One good thing || Will Traynor ||
Warnings: Depression and mental health struggles • Discussion of suicidal ideation and assisted dying • Past near-death experience (falling through ice) • Medical trauma and recovery • Physical disability and spinal cord injury • Paralysis (quadriplegia) • Rehabilitation and physical therapy • Chronic illness/disability themes • Mentions of hypothermia and drowning (past event) • References to advanced spinal cord treatments (epidural stimulation)
The first thing you noticed about England was that it was gray.
Not sad gray. Not hopeless gray. Just…quiet gray.
The kind of gray that settled over rolling hills and old stone buildings like a blanket. The kind that felt worlds away from the frozen lake that still haunted your dreams. Six months ago, you had fallen through ice that should have held your weight. Six months ago, you had felt freezing water swallow you whole while people screamed your name from the shore. Six months ago, your heart had stopped long enough for doctors to wonder if you’d wake up at all. Some days, you thought part of you never had.
The taxi rolled through the small village as rain tapped softly against the window. You stared outside while your fingers twisted nervously in your lap. England had been an impulse. A desperate escape. After your fiancé left....unable or unwilling to deal with the woman who returned from the hospital quieter and sadder than before. You had sold most of your belongings and accepted the first overseas rehabilitation position that offered you a contract. Everyone called it brave. You knew better. Running away wasn’t bravery. It was survival.
Granta House appeared at the end of a winding drive, beautiful enough to belong in a postcard. The large estate sat among green fields and ancient trees, its windows glowing warmly despite the gloomy afternoon. You climbed out of the taxi, clutching your bag against your chest as anxiety twisted painfully in your stomach. A familiar feeling. Depression had made anxiety one of its closest friends. Taking a slow breath, you reminded yourself that you were a professional. A physical therapist. You had worked hard for this. You belonged here, even if your brain spent every waking moment trying to convince you otherwise.
A few minutes later, after being welcomed inside and introduced to several staff members, you found yourself standing outside a set of large double doors. The file in your hands suddenly felt heavier than it should.
William Traynor.
Thirty-five, Former banker, Cervical spinal cord injury, Quadriplegic.
Uses a Permobil motorized wheelchair. History of rejecting therapists. Difficult patient. Sarcastic. Resistant to treatment.
You stared at those words a moment longer before muttering under your breath, “Well, that’s reassuring.”
The woman beside you, Camilla, his mother—offered a sympathetic smile. “He’s not always easy.”
“That’s okay,” you answered softly, though your heart was hammering. “Neither am I.”
Camilla gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before opening the door.
The room beyond was flooded with afternoon light. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked sprawling gardens, and beside them sat a man in a sleek motorized wheelchair. Dark hair. Sharp features. Expensive sweater. Even seated, he somehow carried himself like someone used to commanding a room. He turned toward the sound of the door opening, and the blue eyes that met yours were intelligent, tired, and immediately suspicious.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then his gaze slowly traveled from the top of your head to your shoes.
One eyebrow rose. “You’re joking.”
You blinked. “Sorry?”
Will looked toward his mother. “This is the therapist?”
Camilla sighed. “Yes, Will.”
His eyes returned to you. “This one?”
You glanced down at yourself. “I wasn’t aware there were multiple versions.”
A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth as he kept his gaze firmly on you. "You look approximately five feet tall."
“I’m five-two.”
“Good God.”
You folded your arms. “What exactly were you expecting?”
Will tilted his head thoughtfully. “Someone terrifying. Broad shoulders. Military background. Possibly named Greg.”
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped your mouth and something flickered across his face.
Interest.
Not warmth. Certainly not friendliness.
But interest.
“Unfortunately,” you replied, setting your bag down beside the door, “all they had available was me.”
His gaze narrowed. “That’s deeply disappointing.”
“Likewise.”
For the first time, genuine surprise appeared on his face.
The room fell quiet.
Camilla looked startled.
You immediately wondered whether insulting your patient during the first thirty seconds of meeting him might get you fired.
Then something unexpected happened.
Will laughed.
Not a polite laugh, not a forced one.
A real laugh that escaped before he could stop it.
The sound seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised everyone else.
You felt your shoulders relax slightly, maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster after all.
Will studied you for another moment before speaking again. “All right then. What’s your tragic backstory?”
The question hit harder than he could have known.
