Let You In Again

The clerk’s fake smile doesn’t falter, but it’s still fake. I lean a little closer to the desk, gripping the edge. “You don’t understand. I can’t just sleep in my car. It’s freezing out there.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” His voice is syrupy, the kind that doesn’t actually mean sorry. “We’re fully booked. This storm caught a lot of people off guard.”

“Right, including me.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, and I feel bad for it instantly, but I’m exhausted, soaked, and the thought of sitting in my car all night makes my stomach twist. “There has to be something. A closet. A cot in the basement. I’ll take anything.”

The guy glances over my shoulder, probably hoping someone else will step up and distract me. No luck for him. The lobby is practically empty except for a guy passed out on one of the couches. The clerk’s fingers drum on the desk. “I’ve already told you—”

“Ellie?”

I freeze, grip tightening on the desk. That’s not possible. Not here. Slowly, I turn.

And there he is. Jack Baker. Ten years, and he’s still unmistakably Jack—sharp jawline, the same easy grin, even under the shadow of a soaked baseball cap. But what stops me, what shifts everything, is the sleek black wheelchair he’s sitting in. His hands rest on the push rims, his posture casual like he’s been here all along.

“Jack?” My voice wavers for half a second before I clamp it down. My brain is working overtime, trying to connect the dots. Last I knew, he was climbing mountains out west. Now he’s here, wheels glinting in the fluorescent light, grinning at me like we bumped into each other at the grocery store.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, rolling a little closer. The grin doesn’t falter. “Ellie Thompson, of all people. Small world, huh?”

I blink, words catching somewhere between my brain and my mouth. “Yeah, uh… really small.” Smooth. Really smooth.

Jack glances past me at the clerk, then back at me, his grin dimming just a little. “You look like you’re about to chew someone’s head off. What’s going on?”

“Road’s flooded,” I mutter, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Nowhere else to stay, and apparently this place is full.”

His eyes flick to the clerk, sharp and assessing. “Is that right?”

The clerk stiffens, his polite mask slipping for half a second. “As I was explaining—”

Jack cuts him off, turning back to me. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah.” My arms cross instinctively. “My kids are with their dad.”

He nods once, then shifts his weight slightly, leaning into one wheel. “Good thing I’ve got a room, then.”

My stomach flips, but I shake my head before I even think it through. “No, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts, tone light but firm. “It’s got two beds. Plenty of space.” His grin tilts into something mischievous. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the car and freeze your ass off?”

I blink, caught between surprise and some old, stubborn part of myself that doesn’t want to admit how appealing his offer sounds. The clerk clears his throat behind me, clearly ready to move on to literally anyone else.

Jack raises an eyebrow, his grin widening as if he’s already won. “What do you say, Ellie? Roommates for old time’s sake?”

The grin on Jack’s face hasn’t changed. But his body? That’s a different story entirely. My eyes flick down, taking in the strong line of his shoulders, the soft curve of his stomach where his T-shirt clings a little in the damp. His arms, thinner than I remember, rest casually on the push rims of his sleek, black chair. He moves it effortlessly, his movements smooth but not fast. A manual chair. My brain, out of habit, starts running through possibilities, piecing together details: at least partial hand function, maybe wrist but not fingers.

C6, I think automatically. Spinal cord injury. My eyes dart back to his face. He’s watching me—of course he is—and his grin tilts.

“I can practically hear the gears turning,” he says, voice warm but edged with amusement. “You always were too smart for your own good.”

“C6?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Then, horrified, I backpedal. “I mean, sorry, I—”

His laugh is low, easy. “Don’t be. A great guess. Not many people nail it on the first try. Med school paid off after all, huh?”

“Not really,” I admit, shifting awkwardly. “I dropped out after a year.”

His smile softens, and for a second, we’re back in his older brother’s Miata, sitting too close, sharing too much. “Still smarter than the rest of us,” he says quietly, before straightening and giving his wheels a push. “Anyway, I’m not much of a threat these days. You could share a room with me and still sleep with both eyes closed.”

My laugh comes out softer than I expect, tinged with something I don’t want to unpack. “I have never been scared of you, Jack, not a day in my life.”

He blinks, the grin flickering for just a second before coming back full force. “Good to know.”

There’s a beat of silence, just the hum of the lobby lights and the distant sound of rain pounding the roof. The clerk shifts behind the counter, looking anywhere but at us. Jack leans back in his chair slightly, hands settling into his lap. I can’t help noticing the way his wrists hang, slightly curled, fingers resting limp against his emaciated thighs.

“You’re really okay with this?” I ask, my voice quieter now. “I mean, it’s been—”

“Thirteen years,” he finishes for me. “And yeah, Ellie, I’m okay with it. It’s just a room. And it’s just me.”

And that's the problem, right there. It’s Jack. The guy who knew every stupid thing about me and still made me feel like I was the smartest, strongest person in the world. The guy who took my virginity in his brother’s stupid sports car and kissed my nose after like it was the most natural thing in the world. The guy who probably could’ve broken my heart if we hadn’t already agreed to let each other go before the distance could. We dated for six years - all of high school and two exhausting years of long distance in college before we gave up on us. 

My arms drop to my sides. I sigh, the fight drain out of me. “Thank you. I'm grateful."  

Jack spins his chair and nods toward the elevators. “C’mon. Room’s all set, once we kick Connor out.”

