I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 28: The Days of Slow Healing

The next few days passed in a slow, quiet rhythm. Time was measured by the changing light at the edges of the heavy curtains, by the arrival of meals on trays, and by Master Arlen’s visits.

Abel never left.

He slept in the bed beside Orion, his big body curled protectively around him. He woke first, always. Orion would drift into consciousness to find Abel already awake, propped up on one elbow, just watching him. His eyes would scan Orion’s face, checking.

”Good morning,” Abel would whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break something.

”Morning,” Orion would croak back, his voice always rough from sleep and injury.

Then the routine would begin.

Abel would climb out of bed with exaggerated care. He would pad over to the door where a maid had left a basin of warm water and fresh cloths. He’d bring it all back, setting it on the bedside table with the concentration of a scholar performing a delicate experiment.

”Master Arlen says to keep you clean,” Abel would say, dipping a cloth in the water. He’d wring it out, then, with a touch so gentle it was almost ticklish, he’d wipe Orion’s face. His forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He was terribly focused, his tongue caught between his teeth. He’d even carefully wipe Orion’s hands, finger by finger.

Orion, who had spent a lifetime being ignored or ordered around, found himself utterly disarmed by this meticulous, silent care. He couldn’t protest. It meant too much to Abel.

After the washing, came the food. Abel had declared himself in charge of all meals. He would take the tray from the maid at the door, carry it over, and sit on the edge of the bed.

”Broth today,” he’d announce, lifting the lid. ”And soft bread. You have to eat it all. For strength.”

He’d lift the spoon himself. At first, Orion tried to take it. ”I can feed myself, Abel.”

Abel had just looked at him, the spoon held firmly. ”But your head hurts when you move it. And I want to help. Please?”

How do you argue with that? Orion gave in.

So Abel would feed him, spoonful by spoonful. He’d blow on the broth first to cool it. He’d break the bread into tiny, manageable pieces. He watched Orion’s throat as he swallowed, as if making sure each bite went down safely.

Sometimes, when the broth was finished, Abel would produce a surprise. A single, perfect strawberry from the greenhouse. A small honey cake saved from his own dessert. ”For being good,” he’d say, placing it in Orion’s hand.

The pain was a constant companion, but it slowly changed. The sharp, blinding agony softened into a persistent, heavy ache. The dizziness came in waves, less frequent each day. Master Arlen was pleased with his progress, but firm. ”No sitting up fully yet. No reading. Rest is still your medicine.”

Resting was easier with Abel there.

When Orion was awake, Abel talked. He didn’t need much prompting. He’d tell long, rambling stories about things he’d seen from the window. A bird building a nest. A gardener arguing with a rabbit. The way the clouds looked like different animals.

”That one looks like a grumpy cat,” Abel said one afternoon, pointing at a vague shape through the crack in the curtains. ”See its puffy tail?”

Orion squinted. ”I think I see it.”

”It’s definitely a cat,” Abel insisted, nodding. He was lying on his back beside Orion, their shoulders touching. ”Maybe it’s the kitchen cat’s father. The one who lives on the roof.”

Other times, Abel would bring things to the bed. Not toys, but treasures. A smooth, grey stone he’d found in the garden path years ago. A feather from a bluejay. A pressed flower from some forgotten book. He’d lay them on the blanket between them and tell their stories, which were mostly made up on the spot.

”This stone is very brave. It once stopped a carriage wheel from rolling into a ditch. It’s retired now.”

Orion would listen, a small smile on his face, the stories a pleasant distraction from the monotony of the ceiling.

The best moments were the quiet ones. When the talking stopped, and they just existed together. Abel would often reach over and take Orion’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He’d hold it against his own chest, over his heart.

”Your hand is getting warmer,” he’d comment one day.

”Is that good?” Orion asked.

”Very good. Cold hands are sad hands.” Abel said it with absolute certainty.

Sometimes, in the deep quiet of the night, Orion would jerk awake from a hazy dream of falling. A gasp would catch in his throat. Before the panic could fully set in, Abel’s arms would tighten around him. A sleepy mumble would come from the darkness.

”Shhh. I’m here. You’re safe. Ground’s right here. Not falling.”

And Orion would believe him. He’d match his breathing to Abel’s deep, steady rhythm, and fall back asleep.

On the third day, Orion felt a little stronger. The room didn’t spin when Abel helped him prop up against a mountain of pillows.

Abel beamed. ”Look at you! Sitting!”

”Barely,” Orion said, but he smiled back.

That afternoon, Abel decided Orion needed entertainment. He disappeared for ten minutes and came back with his wooden horse. Not the repaired one from the reception, but his favorite, the old one with the chipped ear.

He sat cross-legged on the bed at Orion’s feet. He made the horse trot along the hills and valleys of the blankets. He made little clopping sounds with his tongue. He had the horse ”talk” to Orion’s knee.

