailed after him, having spent the night curled up between us and nestled into his side. I automatically stood up to catch him before he'd even wobbled. "Careful."

"I'm okay," he assured me, his hand knotting in my shirt once I was close enough, tugging me to his level to quickly press his lips to mine.

I cautiously slipped my arm around his waist. "Can I heat you up some breakfast? Al and I already ate."

He hesitated, unsure suddenly. "It's lunch time," he uncomfortably tried to joke to get out of it.

"Lunch, then?"

"Just coffee?" he tried.

I let it slide; it wasn't the worst offense. "Sit down - I'll bring it to you." I kissed his temple, ignoring the pit in my stomach as he started to turn away and fighting back the wave of unwarranted advice that threatened to spill out.

Alistair didn't take the same route. "You can't take those antibiotics on an empty stomach," he grumbled, not looking up from his task.

"I'm not," he argued half-heartedly.

"Coffee isn't food. You need to eat before you take those tablets - you already have a hole in your stomach."

His silent panic as he tried to sit down stalled his answer, the breath he held in too harsh when he finally released it, the backward slant of the couch cushions somewhat trapping him there once he'd collapsed onto it. It was a few seconds before he could respond, his body tensing until he could override the pain. "It has milk in it," he told him eventually.

He wasn't having it. "Barely. Eat something."

"I feel sick, Al, and they're not going to destroy my stomach lining like the painkillers did. It's not going to make me bleed." His next attempt to shift got him nowhere, except for breathless and stranded in the chair.

"You take an endless amount of antiemetics in the morning, Carlisle, you're not going to vomit," he argued. Unfortunately, what he took at baseline didn't leave us much to combat any spikes he had while he was ill, unless he was in the hospital. He'd already told me this morning when I'd woken him to take the pills that it was worse than usual, but neither of us could do anything about it. It was a miracle he wasn't vomiting already.

"I'm still really nauseous."

"You're never not nauseous; don't be difficult."

"I'm not trying to-"

"Eat, then." Annoyed, he abandoned the box, shoving a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and beginning to reheat Carlisle's portion of what I'd made earlier. I couldn't tell whether it was the change in position or the smell of the food in the microwave, but my husband was suddenly drastically pale.

"Have some toast and try your drink?" I suggested. Unable to help drifting closer, I wondered how much it would hurt if I sat next to him and my weight shifted the furniture. I supervised as he tried again to move, this time to slouch down, but the effort caused an audible gasp as he shifted his hips. Breakfast seemed like a secondary issue suddenly; whatever he was trying to achieve, he wasn't about to be able to do it by himself, mutely starting to panic. "Do you need a hand?"

"I need to lie down," he told me unsurely, his eyes darting up to meet mine.

"You can't eat lying down," Alistair grumbled, refusing to drop it.

We both ignored him. "I don't want to faint, but everything is spinning," he pleaded softly. His fingers dug into the furniture, as if squeezing the fabric beside his knees would somehow keep him upright. "I shouldn't have gotten out of bed."

"Probably not," I agreed slowly. Even with my arm behind him, taking a lot of his weight, it was still difficult for him to maneuver himself until he was comfortable - at the very least not in danger of falling. I watched skeptically as he rolled onto his side, his arm under his head to keep his neck from flexing, the colour refusing to come back to his skin. "Better?"

"Yeah."

"Not so good on your pelvis, huh?"

"Not so much."

Alistair was scowling at our exchange. "You're not going to be able to have anything if you're lying like that, are you?" Even if his irritation was driven by worry, I wanted to smack him.

"I can't drink if I pass out either," he mumbled back.

"Whatever, Carlisle; it's your funeral."

"Cool off a bit, Al," I warned. My husband's reason for seeking us out became clearer as I watched him. Instead of immediately falling asleep like he should have, he was wired awake, the toaster springing up enough to make him jump - and quickly regret the jolt that went through his body. Every little sound, be it the crackle of the packing tape as we strapped it over the boxes, the scratching of chair legs on the floor, the hushed sound of children in the corridors outside, was making him flinch.

When Alistair broke the silence we'd been in for the last half an hour, he just about leapt through the ceiling. His friend lost the end of his sentence as he noted his reaction, both of us watching as Carlisle tried to get control over the pain he'd caused himself. "Let's put the TV on," he suggested. He didn't wait until we agreed before coming over to snatch the remote, switching the screen on and handing it to Carlisle. He'd scooped up the cat as well, setting her on the couch against his chest and guiding his hand to her. "You know Caius can't hurt you?"

"Y-yeah. Thanks."

"Want a blanket too? Go to sleep for a bit?" he suggested.