“You’re not alone?” I ask, grabbing my bag as he starts rolling. It is strange to see him so comfortable in the chair, moving like it’s second nature. To look down on him, instead of him half a head taller than me. "I, I wouldn't want you to kick anybody out out of their bed for my sake." 

He doesn’t stop but glances over his shoulder. “Nah. Connor’s with me, and I swear he won't mind giving up on the bed. You remember him?”

“Barely. He was, what, twelve when we were…?”

“Kids,” he finishes, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah. He’s twenty-five now and thinks he’s my boss half the time. Caregiver, copilot, professional pain in the ass. You’ll love him.”

“Caregiver,” I repeat, my brain catching on the word. Of course. I’d pegged his injury the moment I saw him, but the practicalities hadn’t clicked. A C6 quad couldn’t be out here on his own, wheeling into storms and flooded roads. Someone has to help with… well, many things.

Jack slows near the elevator, tapping the call button with a knuckle. “Don’t look so freaked out, Ellie.”

“I’m not freaked out,” I shoot back, but my voice is tighter than I intend. The elevator dings, and the doors open. Jack backs in smoothly, motioning for me to follow. I step in and watch as he hits the button for his floor. His wrists move easily enough, but his fingers stay curled. My brain fills in the rest, whether I want it to or not. He wouldn’t have full control below his chest, would have trouble regulating temperature, blood pressure…

“You’re thinking again,” Jack says, his tone teasing, but there’s something softer beneath it.

“Sorry,” I murmur, dragging my eyes back to his face.

He shrugs. “Don’t be. It’s not like I can hide it. I’d rather you ask than stare.”

“Fair enough.” The words sit heavy for a moment before I blurt, “How long has it been?”

“Seven years,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Mountain biking accident. Guess I wasn’t as invincible as I thought.”

“Jack Baker, overestimating himself? Shocking.”

He grins, but his eyes stay locked on mine, steady and unflinching. “Guess you knew me better than I knew myself, huh?”

The elevator lurches to a stop, and the doors slide open. Jack doesn’t move immediately, waiting as I step out first. He follows, his wheels squeaking faintly on the carpet. 

He weakly knocks against the door to their room. It swings open with a faint creak, and a younger guy stands there, tearing into a granola bar. He’s got Jack’s dark hair and easy grin, though his face is sharper, his energy quicker. Connor was a cute kid, as far as I remember, but he's grown up to be gorgeous. He halts mid-bite when he sees me, his eyes darting between me and Jack.

“Connor,” Jack says, gesturing with his head, wheeling into the room. “You remember Ellie, right?”

Connor blinks, then tilts his head, a flicker of recognition sparking. “Oh. Yeah. Ellie.” His grin widens. “Mom still calls you ‘the one that got away.’ Nice to meet you again, I guess.”

I laugh despite myself. “She really said that?”

“Once or twice,” he says, his voice light. He tosses the granola wrapper into a nearby trash can. “More often when Jack’s being a pain in the ass.”

Jack groans from behind him. “Can we not?” He looks at me, shrugging. “I offered Ellie the second bed. Roads are flooded. She’s stuck.”

Connor pulls out his phone, glancing at the screen, scrolling for a moment. He nods once, seemingly unfazed. “Cool. I’ll get you sorted, then I’ll head out.”

I glance between them, confused. “Head out?”

“Grindr,” Connor says matter-of-factly, holding up his phone. “Surprisingly decent options for being in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Jack snorts, rolling further into the room. “He’s living the dream.”

Connor shrugs. “Someone has to.”

I’m caught off guard by how normal it is, their banter easy and full of a rhythm that suggests they’ve had this routine for years.

“Make yourself at home,” Jack says to me, waving toward the bathroom. “I’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” I say, grateful not just for the room but for the distraction from the storm outside. My bag is soaked, my clothes clammy, and all I can think about is the hot shower waiting. 

While I wring out of my wet jacket of the sink, Connor gets to work. His tone changes—still teasing, but gentler, instructions tucked into jokes. “Lean forward. No, not like that, you’ll end up on the floor. Okay, ready? One, two—good.”

The faint creak of Jack’s chair, the sound of transfer, a rustle of fabric. I glance back briefly, catching Connor kneeling beside Jack's bed, helping him out of his damp pants with practiced ease. Jack doesn’t seem embarrassed, doesn’t even glance my way. It’s all so natural, a routine they both know by heart. I don’t linger, though. This is their space, their time.

I close the door. 

The shower is heaven—hot water pouring over my skin, washing away the chill and exhaustion. I take my time, letting the steam loosen muscles I didn’t realize were tight. When I finally step out, in my pyjamas, hair wrapped in a towel, Connor’s gone, his absence marked only by the tidiness of his departure. Jack’s on the bed, propped on his side with pillows tucked between his legs and under his feet. His position looks deliberate, comfortable, though I notice the way his hands rest on the bed, fingers loosely curled. Another puzzle piece slots into place—the positioning is to avoid pressure sores, prevent swelling. Medical school knowledge I haven’t touched in years comes rushing back.

I pull my phone from my bag and dial my kids like I do every night. Jack doesn’t interrupt, just watches quietly as I wait for the call to connect.

“Mom!” Ollie’s voice fills the line, excited and a little too loud. At ten years old, he’s always brimming with energy, especially when it’s bedtime. “Did you get caught in the storm?”