Your smile faltered.
Images flashed through your mind. Cracking ice. Black water. Hospital ceilings. An empty apartment. An engagement ring sitting abandoned in a drawer.
You swallowed. “What makes you think I have one?”
Will’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because,” he said quietly, “people who look that sad usually do.”
The words settled heavily between you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.Then you slowly lifted the patient file in your hands.
“Funny,” you said softly. “I was about to say the same thing about you.”
Something shifted in his expression, a flash of recognition. As though, for the first time in a very long while, someone had looked at him and seen more than the wheelchair.
The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them.
You stepped closer until you were standing directly in front of him, placing your hands lightly on either side of his wheelchair. Not touching him. Not trapping him. Just making it impossible for him to dismiss you with a sarcastic comment and a glance toward the door. The afternoon sunlight poured through the windows behind him, turning the room golden while dust drifted lazily through the air.
“How about this,” you said quietly.
Will’s amusement faded.Something in your voice had changed.The joking edge was gone and you looked tired.
Not physically tired.
Soul tired.
The kind of exhaustion he recognized immediately because he saw it every morning in the mirror.
“We work together,” you continued. “Actually work together. No sabotaging sessions. No pretending you don’t care. No making my job impossible just because you’re angry.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “I am angry.”
“I noticed...so is everyone else.”
That earned the faintest hint of a smile.
You took a breath before continuing. “And if my treatments help you…if things improve…if we make progress you didn’t think was possible…” Your fingers tightened slightly against the armrests. “Then you push everything back. Two years.”
The room became very still.
Will’s eyes locked onto yours.
The mention of “everything” didn’t require clarification.
He knew exactly what you meant.
The file his parents didn’t think he’d read.
The plans he’d already made.
The future he’d convinced himself was inevitable.
For the first time since the accident, someone was speaking about it directly instead of tiptoeing around it.
“And if they don’t?” he asked quietly.
The question landed like a stone between you.
You swallowed then worked your jaw and for a moment, the confident therapist disappeared, revealing the woman beneath.
The woman who remembered freezing water.
The woman who remembered waking up and wondering if she wished she hadn’t.
The woman who had spent months staring at ceilings and imagining simply…not existing.
A shadow crossed your face.
“Then we’ll deal with that when we get there.”
Will watched you carefully.
Too carefully.
Because suddenly he wasn’t hearing a therapist trying to motivate a patient.
He was hearing someone who understood despair a little too well.
Someone who knew what it felt like to lose a future.
Someone who carried grief around like a second heartbeat.
“You’ve thought about it too,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Your eyes flickered away, only for a second but that was all the confirmation he needed.
The playful atmosphere evaporated entirely.
Neither of you spoke.
Outside, rain began tapping softly against the windows.
Finally, you looked back at him.
“I survived something I wasn’t supposed to survive,” you said quietly. “Everybody acted like I should’ve been grateful every second afterward. Like surviving automatically made everything okay.”
Will’s expression softened because he understood that too.
Not the details.
But the feeling.
People constantly expected gratitude from him.
Strength.
Optimism.
Inspiration.
As though surviving was the same thing as living.
“It wasn’t,” you continued. “Some days it still isn’t.”
For the first time since you’d entered the room, Will looked completely serious.
No sarcasm.
No armor.
Just honesty.
“No,” he agreed softly. “It isn’t.”
The admission hung between you.Raw and uncomfortable and strangely relieving.
You straightened slightly, forcing some of your professional confidence back into place.
“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “Six months.”
Will stared at you for another long moment.Then he leaned his head back against the chair.
“You realize you’re an absolutely terrible negotiator.”
A small smile appeared. “Why?”
“Because you just gave away the fact that you care whether I succeed.”
You groaned. “That’s literally my job.”
“Still.”
The ghost of a grin finally appeared on his face.For the first time in a very long while, something that wasn’t hopelessness flickered behind his eyes.
Curiosity....Maybe even a little hope.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But there.
“All right,” he said at last.
You blinked. “All right?”
“Six months.”
The words were simple, but they felt significant.
Like the opening move of a very long game.
You couldn’t have known then that neither of you would leave those six months unchanged.
Only that, for the first time since arriving in England, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Not happiness.
Not yet.
But a possibility.
And judging by the look in Will Traynor’s eyes, he felt it too.
