My alarm went off at 5:30 AM, same as it had every weekday for the past three years. I slapped at my phone, giving myself exactly fifteen seconds to hate everything before pushing up onto my elbows.

   Morning was my least favourite part of the day. Those first moments when I'd forget, trying to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and remember all over again that they wouldn't move. It was getting less frequent now, that phantom sensation of limbs that no longer followed commands, but it still happened.

   I hauled myself over to my chair, the transfer smooth after years of practice. My apartment was designed for convenience. Everything at the right height, doorways wide, no unnecessary furniture to navigate around. It wasn't beautiful, but it worked.

   The smell of coffee hit me as I wheeled into the kitchen. The timer on the machine was set for 5:25, giving the coffee just enough time to brew before I got there. Small victories.

   My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Theo.

   Theo: Don't forget dinner tonight. Mom's making lasagne. Be there for 7 or she'll kill me.

   I grunted, thumbing back a quick Fine before setting the phone down. Dinner with Theo's family was a monthly obligation I couldn't seem to get out of. His mother had decided I was her second son right around the time of my accident, and refusing her invitations was like trying to stop a freight train with a paper stop sign.

   The morning routine was clockwork. Ten minutes to drink coffee and check emails. Twenty minutes for the shower and getting dressed. Ten minutes to gather what I needed for the day. By 6:20, I was out the door and on my way to the gym.

   The early hour meant fewer people, fewer stares, fewer awkward offers of help from strangers who thought they were being kind. The gym staff knew me by now. No one rushed to open doors or asked if I needed assistance. Just nodded towards me as I made my way to the adaptive equipment section.

   "Morning, Rhodes"

   Marcus, my trainer, appeared with his clipboard in hand and a grin that was way too cheerful for this hour. He was built like a linebacker but had the personality of a golden retriever. Annoying at first, but he'd grown on me.

   "You look like shit," he said, studying my face. "Not sleeping again?"

   I shrugged, strapping on my lifting gloves. "I sleep fine."

   "Bullshit." He set the clipboard down. "But we'll fix that. Nothing like lifting heavy things to wear you out. Let's start with pull-ups."

   For the next hour, Marcus pushed me through a routine designed to keep my upper body strong enough to compensate for what didn't work anymore. I needed the strength for transfers, for manoeuvring the chair up inclines, for every aspect of daily life that most people never thought about.

   By the end, I was drenched in sweat and my arms felt like overcooked pasta, but my head was clearer. Physical exhaustion was the closest I came to peace these days.

   "Good work today." Marcus handed me a towel. "How's the pain level?"

   I wiped my face. "Same as always."

   "Which means bad, but you won't admit it." He sighed, making a note on his clipboard. "You seen Dr. Carroll lately?"

   "Last week."

   "And?"

   "And she's still a therapist, and I'm still fine." I tossed the towel into the bin. "We done?"

   Marcus shook his head but didn't push it. Another reason I tolerated him. He knew when to back off.

   "Thursday, same time," he said, already moving on to his next client.

   I showered and changed in the accessible stall, a routine so ingrained I barely thought about it anymore. The gym was starting to fill up now, the early morning crowd giving way to the pre-work fitness enthusiasts. I kept my eyes forward as I made my way out, avoiding both the pitying glances and the overzealous "you're so inspiring" types.

   My office was a fifteen-minute drive from the gym, in one of the few older buildings that had been properly retrofitted for accessibility. Graphic design wasn't what I'd planned to do with my life, but it turned out I had an eye for it, and it was something I could do just as well sitting down as standing up.

   "Morning, Callum!" Sophie, the receptionist, greeted me with her usual cheerfulness. She wasn't too bright but had a heart of gold and never stared at my chair. "Mark was looking for you earlier. Something about the Banner project?"

   "Tell him I'll be in my office." I grabbed the mail from my slot and headed towards the back room where my workspace was located.

   Mark appeared before I'd even set my bag down. "There you are. Banner called. He wants to change the logo. Again."

   I suppressed a groan. "What now?"

   "The blue is too blue, but also not blue enough." He rolled his eyes. "His exact words. I swear to God, if he wasn't paying us so much..."

   "I'll handle it."