“I did,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed. “But I found a place to stay. It’s a little rough, but I’ll survive.”

“Dad said it’s flooding everywhere. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, kiddo.” I soften my voice, picturing his face, the way he scrunches his nose when he’s worried. “I’m safe and dry. Are you and your sister ready for bed?”

“She’s already asleep,” he says, huffing like it’s some kind of injustice. “Boring.”

“Not boring,” I correct, smiling. “She’s seven. She needs her sleep.”

“I’m almost eleven,” he says, his favorite rebuttal these days. “I don’t need as much sleep.”

“Well, humor me,” I say. “Go brush your teeth, and I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles. Then, softer, “Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, Ollie. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The line disconnects, and I set the phone down, letting out a breath. When I glance over, Jack’s watching me with a faint smile.

“They sound like good kids,” he says.

“They are,” I reply, pulling my legs up onto the bed. “They’re with their dad right now. He’s great with them.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate.

“We split up a couple of years ago,” I say, strangely comfortable admitting it to him. “It was amicable. Really amicable, actually. He’s remarried now. His wife is… well, she’s great. We co-parent, we all get along. It’s as ideal as a divorce can get.”

Jack hums, his smile tilting slightly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever described a divorce as ideal to me before.”

“Well, I like her" I say, shrugging. “She makes him happy. And she’s good with the kids. That’s what matters.”

“What about you?” he asks, his tone soft but curious.

I glance over at him, caught off guard by the question. “What about me?”

“Seeing anyone?”

“Nope.” I shake my head, the admission coming easily. “Not since the divorce. I guess I’m just… waiting. For what, I don’t know.”

Jack grins, his head sinking a little deeper into the pillow. “Not a bad thing to wait for the right one.”

“What about you?” I ask, my voice quieter now. “Dating anyone?”

He laughs, and the sound is warm, familiar. “Nope. Single as they come.”

“Oh.” The word slips out before I can stop it, weighted with curiosity I don’t mean to show. “Because of…?” I gesture vaguely toward his body.

Jack’s laughter deepens, and he shakes his head. “No, not because of this.” He lifts one arm slightly, letting it fall back to the bed. “I’ve dated since the injury. It’s not like I’ve been sitting around pining for lost love.”

“Then what?” I ask, leaning forward slightly, caught in the openness of his answer.

He shrugs, a faint lift of his shoulders. “Just haven’t found the right one yet. That’s all.”

His words hang in the air, simple but honest, and for a moment, the storm outside seems to quiet. The Jack I knew, the one who could charm his way out of anything, is still here. But there’s something else now, something steadier, quieter.

“Fair enough,” I say, lying back on my pillow. “Guess we’re both waiting, then.”

“Guess so,” he murmurs, his grin fading into something softer.

Jack watches me for a second, his expression softening before he shifts a bit against the pillows, trying to find a better angle. “So, tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into that familiar curiosity. “What’s been going on with you? I mean, besides med school and the kids.”

I smile, surprised by how easy it is to fall back into this. “Not much else to tell. My parents sold the house a few years ago. Moved to Arizona for the weather. I haven’t been back to town since.”

“No kidding?” He whistles low, shaking his head. “I figured they’d hold onto that place forever. Your mom used to go on about how perfect it was.”

“Yeah, well, arthritis changed her mind.” I tuck my legs beneath me, leaning against the headboard. “What about you? Do you ever go back?”

Jack shakes his head, lips pulling into a faint, crooked smile. “Not much left for me there, you know? And Connor keeps me busy enough. Plus, work…”

“What do you do these days?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He tilts his head, his smile widening just a little. “Freelance. Mostly consulting. Accessibility design—helping companies rethink their products, their spaces, their services. Stuff like that.”

I blink, impressed. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s… something, all right,” he says, chuckling softly. “Started small. Just me tinkering with ideas, putting together proposals. But it turns out there’s a real demand for people who know what it’s like firsthand. And honestly? It’s kind of nice making things better for the next guy.”

I nod, understanding more than I expected to. “That suits you, Jack. Really.”

“What about you?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, quieter. “What did you end up doing, since med school wasn’t the finish line?”

“Health education,” I say, the words rolling out easily. “At first, it was just local, working with nonprofits, clinics. But now, it’s more corporate. Employee wellness programs, workplace safety, that kind of thing.”

“Still making a difference, though,” he says, and there’s no question in his voice. Just certainty.

I shrug, smiling. “I try.”

Jack grins, his head tilting slightly. “Look at us. Both in the business of helping people. Who would’ve thought?”

I laugh, the warmth of his voice filling the room. “Not me. I thought for sure you’d end up, I don’t know, running a skate shop or something.”

“Hey, Johnny B’s living that life,” he says with a laugh. “Last I heard, he was playing hockey in Europe. Some minor league thing, but he loves it.”

I blink, startled. “He’s still playing?”

“Like his life depends on it,” Jack says, shaking his head. “Probably does, knowing him. And I think he’s got a kid now, too. Can you imagine?”

I can’t. Johnny B, with a baby on his hip, is about as far from the picture of teenage chaos as I can imagine. “What about the rest of the crew?”

Jack’s expression dims slightly. “Remember Mr. Franks? History teacher?”

“Of course,” I say quickly. “He was your favorite.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “He passed a couple of years ago. Heart attack, I think.”

I look away, the news hitting harder than I’d expect. “He was a good guy.”