The first time Will came up with the idea, it was entirely by accident.
Five months have passed and Will suggested push it back by another two months but this...this was a particular day...
You had been having a bad day.
Not the kind of bad day people talked about casually. Not the kind that could be fixed with a cup of tea or a walk outside. It was the heavy sort of day, the kind where getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain and every thought in your head seemed determined to convince you that nothing would ever get better.
Will recognized the look immediately.
You were sitting beside the window in the library at Granta House, staring blankly at the rain sliding down the glass. A book rested forgotten in your lap while a blanket was wrapped tightly around your shoulders despite the warmth of the room.
For several moments, he simply watched you.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because he did......far too much and eventually he cleared his throat.
“What is one good thing that happened today?”
You didn’t even look at him. “Nothing.”
Will sighed dramatically. “That’s incredibly disappointing.”
Your gaze shifted toward him. “What?”
“I asked for one thing, and apparently you couldn’t manage a single one.” His expression remained completely serious.
You rolled your eyes. “There wasn’t one.”
“There had to be.”
“There wasn’t.”
Will tilted his head slightly. “The tea this morning wasn’t terrible.”
You stared at him. “The tea?”
“Yes.”
“That’s your good thing?”
“It was surprisingly drinkable. I’d like recognition for surviving such an extraordinary event.”
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped your lips and the sound seemed to brighten the entire room.
Will immediately pointed at you. “There.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“You laughed.” A smile tugged at his mouth.“Which means something good happened today.”
For the first time all afternoon, you felt the crushing weight inside your chest ease ever so slightly.
It wasn’t much.
But it was enough.
Enough to get through another day.
The next morning, Will asked you again.
You were helping Nathan adjust his chair when Will glanced over.
“One good thing.”
You groaned. “We’re doing this again?”
“We are.”
You thought for a moment. “The bakery in town had fresh cinnamon rolls.”
Will nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice.
“What was yours?”
His eyes flickered toward you. “You brought me one.”
Warmth immediately flooded your face.
Will only smirked.
That became the rule.
Every day.
No matter what.
One good thing.
Sometimes the answers were meaningful.
A successful physical therapy session.
A letter from home.
A beautiful sunrise stretching across the English countryside.
And sometimes they were completely ridiculous.
One afternoon you found Will grinning smugly as you entered his room.
“What?” you asked suspiciously.
“I won.”
“Won what?”
“The argument.”
You blinked. "Won what argument?"
“The one Nathan and I were having about whether ducks are secretly evil.”
You stared at him.For several seconds neither of you spoke.Then you burst into laughter so hard your stomach hurt.
Will looked absurdly pleased with himself.
“My good thing,” he announced.
More months seemed to have passed, more push backs as the game continued.
Some days depression still wrapped around your ribs like barbed wire.
Some mornings you woke up exhausted before the day had even begun.
But now there was always Will.
Always that question.
Always someone waiting patiently for your answer.
One particularly difficult evening, you sat beside him on the castle grounds as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The sky glowed gold and pink across the hills, painting the world in warm colors.
You hadn’t spoken much all day.
Will noticed, of course he noticed.
He always did.
After several quiet minutes, he shifted his gaze toward you.
“One good thing.”
You stared down at your hands.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“You’re just refusing to cooperate.” A faint smile touched his lips.
You swallowed hard, the truth sat heavy in your chest, because today had been difficult.
Painful.
The kind of day where your mind convinced you that you were impossible to love.
Slowly, you looked toward him.
“My good thing happened a while ago.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t the assignment.”
“Tough.”
His smile widened.
You took a shaky breath.Then you admitted quietly, “Meeting you.”
The teasing vanished from his face.
For a moment neither of you moved.
The evening breeze stirred through the grass around you while the fading sunlight cast everything in gold.
Will looked away first.Not because he didn’t want to look at you.
Because emotion had suddenly become far more dangerous than sarcasm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual.
“Well...."
You laughed nervously. “Well?”
His eyes found yours again.A smile appeared, small but genuine. “My good thing happened a while ago too.”
Your heart skipped.
Will reached over and carefully covered your hand with his. “You.”
The word settled between you like something precious.
Something fragile.
Something real.
For once, neither of you tried to hide behind jokes.
Six years later, the conservatory looked very different or perhaps it was the people inside it who had changed.