   Mark hesitated in the doorway. "Also, Janet's birthday thing is tonight. Drinks at Murphy's after work. You should come."

   I glanced up, catching the way he was watching me. Like I might break if he pressed too hard.

   "Can't. Dinner with Theo's family."

   "Right. Maybe next time." He nodded, relieved to have the awkward invitation behind him, and ducked back out.

   I turned to my computer, losing myself in the familiar comfort of design work. This was where I felt most competent, where the chair didn't matter. Pixels didn't care if I could walk or not.

   I caught my reflection in the darkened monitor before it came to life. Dark hair that needed a trim weeks ago, stubborn jaw that my mother said I'd inherited from my grandfather, eyes a shade of hazel that Kate once called "honey".

   At twenty-seven, I still had the broad shoulders and strong arms of the athlete I used to be, though now they served a different purpose. The tattoo on my right forearm—mountain peaks I'd designed for myself after the accident—peeked out from beneath my rolled-up sleeve. A reminder of height I'd never climb again, but somehow it didn't feel bitter anymore. Just a part of who I was.

   The day slipped by in a blur of client calls and design tweaks. At 4:30, I packed up, nodded goodbye to Sophie, and headed out into the cool autumn air.

   I had just over two hours to kill before Theo's dinner. Not enough time to drive home and back, but too much time to just sit around. On impulse, I veered off my usual route and headed towards Horizon Books, an independent bookstore I'd noticed but never entered.

   Books had been my escape after the accident. During those endless hospital days, reading was the only time I didn't feel trapped in a body that had betrayed me. I could be anyone, anywhere. It became a habit I never broke.

   The store was tucked between a café and a vintage clothing shop, its blue paint faded in a way that felt deliberate rather than neglected. A small wooden ramp had been installed over the single step entrance. It wasn't regulation ADA, but it would do.

   A bell chimed softly as I pushed through the door. The interior was exactly what you'd expect from a small bookstore. Shelves that reached the ceiling, worn armchairs tucked into corners, the scent of paper and ink.

   "Welcome to Horizon!" A voice called from somewhere in the stacks. "Let me know if you need help finding anything!"

   I rolled further in, scanning the section labels. The fiction section was towards the back, and I navigated through the tight but manageable aisle. Most places like this were a nightmare of narrow spaces and books stacked on the floor, but this one seemed to have been designed with movement in mind.

   I found the mystery books and began browsing, looking for something new from my favourite authors. I was reaching for a book on a higher shelf when I heard a thump followed by a muffled curse.

   "You okay back there?" I called, more out of reflex than actual concern.

   "Totally fine!" The voice was closer now, feminine, and slightly breathless. "Just gravity doing its thing. Books: one, Isla: Zero."

   I turned my chair towards the sound and found myself face to face with a woman half-buried in a stack of books, her dark hair escaping from what had probably once been a neat bun. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by what looked like a collapsed display, a sheepish grin on her face.

   "I was trying to reach the top shelf," she explained, brushing dust off her oversized sweater. "Turns out the step stool had other ideas."

   I raised an eyebrow. "Rebellious furniture. A common problem."

   She laughed, the sound unexpectedly rich. "It's an epidemic, really." She looked up at me properly then, her eyes a startling dark brown. "I'm Isla, by the way. Resident book enthusiast and occasional disaster."

   "Callum," I offered.

   I waited for it, the moment her eyes would flicker to my chair, the subtle shift in her expression as she registered it. But it didn't come. Her eyes stayed on my face, her smile unwavering.

   "Nice to meet you, Callum. Are you finding everything okay? Or were you looking for something specific?" She started gathering the fallen books.

   "Just browsing." I found myself watching her hands. They were small but strong-looking, nails painted a chipped dark purple.

   "Browsing is sacred. I approve." She stood, balancing the stack of books against her hip. "But if you need recommendations, that's basically my superpower. I can match anyone with their perfect book."

   "Is that so?"

   "Absolutely." She tilted her head, studying me with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. Her eyes landed on the tattoo peeking out from my rolled sleeve. "You have ink. Mountains, right? It's beautiful work."

   I instinctively touched the tattoo on my forearm. "Thanks. I designed it."

