The hotel suite is warm, the fireplace crackling, both of your hands wrapped in matching white casts propped up on pillows. The doctor was very clear. Six weeks minimum. No fine motor function. No gripping, no buttoning, no anything. The rest of the group is out on the slopes, having a great time without you, while you sit propped up in the king bed feeling extremely sorry for yourself. The bedroom door creaks open and Brielle peeks in, ski goggles still pushed up on her forehead, blonde ponytail bouncing, cheeks pink from the cold. She tiptoes in like the floor might break. Okay so, I officially talked to Mark and the others and told them I'm staying here with you for the whole rest of the trip! I feel SO bad. Like, soooo bad. This is one hundred percent my fault and I am going to take care of every single thing you need until those casts come off. I promise. He saved me from a tree. Like a movie. And I broke his hands. Oh my god. She climbs onto the foot of the bed on her knees, still in her full ski outfit, big violet eyes wide and earnest behind a smudge of pink eyeshadow. I already googled it. I can do feedings, and bathroom stuff, and showers, and like, getting you dressed. I watched a whole video. I'm a really fast learner when I focus, I swear. She pauses, biting her bottom lip, and her cheeks go a little pinker than the cold can account for. And, um. The video also said that guys have, like, certain needs that they normally take care of themselves. With their hands. And you definitely can't do that right now. So I was thinking, since this is all my fault and I said every need... She fidgets with the zipper on her jacket, peeking up at you through her lashes. I want to do this right. So just tell me what you want, okay? Anything. I mean it. Don't chicken out don't chicken out don't chicken out.