Rain still tapped softly against the windows, just as it had on the day you first walked through the doors of Granta House carrying too many therapy binders and far too much sadness. The gardens beyond were lush and green beneath the overcast English sky, and the room was filled with the warm, comfortable clutter of a life actually being lived. Children’s books sat stacked on a side table. Tiny sneakers had somehow appeared beneath a chair. A stuffed dinosaur was currently lying upside down near the fireplace after what had undoubtedly been a dramatic battle.
“Again!”
The excited shout echoed through the room.
Will sighed dramatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Again!”
“Your mother is raising a tiny dictator.”
You laughed from your spot on the sofa. “He’s your son too.”
Three-year-old Oliver immediately pointed a chubby finger toward you. “Mama said.”
The traitorous little grin he wore was so identical to Will’s that it should have been illegal.
Will groaned. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
Oliver giggled so hard he nearly toppled over.The sound still did something strange to your chest.
Maybe because there had been a time when neither you nor Will had been certain there would be a future worth imagining. A time when both of you had been surviving rather than living. Now there was laughter echoing through the house. There were toys scattered everywhere. There were family photographs lining the walls.
There was happiness.
Real happiness.
Not perfect happiness.
Not easy happiness.
But happiness all the same.
Across the room, Nathan was helping Will prepare for his afternoon therapy session. Years of rehabilitation, physical therapy, occupational therapy, and more recently epidural stimulation treatments had changed things neither of you had dared hope for during those first months.
The injury remained.
Will was still paralyzed.
That reality hadn’t disappeared.
But advancements in spinal cord rehabilitation had opened doors once believed permanently closed.
Electrodes implanted near his spinal cord delivered carefully controlled stimulation, helping dormant neural pathways communicate in ways doctors once thought impossible. Progress had been slow. Frustratingly slow at times, it was painful and expensive but it had been progress.
And that mattered.
Will transferred into his therapy equipment while Oliver watched with serious concentration.
“Daddy’s standing today.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Daddy stands every therapy day.”
Oliver nodded wisely. “Very impressive.”
“I agree.”
The boy immediately puffed up with pride.
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh no.”
“He’s learning confidence,” Will said.
“He’s learning arrogance.”
“Same thing if you’re charming enough.”
Nathan snorted loudly from across the room.
A few minutes later, everyone moved toward the rehabilitation space that had gradually become part of daily life. The equipment no longer felt intimidating the way it once had. It simply existed alongside everything else.
You stood beside Will while therapists adjusted the stimulation settings.
Years ago, you would have been analyzing every number.
Watching every movement.
Obsessing over every possibility.
Now you simply slipped your hand into his.
The familiar wedding band resting against your skin grounded you immediately.
Will squeezed your fingers. “You’re staring.”
“I’m always staring.”
“True.”
The stimulation activated.
Carefully.
Gradually.
Muscles responded.
Not perfectly.
Not effortlessly.
But they responded.
With assistance and support, Will shifted upward.
Standing.
The first time it had happened years ago, both of you had cried.
Now it still stole your breath away.
Not because it was miraculous.
But because you remembered the man who had once believed nothing could ever improve.
The man who had planned for six months.
Not six years.
Certainly not forever.
Oliver watched with wide eyes. “Daddy’s tall.”
Will looked down. “I was always tall.”
“No.” Oliver shook his head firmly. “Now you’re extra tall.”
You laughed so hard tears immediately formed.
Even Will couldn’t stop smiling.
The session continued, and while there were moments of strain, moments of exhaustion, and moments where progress felt painfully small, none of it carried the hopelessness that had once dominated every conversation.
Because now there was a future attached to the work.
A reason.
A purpose.
A little boy currently trying to convince Nathan that dinosaurs still existed.
A marriage built on stubbornness and love in equal measure.
A life neither of you had expected to have.
Later that evening, after Oliver had finally fallen asleep sprawled sideways across his bed, you found Will sitting near the window overlooking the dark gardens.
The house was quiet.
Peaceful.
You settled onto his lap carefully, immediately earning a familiar smile
“Hello, wife.”
“Hello, husband.”
His arms wrapped around your waist automatically.
Six years.
And he still looked at you sometimes as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
Outside, rain drifted gently across the glass.
Inside, Will pressed a kiss against your temple then let his gaze drifttoward the hallway where Oliver slept.
"Name One Good thing."