   "Seriously? That's awesome. Are you an artist?"

   "Graphic designer."

   "That explains why you're so..." she gestured vaguely at all of me, "aesthetically balanced."

   I wasn't sure what to make of that. "Aesthetically balanced?"

   She grinned. "You know, the whole tall, dark, and broody thing you've got going on. The jawline. The eyes. The artfully messy hair. It's very deliberate looking."

   I ran a hand through my hair, feeling oddly self-conscious. "It's not deliberate. I just haven't had time for a haircut."

   "Well, it's working for you," she said matter-of-factly, as if she were commenting on the weather. "Anyway, back to books. Let me guess. Mystery fan, but not the cosy type. You like the darker stuff. Flawed detectives, morally ambiguous endings."

   I blinked, surprised by the rapid change of subject. "Lucky guess."

   "Not luck. Science." She grinned. "Well, bookstore science, which is mostly observation and wild speculation. But I'm right, aren't I?"

   I found myself fighting a smile. "Maybe."

   "Ha! I knew it." She placed the stack of books on a nearby cart and brushed her hands together. "Try the new Holm novel. Just came in yesterday. It's brilliant and disturbing in all the right ways."

   Before I could respond, another customer called for assistance from the front of the store.

   "Duty calls." She sighed dramatically. "The new Holm book is on that display over there. Third shelf. Happy browsing, Callum."

   She bounced away, energy radiating from her like heat from a furnace. I watched her go, puzzled by the entire interaction. She hadn't glanced at my chair once. Hadn't done the quick calculation most people did, figuring out how to adjust their behaviour around me. She'd just... talked to me. Like I was anyone else. Had even noticed things about me—my tattoo, my hair, my eyes—that had nothing to do with my disability.

   It was disorienting.

   I found the book she'd recommended and flipped it over to read the back cover. It did sound exactly like something I'd enjoy. Annoying.

   I wheeled to the front counter, where Isla was ringing up an elderly woman's purchase. She looked up as I approached, her face lighting up.

   "You found it! What do you think?"

   "I haven't read it yet," I pointed out.

   "But you're going to buy it, which means you trust my recommendation, which means I win." She finished with the other customer and turned her full attention to me.

   "Is everything a competition with you?"

   "Only the fun things." She took the book from me, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. "You getting anything else? We just got in some really good sci-fi, if that's your thing."

   I shook my head. "Just this."

   She rang up the purchase, chatting the whole time about the author's previous books, her favourite characters, plot points she thought were brilliant. It was like being caught in a verbal hurricane, but I found I didn't mind. There was something genuine about her enthusiasm.

   "Here you go." She handed me the bag. "Come back and tell me what you think when you're done. I love hearing other people's opinions, even if they're wrong."

   "That's not how opinions work."

   "Sure it is." Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. "Some opinions are objectively better than others. It's just science."

   "You say that a lot. Science."

   "Because it sounds authoritative, and people rarely argue with it." She winked. "Strategy."

   Despite myself, I laughed. It felt rusty, like something I hadn't used in a while.

   She looked pleased, as if making me laugh had been her goal all along. "See? I'm right. Science."

   The bell over the door chimed as new customers entered, and Isla waved at them.

   "Looks like you're busy," I said, tucking the book into my bag.

   "Always. Books wait for no one." She leaned on the counter. "Thanks for stopping by, Callum. Come back soon, yeah? We get new mysteries in every week."

   I nodded, not committing to anything. But as I turned to leave, I found myself already considering when I might finish the book and what I would tell her about it.

   Outside, the late afternoon was fading towards evening, the streetlights just beginning to glow. I checked my watch. Still an hour before I needed to head to Theo's. I could go to the coffee shop around the corner, start the book.

   My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Theo.

   Theo: Mom says come at 6:30 instead. Dad's hungry and threatening to eat all the garlic bread.

   I texted back an acknowledgment and adjusted my course. So much for having time to read.

   As I made my way towards Theo's parents' house, I found my mind drifting back to the bookstore. To Isla with her hurricane energy and easy smile. To the way she'd looked at me, not through me or around me. She'd noticed my tattoo, commented on my appearance, treated me like a person rather than a condition.