"He visited me, after my injury. Sat by my bed and just talked. He was the best." Jack's gaze is distant for a moment before his grin returns, faint but steady. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How people just… drift apart. You never think it’ll happen, but then one day you wake up, and it’s been years.”

I nod, my chest tightening. “Yeah. It’s been years.”

For a moment, the air between us is heavier, but not in a bad way. It’s the weight of time, of shared memories neither of us wants to let go of completely.

“I’m glad you’re here, though,” Jack says softly, breaking the silence. “Even if it’s just for one night.”

“Me too,” I admit, my voice matching his. And I mean it.

Jack shifts slightly against the pillows. His grin fades, replaced by something quieter, introspective. He must sense my hesitation because he speaks before I can ask.

“You’re wondering about this,” he says, nodding toward his body.

“I didn’t want to push,” I admit, folding my hands in my lap. “But yeah.”

He exhales, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “As I said. Mountain biking accident.  Stupid, really. I was doing one of those downhill trails with a buddy, trying to keep up. Hit a root wrong. Next thing I knew, I was flipping over the handlebars.”

I wince, picturing it. “And…?”

“And I landed wrong,” he continues, his voice calm but distant, like he’s told this story a hundred times. “Hurt my neck. It was a contusion at first, and then things became inflamed, and I ended up a C6 complete. They told me in the hospital I was lucky—lucky it wasn’t higher, lucky I didn’t die. I didn’t feel all that lucky at the time.”

I nod slowly, the pieces falling into place. “How long were you in rehab?”

“Months,” he says, his lips quirking into a wry smile. “They teach you everything. How to use a wheelchair, how to transfer, how to live your life when most of your body’s just… out of the picture. The basics. Then you go home, and the real work starts.”

I lean forward slightly. “Was Connor helping you from the start?”

“Oh no,” Jack says, shaking his head. “He had just started college, trying to figure out his own life. He drifted a little after graduation, so two years ago he moved in with me. It wasn’t easy—figuring out how to balance everything. But we got there.”

His voice stays steady, but I notice the way his jaw tightens, the faint flicker in his eyes. This is someone who’s worked through the pain, found his way to the other side, but the scars are still there.

“And now?” I ask, my voice soft. “How are you doing?”

He looks at me, and his smile deepens, genuine and warm. “I’m good, Ellie. Better than I ever thought I’d be, honestly. I’ve got work I care about, family who’s got my back, and… well, I’ve had a second chance to figure out what life really matters.”

I nod, a lump rising in my throat. 

Jack shifts slightly on the bed, propping his head more comfortably against the pillows. His eyes catch mine, steady and warm, like he’s measuring the weight of his next words before he speaks.

“So,” he says, his voice gentle but curious. “How was it really? The divorce, I mean.”

I let out a breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Like I said. It wasn’t… bad,” I admit, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. “It’s not like one of those horror stories you hear about screaming matches and custody battles. We just… grew apart.”

Jack nods, waiting for me to continue, his gaze steady but unpressuring.

“James and I were young when we got married,” I explain. “Too young, probably. He was supportive when I got pregnant, and we made it work. For a long time, actually. But somewhere along the way, we realized we were just better as co-parents than as partners. We didn’t fight; we just… knew.”

Jack tilts his head, his smile faint but understanding. “And you’re okay with that? With how it ended?”

“I am,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “We’re both better for it. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better stepmom for the kids.”

Jack’s eyebrows lift slightly, his grin widening. “That’s… not what I expected to hear. In a good way. Most people I know who’ve been through a divorce aren’t exactly glowing about the ex’s new partner.”

I shrug, smiling faintly. “It helps that Melissa’s easy to like. She’s thoughtful, patient. I think she was what James needed, honestly.”

Jack leans back against his pillow, watching me with a curiosity that is both warm and familiar. “So, you handled it that smoothly? No drama at all?”

I glance at him, and my smile softens. “You know, I think… I think our breakup set the bar for me. The way the two of us handled it back then.”

His expression shifts slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “Our breakup?”

I nod. “It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t bitter. We talked, we tried to make it work, and when it didn’t, we let each other go without tearing each other apart. It wasn’t easy, but it was… respectful. Mature.”

Jack lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Mature. There’s a word I didn’t expect to hear about twenty-year-old me.”

“It’s true, though,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I learned a lot from that. How to end something without making it a disaster. I carried that with me into my marriage.”

He looks at me for a long moment, his smile fading into something softer. “That’s… kind of you to say.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, my hand brushing the edge of the sheet again. “But it’s the truth.”

Jack tilts his head, the corners of his lips tugging upward again. “So Melissa is what you ex needed. And you?” His voice softens, the warmth in it settling deep into the quiet of the room. “What do you need?”

 I blink at him, caught off guard by the question. “I… don’t know. I’ve been so focused on the kids, on work. I haven’t really thought about it.”

Jack nods, his gaze dropping for a moment before he meets my eyes again. “It sounds like you -" Jack suddenly shifts, a sharp breath escaping his lips. His right leg jerk beneath the sheets, the movement involuntary but noticeable. He winces slightly in annoyance, then lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Sorry about that,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his lower half. “Leg spasm. Happens sometimes. Mind giving me a hand and putting the pillow back where it belongs?”

