Chapter 5: Building a Home

For the first time in my twenty-seven years, I blushed—on my wedding night.

Natalie’s gaze was sharp. First, she stared at my wheelchair with fascination, fiddling with the gears, then her eyes dropped to my legs.

Having her look at me like that, my face felt like it was on fire.

She looked regretful. "Guess it’s no big deal—even if you can’t, you’re still the hottest guy I know!"

She actually said something that bold.

I didn’t know why, but something stirred in my chest.

In twenty-seven years, no one had ever called me handsome.

Shouldn’t it be ‘intimidating’?

And besides, it’s not that I can’t—it’s just that...

Forget it, she’s still young, her whole life ahead—no need to get hung up on me.

Let her believe what she wants.

So I smiled helplessly. "Sorry you got stuck with me, I..."

She waved her hand. "I’m not stuck! You’re the one who got the short end of the stick—with your build, if you weren’t hurt, you could probably carry five sacks of potatoes at once. My family’s harvest is coming up soon..."

Her voice was playful, almost daring, the kind that could lighten up a room full of grumpy uncles on Thanksgiving.

Every time I tried to talk, I felt out of breath.

Natalie’s way of talking is really... something else.

The wedding night should’ve been romantic.

But she said I couldn’t be a man, then dragged me off to tinker with the wheelchair together.

Natalie, now in sweats, sprawled on the couch, blueprints scattered everywhere, excitedly talking through how to improve the chair.

The couch was old, the kind with faded plaid cushions, and the coffee table was littered with tools and half-finished mugs of cocoa. The lamp on the coffee table was the only light, shining on her ink-stained fingers as she mapped out gears and levers. Eventually, she crashed on the couch, ink smudges on her cheek, fast asleep.

I shook my head, smiling, and gently wiped her face clean.

Listening to her mumbling in her sleep:

"Come home... the one who went off to war has come home!"

My heart twisted, my thoughts a mess.

Just then, the housekeeper slipped in quietly.

She glanced at Natalie, then at me, and said gently, "Colonel, you need to keep up with your therapy. The doctor’s been waiting."

I pressed my leg, which spasmed with pain, and smiled. "Just now, listening to Natalie talk, I didn’t even notice the pain."

The housekeeper pushed me out, and since she’d worked for my mother, there was a hint of scolding in her voice. She gave me that look—part mom, part drill sergeant—that only someone from the old neighborhood could pull off. "Natalie’s still just a kid at heart, talks a mile a minute. You need to take care of yourself."

She tugged my jacket closed, the way only someone who’s known you since you were a child would dare. "It’s alright. I like listening to her."

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t dread the next morning.