She’s dressed in a fitted sweater dress, dark plum, paired with cowboy boots and a tan raincoat that she shrugs off as she walks. Her scarf is loosely looped around her neck, a soft, cream-colored, cable-knit design, like something handwoven.
Her hair’s pulled into that same unbothered knot she wore a week ago, stray copper strands escaping like they’ve made peace with disobedience.
She turns when she sees me.
“Morning, Dr. Hale,” she says, voice even.
“Miss Aldridge,” I reply, equally neutral, stepping aside to let her enter the exam room.
She sits carefully on the table, adjusting her hem and crossing one leg over the other, her eyes sweeping across the room like she’s collecting details. She folds her coat and scarf and places them beside her.
I nod once, glance at her file on the tablet in my hand, and mentally run through the protocol for smoke-inhalation follow-ups.
But her scent hits me before I can say a word.
It’s stronger now. Not in a bad way—cleaner, richer. It’s deepened into something headier, softened by the whisper of amber, sharpened by that warm-clove edge that lingers too long in my head.
There’s something… magnetic about it.
Unsettling.
I slip a hand into my pocket and quietly uncap the peppermint oil flask. A slow inhale. Sharp, clean. It helps me refocus, recalibrate.
She doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and chooses not to mention it.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, scrolling through her chart.
She tilts her head. “Busy. But good. The place is still a mess. I’ve been trying to clean up what I can before the renovation crew comes in next week.”
“Pack Built?”
She nods. “Yeah. Ryker and Jude. They said they could fit me in once they wrap up at Fernbridge. It’s… surreal, being back in the café. I keep expecting to hear my grandma yelling at me from the back room for using too much cinnamon.”
There’s a fondness in her voice that’s threaded with exhaustion. It’s not just physical—it’s something more profound. The weight of memories is dragging behind her like dust on old floorboards.
“I’m surprised you’re not resting more,” I say, frowning at the screen. “You’ve got minor residual inflammation in the sinuses. Not dangerous, but I’d prefer you not push it.”
She shrugs. “It’s either clean or spiral. I picked the one that felt more productive.”
“Fair enough,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Just don’t overdo it.”
Her mouth tilts, not quite a smile, but close. “You’re… more talkative than I expected today.”
I blink, caught.
“Am I?” I ask, like I don’t already know I am. Like I hadn’t just asked a patient about her week.
She gives a soft, amused noise and doesn’t press it.
I refocus, switching into medical mode. “Let’s check your lungs.”
I gesture, and she adjusts her posture.
The stethoscope’s cold when I press it against her back through the fabric of her dress. She doesn’t flinch, but her breathing quickens slightly—so slightly most wouldn’t notice.
I do.
“Deep breath,” I murmur.