“Of course.” I’m already up, crossing the small space between our beds. The clinical part of my brain clicks in first, assessing the way his body rests against the pillows. His legs are slightly twisted, one knee higher than the other. The pillows between his legs have shifted out of place, throwing his balance off.

“What do you need?” I ask, my hands hovering near the edge of the bed.

“Just fix the pillows,” he says, his tone light. “They’ve gone rogue. But fair warning, I don't have any clothes on.”

I nod, carefully pulling the sheet back to expose the tangled pillows, keeping my eyes below his hips.. His legs are so thin, his skin pale and smooth. In my memory, they are tanned and wiry - from rock climbing, mountain biking, whatever he could do in the outdoors. And yet, as I reposition the pillows, tucking them gently between his legs and under his feet, the motions are familiar — it feels natural to help him.

“That better?” I ask once everything looks aligned.

Jack sighs, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry to drag you into it.”

"Don’t apologize,” I say, pulling the sheet back up. “I don’t mind.”

He looks at me, his grin soft but teasing. “You were always bossy, you know. Always liked fixing things.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You never complained before. And I never tried to fix you.”

“True,” he admits, his voice quieter now. 

The air shifts between us, something unspoken settling in the silence. 

For a second, I hover there, unsure whether to go back to my bed or stay. Jack notices—I can tell by the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his lips part as if he’s about to say something but doesn’t. Then he shifts, patting the mattress lightly.

“Stay,” he says, his voice low but certain. “If you want.”

I hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing down. But only for a second. Then I slide in beside him, careful not to jostle the pillows or his body. His arm brushes mine, warm and familiar. 

We lie there for a while, the sound of rain and wind outside the only noise. Jack’s breathing slows, his body relaxing against mine. I rest my head on his shoulder, and his arm shifts, resting loosely across my side. It’s not romantic, not exactly. It’s more like… home. Like two people who’ve shared too much history to be strangers and too much time to be anything but comfortable.

“You okay?” he murmurs after a while, his voice heavy.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “I’m okay.”

Jack shifts slightly, his breath warm against my hair, then he tilts his head, his lips brushing my temple. It’s so soft, I might have missed it if I hadn’t felt the warmth lingering.

I freeze, my breath catching in my chest. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t push further, but his presence is steady, grounding. When I finally look up at him, his eyes meet mine, filled with a quiet kind of vulnerability I’ve never seen before.

“Ellie,” he whispers, his voice low and careful. “You’re safe.”

I blink, unsure if he means it as reassurance or permission. He lifts his arm slightly, the motion slow, deliberate, as though giving me all the space I need to back away. I don’t. Instead, I let myself lean into him, my forehead resting lightly against his shoulder.

“Jack…” My voice wavers, uncertain, caught in a tangle of past and present.

“You’re safe,” he repeats, softer now. His eyes search mine. “My body… it’s dead below the injury. There’s nothing I can do to hurt you. Nothing I would ever do to hurt you, even if I could.”

The words hang between us, raw and unguarded, his breath against my skin, and his lips graze mine, tentative, unassuming, as though waiting for me to decide.

I hesitate, my mind spinning with memories, with the weight of the moment. “My heart isn’t safe,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.

His smile is faint, but it reaches his eyes, warm and steady. “I know.”

And then he kisses me again, softer this time, his lips lingering as though committing the moment to memory. His limp hand rests lightly on my arm, not pulling, just grounding me there, like he’s afraid I might slip away. I don’t. I lean in, letting myself fall into the warmth of him, the quiet certainty in the way he holds me.

It’s not the same as it was before, not the frantic, heady rush of youth. This is different—slower, deeper, more deliberate. 

When we part, his eyes stay on mine, searching, waiting for me to say something. I don’t, not at first. Instead, I settle closer against him, my head on his shoulder, my hand resting lightly on his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

I pull back just slightly, enough to meet his eyes again. His expression is soft, steady, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty there, like he’s waiting for me to set the pace. 

“Jack,” I start, my voice quieter than I expect it to be. “What… what can we do?”

His brow furrows for a second, like he’s not sure he heard me right. Then understanding dawns, and he smiles faintly, his eyes never leaving mine. There’s no embarrassment in his expression, no awkwardness—just honesty.

“We can do a lot, Ellie,” he says, his tone warm, reassuring. “It’s just… different."

“Different how?” I ask, the question coming out sharper than I intend. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I’d rather you ask than assume.”

I nod, grateful for his openness, even if my stomach twists at the vulnerability in asking at all.

“It’s like this,” he says, shifting slightly so he can look at me more fully. “Below my injury? I don’t feel anything. No pain, no sensation, nothing. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel… pleasure. It just comes from different places now. My shoulders, my neck, my head. Even just… connection.”

“Connection,” I repeat softly, letting the word settle between us.

He nods, his voice quieter now. “It’s not about mechanics anymore. It’s about intimacy. Being close. Being present. Touch, trust—it’s all still there. Just… adjusted.”

I take a breath, processing his words. “And you?”

His lips tilt into a faint smile. “Me?”

“Do you… I mean, can you—” I stumble, heat rise to my cheeks. “Do you enjoy it?”

His laughter is warm, genuine. “Ellie, I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t. Yeah, I can enjoy it. A lot, actually. It’s just… like I said, it’s different.”

The sincerity in his voice disarms me, calming the tangle of questions buzzing in my head. He’s not hesitant, not holding anything back, and that makes it easier to lean into the truth of what he’s saying.

