“Thanks,” I say, though it comes out quiet. My hands are shoved in my coat pockets, fingers curled against the fabric like I’m bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.
“I’d like you to consider putting in a request for forty–sixty or sixty–forty, if you’re amenable to that. As you know, we don’t do fifty–fifty.”
We turn the corner toward the nurses’ station, our footsteps echoing off the linoleum. A few months ago, I would’ve leaped at the chance to prove I could stretch myself thinner, but the thought of rearranging the fragile balance I’ve built… I need to save my energy to keep playing Whac-A-Mole.
“Dr. Raymond,” I say, steady but careful. “I’m excited to hear you think I’m fulfilling my responsibilities adequately.” I swallow. “Truly.”
“You’re doing more than that. You’re thriving.”
The words are small feathers instead of anvils. Back in Chicago, when everything went down, I threw myself into work so I wouldn’t have to register everything I’d lost. I was terrified that if I slowed down long enough to feel anything, I’d lose my career too. Out here, there’s been enough space for grief to catch up to me—to finally look at the relationship I’d pronounced dead.
So his acknowledgment lands deeper than professional praise. It feels like a reminder that I’m allowed to have a pulse. That maybe soon I’ll figure out how to knock out all these emotions I’ve been whacking down. The old instinct is tempting—do more, feel less—but that’s not the plan.
“However,” I add, “I’m still figuring out the balance, and I’d like to avoid changes for now.”
At the nurse’s desk, Raymond’s expression softens. “Consider this, Dr. Hollis—patients can’t receive the best care if someone doesn’t stay behind the lab to understand what that care should be.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Let that simmer.”
Then he’s gone, rounding the corner with the same efficient stride he arrived with.
Ellie appears behind the desk like she’s been waiting for her cue. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Look at you,” she says, bumping my hip with hers. “Teacher’s pet.”
“Shut up,” I mutter—but my cheeks warm, and she absolutely notices.
The rest of the afternoon slips into its familiar cadence: assessments, consults, follow-ups. Laughter with patients.Quick jokes with nurses. My name is being called because someone trusts I’ll have an answer. Being useful. Being competent. Beingwanted.
Maybe Nate never stopped wanting me—I know I didn’t stop wanting him. In the thick of it though, we lost sight of wantingtogether. And for a while, I lost sight of myself.
After loadingmy arms with grocery bags, handles digging into my fingers, I walk toward my building from the back parking lot. It isn’t late, but Bend gets dark early this time of the year. The only light comes from the low floor lamps lining the paths, casting soft halos over the patches of grass and garden beds that frame each building. Except now everything’s buried under frost and thin crusts of snow, so the glow is muted.
My apartment complex shines against the dark. I love the two-story buildings wrapped in natural wood, narrow stairwells tucked between them. Communal mailboxes wrap around the front of each building, and they always let out a metallic groan when you open them.
I shift my bags higher. I’m already thinking about kicking off my boots, putting the kettle on—and then I see it. A moving truck backed up to the curb, hazard lights blinking, a couple of boxes stacked beside the tailgate, and a man standing with his back to me.
My brain recognizes the shape before my eyes do. My breath hitches.
Broad shoulders. A bit broader than when I last saw him. His jacket, a green puffer coat, pulls differently across his frame. There’s a width to him that makes him seem more solid, sturdier than he was months ago. The strands of his hairare a little longer now, brushing the middle of his ears, just enough wave to catch the light. Not long enough to tie back—so I guess he still hasn’t grown that man bun he used to joke about—but long enough that it helps my stupid brain remember how it felt against my fingers.
And then the color hits me—that brown with a reddish undertone, the one that always looked like it was a breath away from catching fire in the sun.
He turns, and his cognac eyes land on me with unsettling precision, like he sensed me before he saw me, as if some part of him never stopped tracking where I was.
Same eyes. Same mouth. Different posture. His jaw is wider, or maybe just tighter, framed by a darker, heavier shadow than the scruff he used to let in on weekends. He looks older. Weathered. But still looks like Nate. He’s just notmyNate. Not anymore.
My breath misfires in my throat, cutting sharp behind my ribs. Everything I’ve spent months tightening—my routines, my calm, my distance—starts trembling loose. The walls I’ve tried so hard to keep in place, crack, all the preventative care I’ve done is failing.
He’s here.
“Nate…” His name leaves my mouth without permission, soft, stunned, scraped raw from somewhere I didn’t mean to revisit.
He blinks once, slowly. “Robyn.”
The groceries feel too heavy, my palms slick against the paper handles. I clutch them tighter anyway, as if they’re the only thing keeping me upright.
“What are you doing here?” My voice isn’t cold, but it isn’t welcoming either. It’s caught in the uneasy middle—shocked, defensive. It’s clearly filled with mistrust, and he hears it, even though he really tries for his eyes not to narrow at the corners.
He steps down from the truck, boots crunching over the frost of the evening, and his gaze never leaves mine. “You know what I’m doing here.”
The words do it. My feelings flow through the cracks in the walls I’ve built, and I can’t whack them all back in.