   It probably didn't mean anything. She was probably just good at her job, making every customer feel special. Or maybe she was just naturally oblivious. It happened sometimes, people who were so wrapped up in themselves they didn't notice the chair.

   But it had felt different. She had felt different.

   I pushed the thought away. I'd been down this road before, letting myself get intrigued by someone only to have reality come crashing in later. Better not to start.

   Theo's parents lived in a modest house in one of the older neighbourhoods, a single-story ranch style that had been unintentionally accessible long before I needed it to be. I rang the doorbell and was immediately greeted by the chaotic sounds of family dinner preparations.

   The door swung open to reveal Theo's mother, Marge, flour dusting her apron and a wooden spoon in hand.

   "Callum Rhodes!" She beamed, stepping back to let me in. "Right on time. Come in, come in. Theo's in the living room with his father, doing absolutely nothing to help, as usual."

   "I heard that!" Theo's voice called from within.

   I wheeled inside, the familiar scents of garlic and tomato sauce enveloping me. Marge bustled ahead, clearing a path that didn't need clearing, a habit she couldn't seem to break no matter how many times I told her it was unnecessary.

   "How are you, dear?" She glanced back at me. "You look thin. Are you eating enough? I sent Theo over with that casserole last week."

   "I'm fine, Marge. And yes, I ate the casserole. It was great."

   She nodded, satisfied, and led the way to the living room where Theo and his father were watching a basketball game on TV. Theo raised his beer in greeting.

   "Look what the cat dragged in," he said.

   "Be nice," his father, Bill, admonished without looking away from the screen. "Hey, Callum."

   "Bill."

   I positioned myself next to the couch, accepting the beer Theo handed me. This was the routine. Every first Thursday of the month, dinner at the Mercers'. It had started as their way of making sure I wasn't wallowing alone in my apartment after the accident, and somehow never stopped, even after it was clear I wasn't in immediate danger of wasting away.

   "How was work?" Theo asked, his eyes still on the game.

   "Fine. Clients still being clients."

   "Sounds thrilling."

   "Not all of us can have the excitement of teaching high school chemistry all day."

   Theo snorted. "Touché."

   We fell into comfortable silence, watching the game. It was one of the things I appreciated about Theo. He didn't feel the need to fill every space with words.

   "Five minutes to dinner!" Marge called from the kitchen. "Theo, set the table!"

   Theo groaned but hauled himself off the couch. "The tyranny never ends," he muttered.

   "I heard that!"

   Bill chuckled, finally turning his attention from the TV. "So how are you really doing, son? Theo mentioned you've been working a lot."

   I shrugged. "Work keeps me busy."

   Bill's eyes were kind, but too perceptive. "Busy is good. Isolation isn't."

   "I'm not isolated." I took a swig of beer. "I'm having dinner with you, aren't I?"

   "You know what I mean. When's the last time you went out? Met new people?"

   I thought briefly of Isla at the bookstore but pushed the image away. "I meet people all the time. Clients. Co-workers."

   Bill gave me a look that said he wasn't buying it, but wouldn't push. Another thing I appreciated about the Mercers. They cared, but they didn't crowd.

   "Dinner's ready!" Marge announced, and we moved to the dining room.

   Dinner with the Mercers was always a loud affair. Marge insisted on knowing every detail of everyone's week. Theo complained about his students. Bill talked about his latest woodworking project. They argued about politics and TV shows and whether or not the neighbour's new fence violated some obscure HOA rule.

   It was normal. Wonderfully, boringly normal.

   "So," Marge said as she served dessert, a homemade apple pie that smelled like heaven, "Theo tells me Janet from your office invited you to her birthday drinks tonight."

   I shot Theo a glare. He shrugged, unrepentant.

   "I had dinner plans," I said, gesturing to the table around us.

   "After dinner plans," Marge corrected. "You still could go. It's only eight o'clock."

   "I'm tired, Marge."

   "You're twenty-seven, not eighty-seven." She cut me an extra-large slice of pie, her version of tough love. "When's the last time you went out with your co-workers? Made new friends?"

   "I have friends." One friend, mainly. Sitting across from me and failing miserably at hiding his amusement.

