Chapter 3: The Hoyer Lift
The master bathroom was larger than my entire living room, lined with white marble and frosted glass that diffused the gray morning light. Julian maneuvered his chair expertly beside a specialized mechanical Hoyer lift that sat dormant in the corner. The sight of the metal straps and hydraulic arm made my stomach tighten. I had read manuals, but theory and practice were two entirely different beasts.
"I know how it works," I muttered, mostly to convince myself as I stepped forward to lock the wheels of his chair.
"Show me," Julian replied flatly. He didn't offer instructions, nor did he display any anxiety. He simply sat back against the headrest, resting his hands on the arm controls with an air of detached observation.
Working with the straps required a delicate physical proximity that neither of us had prepared for. When I reached around his torso to secure the under-arm sling, I felt the rigid tension in his muscles. His dark gray shirt was warm against my knuckles, and for a fleeting second, the clinical sterile smell of the mansion was replaced by the faint scent of cedar and clean soap.
"Lift slow," I instructed quietly, my fingers brushing the keypad on the sling's harness.
The motor whined to life, lifting him slowly out of the black motorized wheelchair. As his weight shifted entirely into the fabric sling, he swayed slightly. Instinctively, I reached out, my hands gripping his forearms to steady his descent toward the tiled shower bench.
His eyes locked onto mine from a distance of barely a foot. There was no arrogance in his gaze now—only a raw, unfiltered vulnerability that he usually kept buried beneath layers of sarcasm and executive authority.
"You're gripping too hard," he murmured, his voice softer than it had been since I walked into the mansion.
"You're swaying too much," I shot back, though my grip relaxed just enough to let him settle onto the bench.
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something neither of us named. He looked down at his hands, resting uselessly on his thighs, before looking back up at me with a quiet intensity.
"My last nurse apologized every time she touched my legs," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave. "Don't do that."
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I let out a short, shaky breath, stepping back to grab the handheld shower nozzle. "Got it. No pity. Just heavy lifting."
A genuine, rare smile broke across his face, altering his features entirely. "Precisely. Now, turn the water on before I freeze."
