"You live here?" Cindy asked, spinning her wheelchair in a slow circle in the middle of the foyer. Her fingers tapped lightly on the push rims as she looked up at the ceiling—vaulted, pale oak beams, skylight open to the spring light. "Like... this is your actual house?"

Harry wheeled himself past her with a lazy shrug. "Yeah."

The marble beneath his wheels was smooth—too smooth—and part of him still felt like a visitor in his own space. Like the house had waited for someone else to come back from the hospital. Not... this version of him.

Cindy whistled. "Unbelievable. You've got money, and yet here I am, dragging my ass to physio like a peasant."

"You want to trade?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Take the cash, but also take the spine trauma?"

She squinted, playfully serious. "Tempting. But no. Your therapist's too hot for me to concentrate."

Harry barked out a laugh. "You're the worst."

"You invited me, rockstar," she reminded him, expertly rolling after him with the slight hiss of tires across polished floors. "Don't act surprised."

It was the first time he'd invited anyone over since the accident. Not counting family. Not counting the endless procession of nurses, physios, doctors, case managers. This was different. A friend. A proper guest.

And, yeah. It felt weird.

But good.

"Kitchen's that way," he nodded. "And the fridge has your name on it. I stocked it."

Cindy's eyes lit up like she'd won the lottery. "Tell me there's cheesecake."

"There's three."

She gasped. "I take back everything bad I've ever said about you."

"Doubt that," he said, pushing forward.

They moved through the house like they were exploring a museum—Cindy marveling at the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, the curved staircase that now had a stairlift Harry refused to use unless he had to, and the music room with its soundproof walls and untouched piano.

Cindy wheeled through the rooms with ease, her arms strong and practiced. They both understood this way of moving now—half upper-body strength, half balance, all stubbornness.

"Your backyard has a koi pond," she muttered as they passed the glass doors. "That's how I know you've made it."

Harry smirked. "There used to be two koi. One disappeared."

"I bet the other one ate it. That's rich-people fish drama."

They turned into the hallway that led to the garage. Cindy stopped just outside the den, craning her neck to look down the long corridor lined with framed black-and-white photos—Harry in various moments of his career, with fans, onstage, laughing, sweaty, arms open wide.

"You really don't need to get better, do you?" she muttered. "You could live your whole life right here, in this marble and mahogany temple of privilege."

Harry gave a crooked smile. "You think this is excessive? You haven't even seen the walk-in fridge."

"Oh my God."

He reached for the panel on the wall and tapped the button to open the garage. The overhead lights flickered to life.

And that's when he stopped laughing.

His hands, resting on his wheels, stilled.

Cindy followed his gaze, brow furrowing.

In the far corner, half-covered by a canvas tarp that had sagged with time, sat the motorcycle.

Sleek. Matte black. Silent. Its surfaces dulled by dust. The right mirror was cracked. The front fender scraped. Dried mud clung to the tires like dried blood.

The silence fell fast and thick.

Harry's throat tightened.

Cindy wheeled forward slowly, her voice softer now. "Is that...?"

He nodded.

The memory hit like wind through a cracked window.

A turn on a country road.

Too fast.

A squirrel—of all things—darting out into the lane.

He remembered jerking the handlebars.

The blur of trees.

The sound of gravel hitting metal like bullets.

And then... silence.

Just the white flash of sky and ground switching places, and the sickening moment when he realized he wasn't going to land on his feet.

He'd woken up two days later in a hospital bed. Tubes in his arms. A brace on his back. His mum crying silently beside him, trying not to be noticed.

He could still remember the first time he tried to move his toes.

Nothing.

Cindy lifted the edge of the tarp gently and looked at the bike. "It's barely scratched."

"Yeah," he said. "I got most of the damage."

She looked at him, her voice tight. "Jesus, Harry."

"I know."

He let out a slow breath and stared down at his knees.

"It was a good ride," he said quietly. "Clear skies. Empty road. I was playing some old Stones song through the helmet speaker. Everything was fine. Just a turn I didn't see coming."

"And that was it?"

He nodded again. "Woke up two days later. Couldn't feel my legs."

She let the tarp fall back into place. It landed with a dull thud.

"I don't know how you don't burn it."

Harry didn't answer right away.

"Sometimes I want to," he admitted. "I imagine rolling it into a fire pit. Or just smashing it with a sledgehammer. But other times... I don't know. It feels like if I destroy it, then I'm agreeing it beat me. Like I'm giving it the win."

Cindy didn't speak. She reached out and touched his arm—solid, grounding. Her palm warm against his wrist for just a second.

Then she turned. "Come on. Movie night waits for no man."

Ten minutes later, they were in the living room. Cindy had claimed the prime real estate on the sectional, draped in one of the fluffiest throws Harry owned, a giant bowl of popcorn in her lap.

"Okay," she said, patting the space beside her. "I have a surprise."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What now?"

She grinned like she was about to commit a crime. "I invited someone."

He froze halfway to parking beside the sofa. "What?"

"She should be here any minute."

"Cindy—"

"Don't worry, you'll like her," she said, her eyes glinting with triumph. "You might even blush."

His stomach dropped. "No."

"Yup."

"No."

"Yup."

"Cindy—"

The doorbell rang, and Cindy's face lit up like it was Christmas morning.

"Oh! That's her."

Harry blinked. "Cindy—"

She was already spinning toward the door. "Play it cool, H. Don't look so panicked. You look like someone just told you the internet's down."

He opened his mouth to argue, but it was too late.

The door swung open.

And there she was.

