The fluthat’s running through town keeps me on my feet for hours. I’ve washed my hands so many times that the skin between my fingers is raw, the sharp bite of sanitizer clinging to me like a second scent.
By the time I shrug out of my coat and check the last chart, it’s past seven. My whole body aches, and the thought of my bed pulls at me like a rope.
But then I remember the promise I made earlier—ice cream. Wren’s voice was teasing me, reminding me that I lured her to the hospital with the idea of it. And Christ, I meant it.
I don’t break promises, not to patients, not to anyone—and especially not to her.
The problem is, I don’t even know if there’s a shop open this late. If anyone would know, it’s Beau. He’s got a sweet tooth he pretends not to have, but I’ve seen him demolish pie and sundaes without flinching.
My hand is halfway to my phone, thumb hovering over his name, when it hits me—I don’t even know what flavor she likes. Strawberry? Chocolate? Vanilla? Does she prefer cones or cups? Hot fudge? Whipped cream?
The thought grates at me. How can I want her this much, crave her like oxygen, and still not know something so small? Something that feels important because it’s about her?
I’m still debating when my phone vibrates in my palm. Her name flashes across the screen.
My pulse leaps. I answer on the first ring. “Hey, sweetheart.”
She exhales into the line, but it isn’t the playful sound I expected. There’s a strain in it, a crack that makes my chest tighten.
“I was just about to call you,” I add, straightening in my chair. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice is thin, a thread pulled too tight. “I’m not feeling too well. And… Pancake isn’t either.”
My spine goes rigid. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.”
She takes a shaky breath. “I’m a little dizzy. Achy. My stomach’s off. And Pancake—he’s been sluggish, not eating much. He just threw up on the rug.”
My brain switches into physician mode, cataloging every symptom, weighing the possibilities, but underneath it all is the primal thrum of something else fear. For her. For that damn cat she loves like a child.
“Okay,” I say, forcing calm into my tone because panic won’t help either of us. “Listen to me. Sit down if you’re not already. Sip some water slowly. Don’t lie flat—you’ll get dizzier. As for Pancake, keep him comfortable, don’t let him outside. I’m on my way.”
“You don’t have to—” she starts, but her voice wavers, and it undoes me.
“I do,” I cut in firmly. “Wren, you called me. That’s enough. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I hear the faint sound of Pancake meowing in the background, weak and pitiful.
“Okay,” she whispers.
That’s all I need.
I grab my bag, shove my stethoscope inside even though I know I won’t use it for a cat, and head out. The brisk outside air slams into me the second I push through the hospital doors.
My truck’s parked at the edge of the lot, and I stride toward it, unlocking it with a sharp click.
The drive to her café is now muscle memory, my hands tight on the wheel. My mind runs in loops—her voice strained, her body maybe feverish again, Pancake curled on the floor somewhere, too weak to move.
It’s ridiculous how fast the thought of either of them hurting ties my gut into knots. I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to compartmentalize. To assess, diagnose, and treat. But when it comes to her, I can’t find that distance.
Every instinct screams “mine.” “Protect.” “Fix. Now.”
Traffic’s mercifully light, and within ten minutes I’m pulling into the back lot of the Fox and Fern. Her upstairs lights glow softly against the deepening night, a beacon that makes my chest ache.
I kill the engine, grab my bag, and jog to the door that is quite clearly open. My knuckles rap against it anyway.
“Wren? It’s me.”
The latch clicks, and the door eases open. She’s standing there in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair messy like she’s been lying down. Even pale, she’s still devastating.