“Okay,” I say finally, my hand brushing against his shoulder. “I can… work with different.”

His grin widens, just like the  Jack I used to know—the confident, self-assured guy who could turn any moment into something light and full of possibility. “Good to know. Now... one of us is still dressed, just saying.”

I laugh as I sit up and take off my top. There's a flicker of worry in the back of my mind - Jack remembers my body at twenty, before the babies - but it disappears under his burning gaze. He clearly likes what he sees. 

I settle back down, the solid warmth of his body against mine, his breath hitching when we are skin to skin. His lips meet mine again, and it’s like stepping into something both brand new and impossibly familiar. The way he leans into me isn’t instinctual—it’s controlled, intentional. His hand grazes my arm, his wrist curling just enough to make contact, and I can't help a twinge of emotion at the effort I know it takes. He’s moving with purpose, each motion slower, more deliberate than the wild, impulsive Jack of our youth.

Still, the connection between us hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharper now, more electric. His lips part slightly, his tongue brushing against mine just enough to send a shiver down my spine. My hands slide up, cupping his jaw, and I’m struck by how familiar the shape of his face is, the way his stubble is rough against my palms.

His breathing quickens, and the tension in his body tightens, not from hesitation but from focus, effort. He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, his smile barely visible in the dim light.

“You’re still the same,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “But… not.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his chest rising and falling beneath my hand. “Yeah. Same guy, different hardware.”

My hands drift  to his shoulders, marveling at the strength that’s still there despite the changes to his body. His arms might be thinner, his hands weaker, but the way he holds me is as solid as it ever did. He moves his lips to my neck, kissing the sensitive skin just below my ear, and I shudder, warmth spreading through me. His mouth lingers there, finding a rhythm that sends sparks down my spine.

I pull him closer, my body pressing against his, and he exhales, a soft sound that carries both familiarity and surprise. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low, rough.

I nod, my breath catching as I speak. “More than okay.”

His hand moves, brushing against my side, and even the lightest touch from him is electric. Every motion, every shift of his body is different—slower, more focused—but the intensity between us is the same, maybe even stronger. The years we’ve spent apart, the changes we’ve both endured, all seem to fall away as we lose ourselves in the moment.

His lips find mine again, and this time there’s nothing tentative about it. It’s deep, consuming, full of the kind of longing that only comes from years of knowing someone—and maybe still loving them.

Jack’s lips trail down my neck, and I gasp, the familiarity of his touch colliding with the new intensity of it. His movements are deliberate, focused, as though he’s rediscovering me the way he always had, finding the spots that make me melt. I help by pushing myself higher, so his teeth can graze my nipple, and I shudder, gripping his shoulders.

“You still like that,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with certainty.

“Yeah,” I whisper, breathless. “You still know all my spots.”

“Couldn’t forget if I tried,” he says with a faint grin, his lips brushing the outline of my breast. His hands move with care, one trailing over my side, the weight of it just enough to ground me. Even now, he knows how to handle me, how to make me completely unravel and feel perfectly safe all at once.

Jack’s lips are still on my nipples when he pulls back just slightly, his breath warm and steady against my cheek. His eyes search mine, filled with a mixture of playfulness and seriousness. “I want to eat you out,” he says, his voice low but certain.

I blink, the words catching me off guard for a moment. “Jack, you don’t—”

“I do,” he interrupts, his smile soft but resolute. “It might take a little more creativity these days, but I’ve had time to figure things out.”

My face heats at his words, but there’s no judgment in his gaze, no awkwardness. Just sincerity. I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Okay. How…?”

He shifts slightly, glancing down at his body. “We’re going to need to maneuver me a bit. My legs won’t help, obviously, but if you can move them, I can guide you.”

I hesitate for half a second, my brain catching on the practicalities before my hands move instinctively to his legs. They’re thin but solid beneath my touch, unyielding yet soft in the way I know paralyzed limbs can be. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“You won’t,” he assures me, his voice calm. “I’ll let you know if something’s off.”

I reposition his legs, tucking them to the side so he’s lying more comfortably on his back. His arms assist as much as they can, his wrists flicking to push against the bed and help him shift down slightly. The process is slow, deliberate, but not nearly as awkward as I thought it would be. It is… natural, like we’re working together instead of him relying on me entirely.

Once his legs are in place, I look down at him, my breath catching at the warmth in his eyes. “Now what?”

His grin returns, faint but mischievous. “Now, you just… sit on my face. Let me take care of you.”

I do as he says, crouching over him, my body tense with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Jack uses his arms to pull himself closer, the effort obvious but controlled. His strength surprises me—his shoulders and upper body moving with precision, even if the process isn’t as fluid as it might have been once.

He pauses when he’s close enough, his head level with my hips, and looks up at me, his grin softening. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I whisper, my heart racing. “I’m good.”

His lips trail against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and I shiver, my breath hitching. The care he takes, the focus in every movement, makes the moment intimate in a way I hadn’t expected. His hands rest lightly on my hips, his touch gentle but grounding, as he adjusts his position again, his arms steadying him.

The mechanics of it are different—there’s no rushing, no scrambling, just a slow, deliberate choreography of touch and trust. His body doesn’t move the way it used to, but his intent, his care, is exactly the same. As his lips and tongue find me, the awkwardness fades, replaced by a warmth that spreads through me, loosening every nerve, every doubt.

