I heard their voices in the hallway, Walker's deep rumble and Dr. Atkins' more measured tones. When they entered the kitchen, I tried to look more composed than I felt.
"Good morning, Lottie," Dr. Atkins said, setting his medical bag on the counter. "You're looking much better today."
"I am, thank you," I murmured, fighting the urge to hide behind Walker.
Dr. Atkins pulled out a chair. "Mind if I check your vitals?"
I nodded, but as he reached into his bag, panic fluttered in my chest as I saw Walker take a step backwards. "Walker?" My voicecame out smaller than I intended. "Could you...would you mind staying?"
The smile that spread across Walker's face made something warm unfurl in my chest. "Of course," he said, moving to stand beside me.
Dr. Atkins worked efficiently, checking my blood pressure, temperature, and listening to my heart and lungs. His touch was gentle but clinical, nothing like the rough handling I'd experienced at overcrowded clinics where I was just another number to process.
"Blood pressure's looking better," he said, making notes on a small tablet. "How are you feeling with the new insulin pen?"
"It's easier," I admitted. "Doesn't hurt as much."
He nodded approvingly. "And your levels?"
"140 this morning," Walker answered before I could, his hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder. "We checked right after she woke up, and I would have texted you if it wasn’t in the range you gave me."
I felt a strange flutter at his use of "we," as if my diabetes management had somehow become a shared responsibility overnight.
Dr. Atkins looked pleased. "That's excellent. Much better than last night." He reviewed some notes on his tablet. "Based on what I'm seeing, Lottie, your body needs time to recover from the prolonged periods of unstable blood sugar. You need at least a week of consistent management, proper nutrition, and rest."
"A week?" I straightened in alarm. "But my job—"
"Is less important than your health," Dr. Atkins said firmly, though his eyes remained kind. "I'm not exaggerating when I say you were headed for a serious medical crisis. The kind that ends in a hospital ICU with likely long-term consequences."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.
"Let me be blunt. Your body is showing signs of stress that concern me. Your kidneys are working overtime. Your circulation is compromised. These aren't things you can power through with determination." His voice softened. "You need time to heal."
"But I can't afford to lose a week's pay, and he'd fire me," I whispered, the familiar panic about money rising in my throat.
"And you can't afford to destroy your health, either," Dr. Atkins said. "Type two diabetes isn't something you can neglect without serious problems."
I glanced up at Walker, who was watching me with concern etched across his features. The weight of my situation pressed down on me—no savings, barely making rent, and now being told I needed to take time off work. It felt like being trapped in quicksand, each struggle only pulling me deeper.
"What about a doctor's note?" Walker suggested. "Would your boss accept that?" I thought about Marco, about the way his eyes had lingered on my bruises. "Maybe. I don't know. I've never missed work before."
Dr. Atkins reached into his bag and pulled out a pad. "I'll write you a medical excuse. If your employer has any questions, they can call me directly."
As he wrote, Walker's hand remained on my shoulder, warm and steady. I wanted to lean into that touch, to let someone else carry the weight for a while. The thought was both terrifying and tempting.
"I spoke with the clinic you use this morning," Dr. Atkins said, tearing off the prescription note and handing it to me. "They confirmed you haven't been in for a check-up in over four months, and they recommended three months to you last time."
Heat crept into my cheeks. "I couldn't afford it."
Doctor Atkins glanced at Walker. “We have that covered now," Walker said. "Fiona came by.”
The doc smiled immediately. “Excellent. Fiona is an amazing young woman.” He glanced back at me. "They also mentioned you haven't picked up your most recent prescription."
"I was going to," I said defensively. "On Friday. When I got paid."
Dr. Atkins exchanged another glance with Walker that I couldn't interpret. "Well, you won't need to worry about that now. I called in a new prescription that will better suit your needs. Walker already got it delivered." He paused. “I’m happy to take over your regular care but you really need to go see an endocrinologist.”
I swallowed. “That’s—”