Again, he offered half-hearted agreement, quiet thank yous, turning his face into his arm to hide his expression from us. The blanket seemed to help. I really didn't appreciate the way Al's hands brushed across him as he spread it over him, the intimacy as he pushed his hair back off his face and crouched down to talk to him. I couldn't say anything about it while my husband was so miserable, taking a sip of my coffee instead.

As if he realised his mistake, Alistair suddenly glanced at me and straightened up. He tried to hide the guilt in his expression as he pulled the edge of the coffee table a little closer, setting Carlisle's mug and untouched-but-now-cold toast on the corner of it. "Drink something before you hurt yourself," he told him awkwardly, sitting in the seat across from him and intensely focusing on his phone.

I rolled my eyes even if he wasn't looking at me. Carlisle wasn't paying attention anyway, having given in to the comfort of the blanket and pulling it closer around him, somewhat holding the cat against her will as she tried to push her way out from under it and he trapped her against his body. I was going to have to get over Alistair's affection if we were going to live together - either that or he'd have to cut it out. It didn't help that he had obviously only amended his behaviour because Carlisle requested it; his feelings clearly hadn't changed.

.

.

Alistair couldn't look me in the eye for the rest of the day. He'd been so quiet that my husband had asked several times if he was alright, what was wrong, was he feeling okay, to which he'd always smiled and assured him that he was fine. It had me on edge. We'd signed a lease together, for god's sake, he couldn't decide that he was still in love with him now.

As much as I wanted to bring it up to Carlisle, I couldn't get him alone. He stayed on the couch for the majority of the day, his laptop balanced on the corner of the coffee table. His insistence that working made him feel better seemed like a straight out lie when he couldn't sit up or tolerate the weight of the computer on his stomach, at some point during the afternoon convincing Al to kick the coffee table a few inches closer, so he could reach across the gap and use it while it sat there.

I was convinced he couldn't actually get up by himself. Even when his water bottle had rolled away from him, he couldn't twist enough to catch it as it fell, helplessly watching it escape until I'd brought it back, my teasing earning a worried smile. "You okay?" I checked.

"I think I'm stuck," he told me. "I can't get up from here."

I grinned at him. "I know you're stuck. You're at my mercy now, Cullen."

"That's not the worst thing." He caught a fistful of my shirt as I bent over to set the bottle back down beside him, refusing to let me straighten up without pulling his shoulder. My hand brushed his cheek as I dropped my lips to his, almost feeling guilty for the kiss in his friend's presence. Almost.

"Maybe you have stockholm syndrome."

"Little bit."

"Can I sit with you?" I couldn't help but feel a little smug at the relief on his face. His nerves hadn't calmed throughout the day. He didn't voice the complaint, but the kids living on the floor above us, who'd apparently spent the entire day thundering from one end of their apartment to the other, seemed to have been the driving force behind his anxiety, his eyes frantically darting to the door with each set of thumps.

"Yes, please."

I had intended to sit beside him until he tried to sit up. He needed my help to get upright, Al watching disapprovingly as it made him curse. It drove his heart rate high enough for his watch to vibrate in warning, his sudden inability to breathe not settling until he was horizontal again. I trailed my fingers through his hair as he rested his head in my lap, down his spine when it seemed to help, my free hand drifting to squeeze his as he loosely hugged my legs. "I know you're nervous, but you're safe here, Carlisle; he's not breaking in."

"It's not much longer," he mumbled back. "Then we're out of here."

I really didn't think he was actually going to feel that much better once we'd shifted; it wasn't as if he'd been attacked in our flat. I'd be relieved that we wouldn't be dealing with the recent strange activity in our home - he'd flip if he caught wind of any of it, if I validated his fears of someone breaking in after he'd tried to convince me of it for weeks. I still wasn't sure that I hadn't just been untidy and forgetful.

"I still think someone is, though. It's always the same creak in the front door, and I really don't think it's our neighbours."

"I think you're just on edge, baby. Nothing is ever stolen." And Al and I never heard any of it.

Quiet, he was starting to fidget, picking at the outer seam of my pants until I rubbed his fingers. "Are you sure you still want to marry me? Even if you think I'm crazy?"

"I don't think you're crazy," I chuckled, leaning down to kiss his face. "Quit asking; the answer will always be the same." The hand on his back drifted over his side, across his chest as I squeezed him lightly. I wanted to say more, something far too sappy about how much I loved him - before Al cleared his throat and reminded me that we had an audience.

"I'm going on a date with that nurse," Alistair told us stiffly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and I almost felt bad for throwing our relationship in his face.

"What nurse?" Carlisle asked, only half listening as I toyed with the fabric against his sternum, finally starting to look sleepy.