Christina stood in the entryway, a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a slightly confused smile on her face. She looked casual—black leggings, oversized jumper, a high ponytail, and no trace of the usual clinical mask she wore during their sessions. But there was hesitation in her posture, a flicker in her expression when she spotted Harry.

"Oh," she said, smile faltering for a moment. "Hey."

Harry wheeled forward instinctively. "Hi."

Christina looked from him to Cindy, brows pulling together slightly. "You didn't tell him I was coming?"

Cindy, completely unfazed, gasped in mock horror. "No. To my defence he did say mi casa su casa something!"

"Cindy—" Harry started, but she waved him off.

Christina gave a short, awkward laugh. "Harry, is it OK that I am here?" She felt a bit awkward that he did not know, that he hadn't actually invited her himself.

"of course he is OK! Come in. We've got three kinds of popcorn, a questionable amount of fizzy drinks, and a couch that could seat a small army."

Harry watched as Christina stepped inside, slowly, looking around the living room like she wasn't sure where to put her hands.

"This place is incredible," she said, her eyes skating over the high ceilings and warm lights.

"Yeah," Cindy chimed in, "and I already told him he doesn't need to recover. He could just live out his days in here watching his koi fish duel to the death."

Christina blinked. "His what?"

"Koi pond. Back garden. Full-on gladiator arena."

Harry groaned. "I let her in once."

Christina laughed, the tension easing slightly as she dropped her bag near the sofa.

"Okay," Cindy said, wheeling toward the shelf of DVDs like she owned the place. "Time to pick a masterpiece."

"I think the guest should decide," Harry offered, glancing toward Christina.

"I'm a guest," Cindy protested.

"You weren't ambushed, she was." Harry pointed out.

Christina gave a half-smile, stepping closer to the shelf. "Polite and charming. That's new."

Cindy shot Harry a smirk. "Don't get used to it."

Christina scanned the titles, her fingers grazing the spines. After a moment, she pulled one out, turning it over in her hands. The Fundamentals of Caring.

"This one," she said, holding it up. "It's one of my favourites."

Harry blinked at the cover. "Really?"

"Really," she replied, her tone quiet but certain.

Cindy laughed dramatically. "Great choice."

Just then, her phone pinged with a sharp chime. She groaned.

"Oh, come on," she muttered, checking the screen. "My dad's downstairs. Early. Again. I told him to text when he was five minutes out—this man operates on a completely different dimension of time."

"You're leaving already?" Harry asked, brows lifting.

"Trust me," Cindy sighed, rolling toward the hallway, "if I make him loop the block twice, he'll start looking for a new daughter on Facebook Marketplace."

Christina laughed softly, easing the awkward tension hanging in the room.

Cindy turned in the doorway, pointing dramatically between them. "Play nice. No making out unless there's popcorn between your faces. I don't want to miss anything cinematic."

"Cindy," Harry groaned.

"Bye!" she sing-songed and disappeared, the sound of her wheels fading down the hall.

And then it was quiet.

Just him and Christina.

He motioned toward the sofa. "Still want to watch?"

"I'd love to."

She sat first, curling her legs up neatly. He followed, shifting from his wheelchair onto the cushions with slow precision. It was the first time they'd ever sat side by side without wheels beneath either of them. Just soft fabric. Even ground.

The difference felt... noticeable.

He grabbed the popcorn bowl from the coffee table and settled it between them. "Truce?"

Christina raised an eyebrow. "From what?"

"From you being in control during therapy and me pretending not to mind."

She smiled. "Truce."

They hit play.

The opening credits rolled, the light from the screen washing over their faces. For a while, there was only the quiet sound of popcorn rustling and the occasional chuckle from Christina at a line she'd clearly heard before.

Harry, though, was starting to stiffen.

He shifted in his seat.

His fingers tapped against the edge of the bowl.

The boy in the movie—confined to his chair, sarcastic, guarded—was hitting a little too close to home.

By the time the boy made his first bleak joke about not needing to be alive, Harry's jaw was tight.

He felt Christina's eyes on him before he turned to look.

"You okay?" she asked gently.

He hesitated, then nodded once. "Yeah. It's just..."

"I know," she said, her voice quiet. "It's a hard one."

He shifted again. "I don't know if I want to relate to a character who makes jokes to hide how broken he is."

She was silent for a moment. Then:

"He won't get better, Harry. His condition is permanent. But he keeps going. He lets people in. He tries. That's why I like it."

Harry looked at the screen, where the character in question was wheeling away from an awkward conversation, clearly shutting down.

"And you think that's supposed to inspire me?"

"No," she said, more softly now. "I think it's meant to remind you."

He turned back to her.

"To remind me of what?"

"That trying matters," she said. "Even on the days when it doesn't feel like it's enough."

He didn't answer.

But he didn't pull away either when she shifted closer, just slightly, enough that their arms brushed.

Her presence was warm. Grounding. Steady.

And then, without thinking, he dipped his hand into the popcorn at the same time she did. Their fingers touched.

She didn't move hers away right away.

Neither did he.

Their eyes met—quietly. Something flickered. Familiar. New.

The sound of a door opening made them jump apart like teenagers.

"Harry?" Anne's voice called. "I brought pizza! Hope I'm not interrupting."

Christina blinked, then cleared her throat, sitting upright. "Not at all."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Perfect timing."

Anne popped her head in with a bright smile. "Cheesy crust for my favourite patient—and company, I see. Lovely to see you, Christina!"

"You too, Mrs. Twist," she replied warmly.

Harry glanced at Christina as Anne ducked back out.

That moment—whatever it had been—had evaporated like steam off glass.

But its warmth lingered.

Just a little.