His hand stills under mine. He doesn’t pull away, and I letmy thumb linger where our hands meet, a quiet acknowledgment that he’s not alone.
My phone buzzes against the counter, sharp, out of place. The screen lights up.Hospital.
“I thought you were off,” he says.
“I am.” I don’t look at it right away.
When I finally do, the dimple in his chin deepens, taut with tension from his jaw—gone before it can settle. Still, he shifts, his shoulders drawing in just enough that I feel the space open between us even before he moves his hand away.
“Robyn…” he starts, already giving me the out. “You should?—”
I flip the phone over, sending it to voicemail.
The buzzing stops, but the silence following it is heavier, expectant. I wait for the speech-to-text transcription, eyes fixed on the screen until the words resolve. A small lab discrepancy regarding a patient of mine, they’ll wait ten minutes or the on-call doctor will make medication adjustment.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. “I’m here.” My voice is steady, no hesitation behind it. “If anything changes, they’ll handle it. Tonight…” I hold his eyes. “Tonight I’m with you.”
This moment between us carries the weight of every time I didn’t stay. Every time I chose to run so I could solve a problem I didn’t yet have while overlooking the one I did have.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod, reaching for the flour just to ground myself, letting it dust over my hands, the counter, the moment. “Yeah.”
He watches me for a second longer, then leans back in, our shoulders brushing. We fall into rhythm—score, turn, repeat. Then he hands me one of the scales of the pine cone we just scored, and I press them into the cylinder. After that, I hand one to him, and he’s the one to press it. With each layer, thepinecone takes shape between us. It barely looks like what we intended, but every imperfection makes it more real.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, “this is… almost edible.”
I glance at him, smiling. “Careful. That sounded like a compliment.”
The dusk turns to night as I’m mesmerized by our hands working together, moving in sync.
“I should have done more staying the first time around,” I mutter.
Nate’s complainingthat this isn’t a trail. In his defense, I’m not the sporty kind and it does look more like a worn ribbon of dirt, cutting through grass and leaves of pine and aspen. It smells of the sweet sap bleeding out of the Juniper trees lining the path, and dry, smokey earth.
He’s slower than he would be, but he’s still walking a good five steps ahead of me. Even two weeks after the accident, the concussion has him on strict instructions: light activity, no exertion, no alcohol, no screens for long stretches. For a man who runs daily, being reduced to wandering a nature trail like an elderly retiree isn’t sitting too well.
“We can go faster,” he says without turning around.
“No, we can’t.” I speed up just enough that I’m a step behind him. “You got dizzy tying your shoes.”
“That was just one morning,” he counters.
“That was this morning.”
He glances back at me, mouth tugging sideways. “I’m fine, Robyn.”
I tighten my finger around the straps of my backpack. It’s filled to the brim with water, snacks, and so much emergency and safety stuff you’d think we’re camping for the weekend.
He turns back toward the path and continues down the trail. The neurologist in me catalogs everything: pupils equal and reactive a moment ago, gait steady, no visible fatigue beyond what’s expected, attitude healthily contrarian. He’s fine. Still, the wordsNathan Leighton in the ERecho in my head, and that’s all my heart seems to care about.
“I know,” I murmur. “Just… humor me.”
His gaze moves slowly over my face, lingering on my brows until I smooth them, then on my mouth until I force it to relax. He nods. “Alright.”
We walk in silence as the path dips slightly, sunlight flickering through the trees in broken patches. Nate reaches back when the ground gets uneven, his fingers brushing mine. I tense because he was hurt and I got scared out of my mind. When I lace my fingers through his, I feel a bit better. Grabbing at his shirt with my other hand, ensuring he’s solid and upright, unwavering, I feel much better. When the ground evens again, his hand tightens, and neither of us lets go.
“You know,” he says after a minute, “when I pictured moving here, showing you I could do better… it’s not been what I pictured.”
