The Missing Pattern

Fragile Chains Part 24

Calvin turned his attention back to me, his expression unreadable. "Dinner," he said simply, gesturing to the table where he'd already set out plates.

Here he goes again he picked me up and sitting me in a chair. The food looked fine—home-cooked, even—but my appetite was nonexistent. I picked at the edges of the meal, pushing pieces of chicken around my plate like a child avoiding their vegetables. Calvin didn't say a word, just watched me with those dark, unwavering eyes.

"You're not going to nag me about eating?" I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "What's the point? You'll eat when you're ready. Or you won't."

The nonchalance in his voice grated against my nerves, but I didn't have the energy to fight. I forced a few bites down, just enough to appease him, then shoved the plate away. Calvin stood without a word, clearing the table with the same quiet efficiency he always carried. His calmness was infuriating, like he wasn't as worn down by all of this as I was.

When he returned, he handed me my meds—a cocktail of pills meant to dull the pain and keep me tethered to this recovery. I swallowed them reluctantly, the bitterness clinging to my tongue long after they were gone.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked, his tone neutral.

"No," I muttered, already feeling the fog of the medication creeping in.

I sank back into the couch, the world around me fading into a restless blur. Sleep came, but it wasn't peaceful. My dreams were fragments of the warehouse, the girls' faces flashing in and out of the darkness, and the sharp crack of gunfire that still echoed in my ears.

Day Three

I woke groggily to find Calvin lying next to me. His presence was both a comfort and a frustration. He wasn't touching me, but his proximity was enough to remind me that I was tethered to him—for now.

"Morning, Harper," he said, his voice clipped.

I frowned. He was back to calling me by my last name. Something had shifted. I hadn't done anything to earn his ire, so why the cold shoulder now?

"The Bureau's shrink will be here at 10 a.m.," Calvin announced. "Anger management at 1. After lunch."

He stood without waiting for a response, pulling out a set of clothes for me. Before I could protest, he was lifting me into the bathroom, setting me on the edge of the tub. His hands were careful but detached, his silence unnerving.

"I'll make breakfast," he said, leaving me to stew in my own thoughts.

He moved without a word, pulling out a set of clothes and draping them over his arm. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could get a syllable out, he was already lifting me, his grip firm and efficient, cradling me like dead weight. My pride burned hotter than the ache in my ribs, but I bit my tongue. For now.

He set me on the edge of the tub, his movements precise and almost clinical, like I was just another task he needed to check off his list. His hands worked with the care of someone who knew their strength but wasn't offering gentleness. Not really. The silence between us was heavy, loaded with unspoken tension. He didn't even look at me.

"I'll make breakfast," he said, his tone cool, already stepping out of the bathroom and leaving me there, stewing in my own bitterness.

The sound of his footsteps faded, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I stared at the tiles, my jaw tight. It wasn't just the pain or the frustration of being helpless—it was *him*. Calvin, always the rock, always the control. I hated how much I relied on him. Hated how easily he carried my burdens while barely showing the strain.

When he came back, the smell of food trailed behind him, but he didn't acknowledge my glare as he crouched in front of me, his focus entirely on the task. He cleaned my wound with precision, his hands steady but devoid of warmth. It wasn't kindness—it was obligation. That realization twisted something sharp in my chest.

Without a word, he helped me into the clothes he'd chosen, lifting me again with the same detached ease. He carried me back to the sofa, laying me down like a piece of fragile glass.

On the coffee table, breakfast was already waiting: toast, eggs, bacon, and a glass of orange juice.

"No coffee?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife. My glare could've melted steel, but Calvin didn't flinch.

"You don't need the energy right now," he said bluntly.

The shrink arrived shortly after breakfast. Calvin stepped out, leaving me alone with the Bureau-mandated therapist. She probed at wounds I wasn't ready to face, asking questions that made my skin crawl.

"How do you feel about what happened in the warehouse?"

"Do you think your anger comes from deeper, unresolved issues?"

The questions blurred together until I wanted to scream. But I stayed silent, letting her pry and scribble in her notebook until she was satisfied. When she left, it felt like hours before the next intrusion.

Anger management.

The woman who entered seemed oblivious to the storm brewing beneath my skin. She spoke of techniques to "process anger constructively," her words laced with an optimism I couldn't match. I bit my tongue through most of it, knowing Calvin was probably lurking just out of earshot.

By late evening, I was drained. Calvin gave me my meds, easing the pain just enough for me to work through my physical therapy. It was hell. Every stretch, every bend of my arm sent fire coursing through my veins, but Calvin's hands were steady, guiding me through the motions without a hint of hesitation. Not to mention all the pain from the fighting and boom blast.

When it was over, I collapsed against the bed, my body trembling from the effort. Calvin sat beside me, his expression unreadable.

We talked, briefly—about nothing and everything. It was the first time all day he seemed to soften. Eventually, exhaustion overtook us both, and we drifted off to sleep.