When he turns to me, something passes between us, an understanding that transcends our complicated history. His hand grips my shoulder, steadier than it's been in years. "You found a good one," he says, nodding toward Mia. He pulls me into a hug then, brief but solid. "See you soon, son," he says as he steps back.
As we pull away, gravel crunching beneath the tires, Mia's hand finds mine over the console. I glance in the rearview mirror, watching my family grow smaller against the backdrop of the only home I've ever truly known. They're still standing there, watching us go, when we turn the bend and the ranch disappears from view.
"You okay?" Mia asks, squeezing my hand.
"Yeah," I tell her, thumb stroking over her knuckles. "I am."
***
The highway stretches before us, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through Montana wilderness that gradually gives way to more populated areas. Mia sits beside me, her posture relaxed, head occasionally turning to watch the landscape slide past. The silence between us is comfortable, nothing like the heavy, grief-laden quiet of our journey here days ago when her tears soaked my passenger seat and her body curled in on itself like she was physically trying to contain her pain. Now, her hand rests on the console between us, fingers occasionally drumming to the beat of whatever song plays on the radio.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, catching me glancing at her for the third time in as many minutes.
"Just how different this feels," I admit, eyes returning to the road. "From when we came here."
Her hand finds mine on the gearshift. "I was a mess," she says. "I barely remember the drive."
"You slept for most of it," I tell her, threading my fingers through hers. "When you weren't crying."
She winces slightly but doesn't pull away. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be," I say, squeezing her hand. "Never apologize for grief."
We fall silent again, the rumble of tires on asphalt and the soft melody from the radio filling the space between us. Her thumb traces lazy circles on the back of my hand, and the casual intimacy of it is still new enough to send a flutter through my chest.
"Are you nervous?" I ask after a while, knowing what awaits us back in the city. "About facing everyone?"
She takes a deep breath, her free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Terrified," she admits. "What if Henderson won't take me back? What if I've burned that bridge completely?"
I consider my words carefully, knowing she needs honesty more than false reassurance. "Then we'll build a new one," I tell her. "There are other hospitals. Other departments."
She nods, but I can see the doubt lingering in her eyes. "It's not just that," she says after a moment. "It's facing everyone who saw me fall apart. Who watched me... break."
"You didn't break," I correct gently. "You cracked. There's a difference." My thumb strokes over her knuckles. "Breaks don't heal. Cracks just need time."
Her smile is small but real. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise," I reply with mock indignation. "You were just too busy arguing with me to notice."
As the miles pass, our conversation drifts to lighter topics. She tells me about the first time she drove cross-country with her father, just the two of them in an old pickup truck with a broken air conditioner. I share stories about medical school pranks thatmake her laugh so hard she snorts, a sound so undignified and charming I try to elicit it again and again.
Eventually, her responses grow shorter, her head lolling slightly against the window. I glance over to find her eyes drifting closed, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she fights sleep.
"Rest," I tell her softly. "I'll wake you when we get closer."
She mumbles something incoherent, already half-gone, and surrenders to sleep. Her hand remains loosely tangled with mine, a connection neither of us seems willing to break.
I drive one-handed, occasionally stealing glances at her sleeping form. A strand of hair has fallen across her cheek, rising and falling slightly with each breath. My chest tightens with a feeling I'm still getting used to, this protective tenderness that seems to grow stronger each day.
The landscape changes gradually, wilderness giving way to suburbs, then to the familiar outskirts of the city. Traffic thickens, the peaceful quiet of our journey interrupted by honking horns and the constant stop-start rhythm of urban driving. Mia stirs as I navigate through a particularly congested intersection, her eyes blinking open in momentary confusion.
"We're back," she murmurs, straightening in her seat. I watch the city seep into her awareness, her shoulders tensing subtly as reality encroaches on our Montana bubble.
"Almost," I confirm, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "You okay?"
She takes a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the skyline appearing through the windshield. "I will be."
As we drive deeper into the city, I feel the weight of responsibility settling back onto my shoulders, the mental checklist of patients and cases beginning to form. But unlike before, it doesn't feel suffocating. Maybe because this time, I'm not facing it alone.