It’s not perfect, not seamless. His shoulders tire, and he shifts again, pausing briefly to catch his breath. I reach down instinctively, brushing my fingers against his hair. “You okay?” I ask softly.

He looks up, his grin faint but full of determination. “I’ve got you.”

And he does. The rhythm he finds is slow but steady, every movement purposeful, every touch making me the center of his world. I relax into it, letting myself get lost in the sensation, in him, until nothing else exists but the warmth of his face against my thighs. 

Jack moves with purpose, his lips and tongue exploring me with a patience and focus that takes my breath away. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t scramble or overdo anything. It’s deliberate, considerate, and completely attuned to me.

I arch slightly, my breath hitching, and his hands press gently against my hips, keeping me grounded without restricting me. His touch is soft but firm, in control of his own pace. He watches me carefully, his eyes flicking up to meet mine every so often, reading my reactions like a map he knows how to navigate.

Every movement is intentional, every kiss, every flick of his tongue designed to draw me deeper into the moment. He doesn’t miss a thing—the way my breath catches, the way my hands grip the headboard. He adjusts instantly, adapting without hesitation, his whole focus on what works best for me.

“Jack,” I whisper, my voice shaky as my body reacts to him, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

He pauses just long enough to glance up at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and warm.

“More than okay,” I manage, my hand brushing through his hair. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. His lips find me again, his tongue moving with an unrelenting, precise rhythm that is impossibly perfect. His shoulders shift occasionally, the strength in his upper body compensating for the stillness of his lower half. The effort doesn’t seem to faze him, though. If anything, it’s like he’s entirely in his element—focused solely on my pleasure, on making sure I cherish every ounce of the attention he’s pouring into me.

It’s not just physical, either. There’s a tenderness to the way he looks at me when I moan his name or reach for him, my body trembling under his touch. It is intimate, vulnerable in the best way, like he’s proving with every motion that this isn’t about what his body can or can’t do. It’s about us. 

About the way he knows me—my body, my heart—in ways no one else ever has.

When I finally come, my hands gripping the headboard as I gasp his name, his eyes never leave me. He stays with me through every wave, his touch grounding, steady, like he’s holding me in place while the rest of the world fades away.

When I come back down, my breath uneven and my body humming, he shifts slightly, leaning back just enough to look at me. His grin is soft, a little crooked, and utterly satisfied.

"That was... wow,” I whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He chuckles, low and warm, hooks his wrist around my neck and pulls me down to kiss me. I like tasting myself on his lips, always have, and of course, he remembered. 

As the quiet of the room settles over us, the intimacy of the moment lingers in the air, and I can’t help but let my eyes wander, taking him in.

His stomach is soft —a “quad gut,” I remember from my med school days, the natural result of paralysis. It doesn’t bother me. If anything, it’s just part of him, a detail in the landscape of a body I’m desperate to understand again.

When he shifts slightly, the sheet slips lower, and yeah, he’s nude beneath it. It makes sense—less chance of fabric causing pressure points or bunching up in uncomfortable ways. His dick is soft and limp between his legs. The small tube of a suprapubic catheter comes out of his lower belly, discreet and unobtrusive, just another piece of the puzzle that makes him who he is now. My mind clicks into clinical understanding first, recognizing it for what it is, but almost immediately, it’s overridden by something warmer, something deeply human: it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Jack catches the direction of my gaze, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady.

I look up, meeting his eyes. “Of course I am.”

His lips tilt into a faint smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know it’s… different.”

“It’s you,” I say softly, the weight of the words settling between us. “That’s all I care about.”

His hesitation melts away, his shoulders relaxing as his smile deepens. “You always knew how to say the right thing.”

I lean closer, my hand brushing against his chest. The line of his injury is clearly visible there, in the way muscle tone just disappears. His breath hitches slightly at the touch, and I see the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice low. “Can I…?”

He smiles at the question, his gaze meeting mine. There’s no awkwardness in the way he tilts his head, no hesitation in his answer. “You already are.”

I nod, understanding immediately. His body might not respond below the injury, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make him feel good. I run my tongue over his chest, hoping for a reaction. 

He moans a little and his grin widens. “That's a really good spot,” he says softly. “Or here.” He tilts his head, exposing the curve of his shoulder. “It’s different now, but those places? They still… work.”

I take the cue, leaning in to press my lips to the warm skin just below his ear. He exhales sharply, his body responding in a subtle but unmistakable way. My hands move to his shoulders, my thumbs brushing the base of his neck, and he groans quietly, the sound deep and low.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that.”

I explore him slowly, my lips tracing every inch of skin I can reach, my hands running down his arms, his chest, his neck. I focus on the places he reacts to—the shiver that runs through him when I kiss the hollow of his throat, the way his breath catches when my fingers brush through his hair. It’s different, but it’s no less intimate, no less intense.

It’s not just about what his body can or can’t do. It’s about the way he looks at me, the warmth in his smile, the way his voice drops when he whispers my name. It’s about knowing that this connection, this intimacy, isn’t confined to any one part of him. It’s all of him, and all of me, meeting in the middle.

“Ellie,” he breathes, his voice trembling slightly. “That’s… yeah. Oh god.”

His words spur me on, and I pour everything into him, wanting him to feel as completely cared for as he made me feel. Every sound he makes, every subtle shift in his breathing, is a victory, audible proof that his pleasure isn’t about what his body can or can’t do—it’s about the connection we share.

