I stared at him, wondering if he’d reached across the table and unzipped my chest to examine what was inside.
“The human body isn’t the only thing that can have a stroke, Gillian. Lives can have them too—moments when everything stops flowing the way it should.” He tapped his temple. “Something up here told me if I didn’t make a change, I’d wake up one day with nothing but accomplishments to keep me warm.”
“So you just... walked away? From all that training? All that work?”
“I redirected it.” His smile was gentle. “Traded saving strangers for connecting with my community. Traded prestige for happiness. Some people—your father included—saw that as failure.”
“And was it worth it?” The question came out barely above a whisper.
Doc reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I haven’t regretted a single day since. Not even this one, with my granddaughter fussing over me like I’m made of glass.”
I laughed, blinking back unexpected tears.
“Now,” he said, settling back in his chair, “want to tell me what’s really got you tied in knots? Because I’m guessing it’s not just about my ancient history or some fancy title in Chicago.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but found I couldn’t form the words. All I could think about was what he’d said.
I was saving lives but losing myself.
The phrase echoed in my head long after our conversation ended, following me through lunch and late into the afternoon. I kept turning it over like a stone in my palm, examining it from different angles, testing its weight.
Had I been losing myself too, without even realizing it?
CHAPTER 14
DIEGO
I paced my living room like a caged animal, wearing a path into the already thin carpet that probably hadn’t been updated since the nineties. My fingers drummed a restless, uneven rhythm against my thigh as I turned sharply at the window, looking out at the darkening street but seeing nothing beyond the storm of thoughts in my head.
That kiss hadn’t left my mind for a single second. Hell, the echo of if still tingled on my lips hours later. The way Gillian had melted into me like she belonged there, the soft, breathless sounds she’d made that had almost driven me to my knees, the way her fingers had tangled in my hair as if she was drowning and I was her lifeline. All of it felt etched into my skin, branded there like the memory itself had physical weight pressing down on my chest.
The whole scene kept replaying in vivid detail—the dim lighting of Doc Holliday’s casting shadows across her face, the way her eyes had gone wide with surprise before fluttering closed, the warmth of her body pressed against mine in that quiet corner of the bar. I could remember every heartbeat, every shallow breath, every moment before reality crashed back in.
I’d been here before. Four years ago, same feelings, different apartment, watching her walk away from me and toward her perfect, planned future, telling myself it was for the best. That she needed to follow her dreams, chase that high-powered career she’d worked so hard for, that I had no right to stand in her way or ask her to give up everything she’d built her life around.
And I’d regretted it every single day since.
Not fighting for her. Not telling her what she meant to me, how she’d turned my whole world upside down in the span of one summer. Not laying it all on the line so at least she’d have known what she was really choosing between—her predetermined path or something real and messy and worth taking a risk for.
If she left again—when she left again, because that fancy job offer wasn’t going anywhere—I understood with bone-deep, soul-crushing certainty that would be it. There would be no more chances, no more stolen moments, no more kisses that tasted like possibility and heartbreak all at once. She would go back to her life in the city, I would stay here in mine, and whatever still burned between us would die out for good.
Unless I did something about it this time.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Cord checking in about shift coverage for tomorrow. I’d deal with that later. Right now, I needed to see Gillian. Needed to tell her what I should have said four years ago.
I grabbed my keys, determination propelling me toward the door. The moment I pulled it open, I froze.
Gillian stood on my front step, hand raised as if about to knock. Her eyes widened, startled. She wore jeans and a simple gray tank with spaghetti straps that brought out the green in her eyes. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, caught in the evening breeze.
“Hey.” She lowered her hand. “Can I come in?”
I stepped back without a word, my heart hammering against my ribs. She moved past me into the apartment, bringing with her the faint scent of flowers and something deeper, like warm vanilla.
I closed the door, watching as she took in my small living space—the worn leather couch, the bookshelf crowded with paperbacks, the photos on the wall of the crew at last year’s chili cook-off.
“Nice place.” She turned back to face me. Her fingers twisted together, an unmistakeable sign of nerves.
“Thanks.” I gestured toward the couch. “Do you want to sit?”