”Sir Knee, you are a very tall mountain today. Very impressive.”

Orion laughed, a real laugh, and immediately winced. ”Don’t make me laugh, it hurts my head.”

Abel’s face fell. ”Oh. Sorry.” He made the horse bow apologetically. ”Sir Knee, I have caused distress. I am a clumsy horse.”

That almost set Orion off again. He covered his mouth, his shoulders shaking silently.

Seeing this, Abel’s eyes lit up. He liked making Orion laugh, even if it hurt a little. He began a quieter, more elaborate play with the horse, involving a heroic quest to steal a sugar cube from a fearsome pillow-fort dragon. He narrated in a hushed, dramatic whisper, glancing up at Orion every few seconds to check his reaction.

It was ridiculous. It was wonderful.

On the fourth day, Master Arlen allowed Orion to be helped to the armchair by the fireplace for one hour. It was a major expedition. Abel was a fortress of support, his arm solid around Orion’s waist, taking every slow step with him.

Sitting in the chair, wrapped in a blanket, looking at the fire instead of the canopy, felt like a taste of freedom. Abel dragged his own chair so close their knees touched. He didn’t talk much. He just sat there, holding Orion’s hand, watching the flames dance. A look of profound peace was on his face.

”This is nice,” Abel said softly.

”It is,” Orion agreed. The simple act of being out of bed, with Abel beside him, felt like a celebration.

That evening, back in bed, Abel grew thoughtful. He played with the edge of Orion’s blanket, folding and unfolding it.

”Ashford is still in his rooms,” he said quietly. He didn’t look at Orion when he said it.

Orion had been wondering. The household had been silent on the matter. ”Did your father say anything?”

Abel shook his head. ”He came to see you yesterday. When you were sleeping. He stood there for a long time. He looked... old.” Abel frowned. ”He didn’t say anything to me. He just looked at you and then left.”

Orion processed that. The Duke was weighing his decision. The tension was a ghost in the house, waiting in the halls.

”Are you scared of him?” Abel asked suddenly. ”Of Ashford?”

Orion thought about it. The shove, the hate in Ashford’s eyes, the marble rushing up to meet him. ”Yes,” he admitted. It felt good to say it aloud. ”A little.”

Abel nodded, as if this made perfect sense. He finally looked at Orion, his expression serious. ”Me too. Sometimes. But not as much as I was scared when you fell.” He reached out and touched Orion’s cheek, his thumb stroking just below the fading bruise on his jawline. ”That was the worst scare. So Ashford-scare is... smaller.”

The logic was pure Abel. Fear was measured by what it threatened. Ashford threatened pain. But seeing Orion fall had threatened something Abel valued infinitely more.

”You protect me from the stairs,” Orion said. ”I’ll protect you from the Ashford-scares. Deal?”

A slow, sweet smile spread across Abel’s face. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Orion’s forehead, right above his eyebrow. ”Deal.”

On the fifth morning, Orion woke to an empty bed. For a panicked second, he felt cold. Then he heard a soft clinking sound from near the fireplace.

He turned his head—the movement only caused a faint twinge now—and saw Abel. He was on the floor, surrounded by cushions from the armchair. He had a small tray. On it were two cups, a teapot, a little jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar cubes. He was pouring tea with intense concentration, his tongue peeking out again.

”Abel? What are you doing?”

Abel looked up, his face lighting up. ”You’re awake! I’m making tea. For our date.”

”Our... date?”

”Yes. We’re having it here. In bed. Because you can’t go to the meadow yet.” He finished pouring, carefully added a splash of milk and two sugar cubes to one cup, and stirred. Then he picked up the tray and brought it over, setting it on the bed. He climbed up and sat facing Orion, cross-legged.

”See? We have tea. And I asked cook for biscuits.” He pointed to a small plate with two butter cookies. ”And we’re together. And we can talk. That’s a date, Millie said. Being together on purpose.”

Orion’s heart felt too full for his chest. He looked at the clumsily poured tea, the cookies, Abel’s hopeful, earnest face.

”It’s a perfect date,” Orion whispered.

Abel grinned, handing him his cup. ”Be careful, it’s hot.”

They drank their tea. They ate the biscuits. They talked about nothing important—whether Angel missed them, if the grumpy cloud-cat ever came back, what kind of flowers might be blooming in the south meadow now.

And when the tea was gone, Abel didn’t ask. He just leaned across the tray and kissed him. It tasted of sugar and warmth and home.

The recovery was slow. The world outside their room was uncertain and threatening. But inside, for those few days, Orion learned what it felt like to be cherished. Not as a duty, not as a replacement, not as a strategic alliance.

But simply as Orion.

And Abel, in turn, learned that he wasn’t useless. He had a most important job: being the wall between his husband and the world, the keeper of the quiet, the pourer of tea, the chaser of bad dreams. And he was exceptionally good at it.