THE MAN BEHIND THE ORDERS

I returned that afternoon with Wes's backpack, a bag of groceries, and the uncomfortable knowledge that I wanted to be there.

My brother had spent the morning studying me. First, he asked whether I was sick. Then whether someone had been mean to me. He relaxed only when June announced they were making pancakes for dinner.

"You can go to work," he informed me. "But tomorrow I want to see the apartment."

Now Rafael and two other men rose from Nico's living room as I came in. One held a folder on his knees. The other had been looking at a laptop.

"You don't have to stop on my account," I said.

"I've been waiting for you," Nico replied. "I bought coffee. It needs a professional assessment."

I raised the grocery bag.

"So did I. I didn't trust your track record."

The man with the folder smiled. Nico pointed at him.

"Patrick, my attorney. He has no sense of humor, but he enjoys it when people insult me."

"You make both things very easy," Patrick said.

I put the groceries away and heard the meeting from the kitchen. Nico wanted access logs for his medical records, old authorizations revoked, and reports from the companies he still managed. He didn't raise his voice. When one man talked around a question, he waited until the explanation ended, then asked the original question again.

I knew the man who complained about shower chairs and pretended he didn't need a break during exercises. This other man, the one who could make three adults consider every word, caught my attention in a different way.

After they left, he found me looking.

"What?"

"You can be polite when you want to."

"Don't tell anyone. It will ruin my reputation."

Over the next few days, the apartment acquired food, a visiting schedule, and Wes's jacket abandoned over a chair. Test results supported further investigation into substances and administrations that didn't match the records given to the new team. Mercer explained that any medication changes would be supervised. No abrupt improvisations, no promises about what they would mean for the spinal injury.

I saw Nico's relief at being taken seriously. I saw the anger that followed, too.

One evening, during a painful spell, he knocked a glass down while reaching for the table. When I approached, he pushed my hand away.

"I can get it."

"There's broken glass on the floor."

"I can see that. My eyes still work."

I stopped. I was exhausted, worried about a call from Wes's clinic, and unwilling to be treated as the enemy.

"You can be angry. You can't speak to me like that."

He turned his face away.

I swept up the glass and left a bottle of water within his reach. Then I went to the kitchen. I didn't slam anything, which required considerable restraint.

A few minutes later, I heard his chair in the doorway.

"May I come in?"

"It's your kitchen."

"I'm trying not to make this worse."

I folded my arms.

He drew a breath.

"I'm sorry. You didn't treat me as though I was incapable. I answered as though you had."

The honesty disarmed me more than an excuse would have.

"I need you to tell me what hurts. I don't need you to be pleasant every minute."

"My hip. My back. And that goddamn table I should have had moved on Tuesday."

I nodded.

"We can fix at least one of those right now."

We repositioned the table. After we'd followed his care plan, he stayed in the kitchen while I made sandwiches.

"When you came over, I thought you'd decide it was easier to hand me everything," he said. "Tomorrow it would be the table. Then my phone calls. That's how it started at my father's house."

I put down the knife.

"I can ask before helping. I need you to believe me when I say I don't want to run your life."

"You give a lot of orders."

"Only when you lie about having eaten lunch."

He looked at his plate.

"It was a large coffee."

I laughed before I could help it.

We ate near the window. He told me his grandmother had taught him to cook, and laziness had helped him forget. I admitted I kept bills sorted by due date in a dedicated drawer but could never find matching socks.

"You're too young for a bill drawer," he said.

"The bills didn't ask my age."

His smile faded a little.

"How long has it been just you and the boy?"

"Since my mother died. I was twenty. Wes was a baby. Our father was already out of the picture."

Nico didn't offer an easy sentence. He stayed while I explained finishing my training with June's help, working nights, and the way I still sometimes startled when a teacher referred to me as a legal guardian.

"You don't have to tell me everything today," he said.

I looked down at my half-eaten sandwich.

"I know. I think I wanted to tell you some of it."

He waited. I liked that more than I should have.

As we gathered the plates, his hand brushed mine. Neither of us moved away immediately.

"What's his full name?" he asked.

"Wesley Marsh. He only answers to Wesley when he's in trouble."

"Does he still think I'm grumpy?"

"He hasn't seen any evidence to the contrary."

Nico smiled properly. I watched for a second too long.