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Frankly, I wonder if I’m cut out for this. If my motives for becoming a psychiatrist were selfish instead of selfless.

But the sad thing is, despite everything, the price I’m paying…

I can’t bring myself to regret my time with Rex.

With him, I was alive. I felt seen.

I was loved for being me.

The screen blurs in front of me, my heart aching.

Then the doorbell rings.

“Coming!” Quickly wiping my tears away, I hurry out of mybedroom, brush past the small luggage I packed for my trip to LA, and open the door.

My breath freezes when I see who’s standing on the other side.

Rex looks wrecked—unkempt in a way I’ve never seen him before.

He’s unshaved, deep circles under his eyes, his hair sticking out in all directions. His plain white T-shirt stretches over his tall frame, but it’s wrinkled, like he grabbed the first thing in his hamper and threw it on.

“Olive,” he whispers, his familiar gaze, full of love and concern, twists the bleeding organ behind my rib cage. His gaze skates behind me to the luggage. “You’re leaving?”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I reply, “Yes. It’s time for me to go home. My parents are worried sick about me.”

“I see.”

Ask me to stay, asshole.

He glances at his feet, his shoulders slanting. Then he looks up again.

“I regret everything.”

I can’t help the sharp gasp from escaping my lips. The damn tears are back again.

How can you regret us when I’m paying the price and I regret nothing?

I shake my head and step back into my apartment, hurt and anger boiling inside me.

“Fuck you.” I slam the door closed.

But he holds it open.

He steps inside, his eyes widening, no doubt realizing how his words came out.

Rex tugs me against him, and I flinch before fighting back, crying, screaming, scratching his neck, his shirt, anywhere I can reach.

“Damn you, Rex Anderson. Damn you to hell!”

He tightens his hold on me, pressing my face against his chest. I hear the rapid thudding of his heart. His masculine perfume wraps me in a tender embrace, and for a second, I want to stay still, to feel safe in his arms again.

But then I remember how he pushed me away, how he said he regretted us.

“Let go of me, you asshole!” I stomp on his foot.

He hisses. “No.” His hold tightens.

“You don’t get to do this to me! You don’t get to regret us. Regret me! You have no right!”