Page 56 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

"Hmmm," he said.

Lynlee's eyes went wide with concern. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid it's exactly what I suspected." He lowered his voice. "Classic case of being critically dramatic."

For one full beat she stared at him. Then laughter burst out of her—big, whole-body laughter that nearly tipped her sideways, and Colter felt the sound of it move through his chest like weather. He'd made kids laugh before at the clinic when tensions were high. This was different and he couldn't explain how, except that it mattered more than it should have—that specific laugh from that specific kid, aimed at him.

One kid, one horse, one terrible diagnosis, and he was already ranking it above every laugh he'd earned in thirty-three years of trying.

"You fix him," she said, once she'd recovered enough to ask.

He looked down at the horse, then back up at her face—that wide-open, completely trusting face, every feeling right there on the surface where anyone could see it, nothing held back, nothing protected. She wasn't asking if he'd try. The possibility of failure had simply not occurred to her.

She'd handed him the problem because he was here, and being here meant it was handled, and that was the entire equation. Besides his family, Colter couldn't remember the last time someone had believed in him without making him prove it first.

Something quiet moved through him, rusty and unannounced. The way the important things always arrived. Not loud enough to name, just there, suddenly, the way a bruise announces itself only after you press on it.

She'd given him permission to call her that, back in a grocery store cereal aisle the first day they'd met.

“I’m a fairy but you can call me princess if you wants,” she’d said, like it was a title she'd decided he'd earned before she even knew him. He hadn't forgotten it. Hadn't used it until now, either, some instinct keeping it in reserve for a moment that matched the weight of it.

This felt like the moment.

"Princess," he said, "I can absolutely fix him."

The relief on her face was instant and total, the uncomplicated satisfaction of a thing that had gone exactly as expected. She scooted closer without asking, her small shoulder pressing warm against his arm, already reaching back into the backpack for the next patient. She didn't check whether it was okay or look up to see if he'd moved away. She'd simply decided he was safe, and safe meant close, and close was where she put herself.

He didn't move away. Instead, he worked through the waiting room—Sparkleflame the dragon, extremely dramatic; the one-eyed bear, in denial about his condition; a small stuffed rabbit who, according to Lynlee, was faking the whole thing for attention. He gave each one a diagnosis. She received each verdict with the gravity it deserved. They developed, without discussing it, a rhythm—her presenting, him examining, both of them arriving at the same conclusion every time: critically dramatic, but survivable.

By the fourth patient he'd started keeping a mental tally. Zero fatalities. One malingerer. Best clinic day he'd had in months, and he hadn't billed a single client.

At some point Sutton's voice drifted in from the porch, still on the call, and neither of them looked up. It was just the two of them in the makeshift waiting room, Colter with a stuffed horse in his lap and a little girl curled against his side.

She fit there and that was a big problem. Because sitting there with her felt way too easy for a man who’d spent most of his adult life making damn sure nothing ever got this complicated.

Lynlee held up the last patient—a small, battered elephant missing one leg and half its trunk—and looked at him with complete seriousness. "This one's the worst."

He accepted the elephant and considered it carefully. "How long has he been symptomatic?"

"Since forever," she said. "But I think he just needed the right doctor."

Colter looked at the elephant for a moment longer than necessary, then he looked at Lynlee—this small, certain, entirely unsuspecting person who had packed her stuffed animals into a backpack because she'd known he'd be here, who had scooted close without asking, who had handed him her most important things as though it were obvious he'd take care of them.

He cleared his throat. "Good news. I know exactly what he needs."

Lynlee leaned in. "What?"

"Same thing as the rest of them." He handed the elephant back with appropriate gravity. "He needs someone who shows up."

She considered this with great seriousness. Then she nodded, tucked the elephant under her arm, and reached over to pat his hand once.

"That's you," she told him, like it was already settled fact and had been for a while.

He didn't correct her. He wasn't sure he could.

CHAPTER 21

Espresso Yourself smelled like roasted coffee and spun sugar—comfort in a cup—and Sutton was halfway to believing this morning could still be normal when Jo leaned over the counter and grinned like she’d just been handed gossip on a silver platter.