"The one you harassed."

That woke him up a little. "What nurse?"

His friend grinned at him. "The one in the ER you accused me of flirting with and then gave my number to, idiot."

His cheek started to burn against my thigh, pink when I glanced down. "When?"

"The last time you were there, and they'd given you too much medication, apparently."

Carlisle groaned. "Just let me die next time; I don't want to go back if I was annoying the nursing staff," he groaned, making us both chuckle at him. "Oh god- what else did I-?"

"Aside from whining about missing Garrett and wanting to go to the restroom for about two hours, you were well behaved," he told him.

Carlisle swallowed, glancing up at me to make sure Al was telling the truth. "Did I really try to give him Al's number?"

I laughed and nodded as Alistair piped up again. "I don't appreciate you saying it like you were torturing him by trying to set him up with me."

"He was at work, Al, I'm sure the last thing he wanted was one of his patients making him feel weird." He was quiet for a little while, before he couldn't resist. "Was he cute, at least?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to see him?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"He messaged you?"

"It's just a few texts," he grumbled.

"Are you going to ask him out?"

Alistair hesitated, uncharacteristically squirming and blushing and stuttering before stammering out; "We're going to get lunch - don't look so excited; it's just lunch."

"Okay, Al."

.

.

It was out of pure convenience that I agreed to it. I certainly didn't expect to enjoy baking another birthday cake, especially so soon after the last, but one of the parents at Kate's party had asked for one similar and Carmen had given them my number. Baking for money was a bit of a foreign concept, but the mother had insisted on paying me, and it would certainly help with some of our current costs and Christmas looming ever closer. It still felt wrong, the guilt of charging them never quite leaving me.

My husband had been confused when he'd come into the kitchen to find me unpacking one of the boxes. Too nervous to stay in bed alone, he'd dragged one of our blankets from the bed and into the living room with him, cocooning himself in it to watch me while I crashed about in the kitchen. "Do you want me to help?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I don't want you to stand up; your company is nice, though. Feeling any better?" I'd been rather aware that he'd been awake most of the night, nauseous and achy and unable to move himself comfortably while he was in bed.

"I have a temperature," he mumbled.

"You sure you don't want to stay in bed and take a nap? I think I'm alright without supervision, as much as I like having you out here with me."

"I need to work anyway."

"It's harder for you to move this morning, huh?"

"The swelling is worse. They were sure I didn't fracture my back, right? I had x-rays?"

"You had a CAT scan, and it was all clear. They wouldn't have let you out of there if you had a spinal fracture, baby. Are you really that sore?"

"I don't know, it's just more painful than my pelvis, and I can't move my neck without everything else hurting. What'd I do to my shoulder?"

"You fell on the road, Carlisle, I think you shoved it into the curb when you were trying to get away from me - they didn't scan that though. Do you think it's broken?"

"No, just weird bruises."

"I don't think you should be working today." With my hands covered in flour, I couldn't actually detain his laptop, but I could frown my disapproval as I listened to it whir while it tried to load the design software. "That thing is going to burst into flames."

"What? My computer, or the oven that's been empty and on high for the last half hour?"

I huffed at him but ultimately left it alone. I pinned all of my hopes on him falling asleep while he was lying on the couch instead, in the same position he'd been the day before - it was no fucking wonder his shoulder hurt. I kept an eye on him while I segregated the cake batter into different bowls, very aware that he looked fucking terrible by the time I was done colouring each layer, worse again when I had the three sections in the oven. By the time I brought a cup of tea over, he'd melted into the furniture, all of the colour washed out of his complexion.

He glanced up at me as I got closer. "Is exclusively making princess cakes part of your business model, or-?"

I shook my head at him while he smiled tiredly back. "I'm open to branching out."

"Even though you're so passionate about all the pastels and the glitter?" The tea went down well; he sipped at it without checking what it was, relaxing slightly at the warmth of it.

"You'll be getting one for your birthday, if you don't watch it," I warned. The threat was only partially hollow - if I already had the supplies, tormenting him with them definitely was tempting. I caught the bottom of his mug with my fingertips as he tried to set it down, his arm suddenly failing to take the weight. Neither of us acknowledged it.

"You're going to make me a princess cake?" he challenged, laughing despite his desperate attempt to smother it before it jarred his ribs.

"Yes, sir. As punishment for teasing me," I continued matter of factly. It wouldn't be long before my hovering annoyed him, and I couldn't really abandon the cake out of fear of it burning, but I was reluctant to leave him. I didn't ask before I tugged the blanket up, smoothing his hair back off of his face in what I hoped came off affectionate rather than smothering.

He didn't seem to mind it. "Really?"