   "You need more than just this lump," she said, jerking her thumb at Theo. "You need to meet new people. Maybe a nice girl."

   "Mom," Theo warned.

   "What? I'm just saying. He's young, handsome, successful. There's no reason he should be alone."

   I focused on my pie, letting her words wash over me. It was a familiar refrain. Well-meaning but misguided. As if all I needed was to put myself out there more, and the perfect woman would appear, undaunted by the realities of what a relationship with me would entail.

   "Actually," I found myself saying, "I met someone at the bookstore today."

   Three pairs of eyes snapped to me. I immediately regretted opening my mouth.

   "A bookstore?" Marge practically squealed. "That's wonderful! What's her name? What's she like?"

   "It's not like that," I said quickly. "She works there. She recommended a book. That's all."

   "But she was nice? Pretty?"

   "Jesus, Mom, give him some space," Theo intervened, but I could see the curiosity in his eyes too.

   "She was... different," I admitted, thinking of Isla's rapid-fire speech and unwavering gaze. "She didn't..." I trailed off, not sure how to explain it without sounding pathetic.

   "Didn't what?" Bill asked quietly.

   I sighed. "She didn't treat me like I was in a wheelchair."

   The table went silent. Marge's eyes softened with understanding, and Theo looked away, perhaps remembering all the times we'd had to deal with people's awkward attempts at accommodating me.

   "Well," Marge said finally, her voice gentle, "she sounds smart then. Because there's a lot more to you than that chair."

   I nodded, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. "The pie is great, Marge."

   She allowed the change of subject, launching into a story about how she'd almost used salt instead of sugar, and the moment passed. But as the evening continued, I found my thoughts drifting back to the bookstore. To dark brown eyes that hadn't wavered from mine.

   It was nearly ten when I finally headed home. Theo walked me out, leaning against my car as I transferred into the driver's seat and broke down my chair to stow in the passenger side.

   "So," he said casually, "a bookstore girl, huh?"

   I rolled my eyes. "Don't start."

   "What? I'm just making conversation."

   "You're fishing for details, and there aren't any. She works at a bookstore. She seemed nice. End of story."

   Theo was quiet for a moment. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to let someone in once in a while."

   "Says the guy who's been single for what, two years now?"

   "That's different. I'm choosy."

   "And I'm what? Not choosy enough?"

   Theo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You know what I mean, Cal. You've built up these walls since the accident. Since Kate. And I get it, I do. But not everyone out there is going to bail when things get tough."

   I gripped the steering wheel, suddenly tired. "It's late, Theo."

   He recognized the dismissal for what it was and straightened. "Fine. But think about what Mom said. You deserve more than just work and monthly dinners with us."

   "Careful. You almost sound like you care."

   "Fuck off." But he said it with affection. "Text me when you get home."

   "Yes, dear."

   I waited until he'd gone back inside before pulling away. The drive home was quiet, the streets emptying as the night deepened. I thought about what Theo had said. About walls. About letting people in.

   It wasn't that simple. It never was. Every time I'd tried to open up since the accident, it had ended the same way. It's not you, it's just... this. We can't do normal things. You deserve someone who can handle this.

   Bullshit, all of it. What they meant was, I wasn't enough. The chair was too much. The accommodations were too much. The constant reminder that I was different was too much.

   And yet, as I let myself into my empty apartment, set the book from Horizon on my nightstand, I found myself thinking about a girl with infectious energy and eyes that never strayed to my wheels.

   I picked up the book again, running my thumb along the spine.

   Maybe I'd finish it quickly. Maybe I'd go back to the store next week. Maybe.

   But I didn't let myself think beyond that. Maybes were safer than certainties. And loneliness was safer than hope.

Author's note

Okay, okay... I couldn't not give you Chapter One.

I wanted you to really get a feel for the story—and of course, meet the love interest, the chaos, the light, Isla. She's everything. And trust me, this is only the beginning.

This book is super close to my heart, and I hope you're vibing with it so far.
There's so much more to come. So much pain. So much softness. So much them.

Updates drop every Saturday, so don't go too far.
Thank you for reading—seriously.

– Rosy