When I finally pull back, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright and full of something I can’t quite name. He looks at me like I’ve given him the world, and that's only fair because he’s done the same for me.

“Was that fun?,” I whisper, my hand resting lightly against his chest.

His lips curve into a soft, satisfied smile. “Yeah.”

"Good." I peck his nose, then I slip out of the bed as quietly as I can, the lingering heat of his touch still humming through me. My legs are a little shaky, and I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes as I catch my balance. 

Jack’s head tilts, his expression faintly smug.

“Good?” he asks, his voice low and warm, filled with that unmistakable satisfaction of someone who knows exactly how well they’ve done.

“Show off,” I say, but I’m smiling as I grab my bag and head to the bathroom. I hear his soft chuckle behind me, and it only makes me smile wider.

Inside, I take a moment to clean up, the hot water and soft towel a small reprieve as I process everything. My body is loose, languid, and more alive than it has in years. Jack was decent in bed when we were young, but now he's incredible—attentive, responsive, completely focused. I’ve never felt more cared for, more wanted.

On my way back to the bed, I grab a clean, damp washcloth from the sink. Jack’s reclining comfortably against the pillows, his arms resting lightly on his stomach, his face flushed and still a little damp. His lips are curved in that familiar, easy grin, but when he notices the washcloth in my hand, his brows lift.

“What’s that for?” he asks, his voice teasing but curious.

“For you,” I say simply, stepping closer. I hold it out to him, waiting for him to take it.

He blinks, clearly surprised. He uses his wrists to get his fingers to curl around the cloth, and for a moment, he just stares at it, then back up at me. “Thanks,” he says, his voice softer now.

I sit down on the edge of the bed as he lifts the cloth to his face, wiping away the last of my juices. His movements are steady, deliberate, and I notice the way his wrist flexes just enough to guide the cloth across his skin. When he’s done, he hands it back to me, his expression unreadable.

“Most girls just do it for me,” he says after a moment, his tone casual but weighted.

I shrug, resting my hand lightly on his leg. “I figured you could handle it.”

His lips twitch into a smile, and his gaze softens. “Thanks for that.”

I smile back, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re welcome.”

The unspoken understanding between us lingers as I settle back into the bed beside him, the washcloth forgotten but the moment etched into both of us. It’s not about grand gestures or words; it’s about the quiet ways we see and respect each other for exactly who we are.

“So,” I say softly, breaking the silence. “What happens now?”

Jack’s lips quirk into a faint smile, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty there. “What do you want to happen?”

I let out a breath, leaning back against the headboard as I look at him. “I don’t know. This was… unexpected.”

“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?” he asks, teasing but not dismissive.

“Good,” I say firmly, meeting his eyes. “Really good.”

His smile deepens, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He shifts slightly against the pillows, his hand resting on his stomach as he watches me, as though weighing his next words carefully.

“I’ve got two weeks left on this road trip,” he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. “Connor and I are heading toward the coast, taking our time.”

“Where next?” I ask, my tone equally soft.

“Not sure yet,” he admits. “We’ve been playing it by ear. That’s kind of the point.”

I nod, the wheels in my mind turning. Two weeks. A stretch of time, but also not much at all.

“What about you?” he asks, his voice dipping lower. “How long are you on the road?”

“A week,” I say. “I’ve been driving in loops, no real destination.”

The silence stretches again, not uncomfortable but full of possibilities. I expect the question before he says it, but when he does, it still takes my breath away.

“Do you want to meet up again?” he asks, his tone casual but the look in his eyes anything but.

I hesitate, not because I don’t want to but because the idea of opening this door again is bigger than anything I expected. 

“Yeah,” I say finally, my voice steady. “I do.”

His smile is warm, genuine, and it lights something in my chest. “Then let’s figure it out," he says. "Maybe somewhere with less rain this time. Still moist, though.”

I laugh, and I kiss him again. 

THE END 

Hi everyone! I'm Cloudy :)

This one was already posted on another platform as a prompt fill for EJ, who has graciously allowed me to re-post the story here on the blog. She prompted: "This is pretty nebulous, but what about something with exes that end up stranded somewhere (and of course reconnect?). I had the idea written down in my own ideas folder (heehee) as being stranded on a road trip, but it could be anywhere!!"

She later specified that a mid-level quad as the love interest would be nice. Here's my thought process as I wrote the story:

My mind went straight away to the video of a song called Bruises, by Train ft Ashley Monroe. That chill vibe of two lovers reuniting, chatting about old times. Bruises...yes, a spinal cord contusion. Something outdoors-y. Mountain biking? Good. A friend named Johnny B is ripped straight from the song lyrics.

And she has two kids, is divorced, like in the song, but I wanted something mellow, grown ups dealing with their life in a grown up fashion. You should know that I do love tropes - and "only one bed at the inn" is such a classic. Honestly, please, nobody be mean to me if that's not how grindr works, okay! I'm but a girl, standing in front of the internet, confessing she's too lazy to do any research. The rest came together fairly easily. I hope it came across loud and clear that Jack in himself is a walking rolling green flag, and Ellie would have been safe with him, either way. The title came from the lyrics of the song, which in turn gave me all the "walking through a door" moments in the story. I'm not 100 % happy with the ending, but it was nearing the end of the time slot I'd given myself, so it is what it is.