I nodded seriously. "Isn't that what every man wants for his twenty-fifth birthday?"

"I really don't think having a pink cake is going to be the most emasculating thing that's happened to me in the last year, seeming I literally can't get off this couch without your help."

"I'm happy to rescue a damsel in distress any day."

He waited until I reached the kitchen counter and had my back to him before asking "can you help me have a shower later? I don't think I can do it on my own." It still made his face hot, as if it was the worst task in the world, the idiot.

"Only if you promise you're not going to faint under the hot water." I was only half kidding. Over the next hour, while I cleaned the absolute hell hole I'd turned our kitchen into and repacked everything I'd pulled out, I watched him deteriorate until he was barely daring to take a breath, his hands shaking as they brushed over the laptop keys, the water he swallowed almost ending in a dry heave.

I already knew he'd argue with me over the pills I dispensed into an eggcup. There was no way I was spending the rest of the afternoon pretending that he wasn't struggling, though. He glanced up at me as I came closer, his eyes landing on the silver utensil in my hand, instant panic on his face. "You've got to take something, Carlisle, you can't keep going like this."

"I really don't want to; Caius might have-" He cut himself off once he saw my disapproval, nervously picking at the scratches on his hands instead.

I crouched down to level us. "You need to take this, and then when you're not as sore, I'll help you with whatever you need; you're not going to be able to tolerate having a shower while you're in this much pain. I can sit with you until it kicks in, if you're nervous."

"The cake-"

"The cake can wait." I couldn't touch it until it had cooled anyway.

He didn't protest any more than that.

.

.

I'd been warned by the pharmacist that the tablets were strong after he'd been prescribed them following his last hospital visit. I hadn't expected it to knock him as badly as it did. I had to give him direct instructions in the bathroom, standing under the water not lasting long as he got dizzy, threatening to vomit by the time he was dressed and back on the couch with me. I hadn't realised how bad the bruising was until then. He hadn't been exaggerating the swelling in his shoulder or down his arm, the same dark purple continuing across his hips and down his thigh on the side he'd fallen, the stitches threatening to burst around the wounds and the grazes still raw, bleeding after he'd run the towel over them.

He didn't understand the careful hug I wrapped him in as I tried to squash the lump in my throat, but accepted the comfort anyway. I tried to be gentle as I did my best to re-dress the lacerations, at the very least not wanting his clothing to disturb them anymore. By the time he was lying down, he was so distant that he was barely responding to me, still reluctant to go to bed but content to fall asleep in front of the TV.

"I made you something," he mumbled after a long silence.

I threaded my fingers through his hair again, still damp and tangling from the shower, letting my fingertips brush against his face. "What'd you mean?" I chuckled, partly wondering if he was delusional.

"This afternoon, while you were baking. I emailed you."

Now I was sure he was losing it. "I don't think you've ever emailed me anything in the entire span of our relationship," I teased.

"Not true," he smiled. "And I did today, anyway."

More to appease my curiosity, I reached for my phone to check anyway. I couldn't stop myself from melting when I opened it; it was a flyer, a little logo in the corner with my initials, our address as the business location under the graphics, Fox sketched into the cartoon bakery in the background, one of the cakes in the foreground drawn to mimic Kate's. "You're- you did this today?"

"Mmm."

I floundered to get words out, eventually only able to mumble 'thank you' and entirely unable to wipe the grin off my face. He'd glanced up to gauge my reaction, and then let himself relax and start to drift to sleep once he'd checked I was pleased.

We'd never be able to run anything out of our apartment, this one or the new one, but I let the daydream continue anyway. The kitchen would never get up to code with the cat around, let alone our shitty appliances, but a world where we could run a business together would have been perfect. We'd have to hire a kitchen - I could do the heavy lifting if he could do the admin, and I was pretty confident that he was artistic enough to find his way around decorating tools if he was given the chance - we'd be able to do that part together. He wouldn't have to work while he was unwell, and I'd be able to get the time off I needed to be home with him. Maybe it would be possible to rope Al in as well.

Alistair had been to countless job interviews over the past few weeks, still waiting to hear back from a couple of them and having been offered work in a couple of offices. I couldn't imagine the man had the right temperament to sit behind a desk and answer phones all day. Regardless of all that, he was due to fly back to his mother's place to clean up his life there before finally shifting with us. The only flights he'd been able to get meant that he'd still be away on our official move in date, but I was sure it wouldn't cause us any problems; Carlisle probably wouldn't be in any condition to help, but I could force my brother's hand if I needed to, and I'd moved apartments countless times on my own. Ideally, my husband would sleep through the whole event.

It would all be fine. It had to be.