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He’s been quiet. He’s stayed away. He hasn’t checked in.

And now this⁠—

I unlock my phone.

My thumb hovers over his name.

For a long second, I don’t move.

Then I type. I don’t overthink it. I don’t edit it. I just send it.

Me: We need to talk.

Chapter Twenty-Two

DALTON

I see her message.

I don’t open it at first. It sits there on my screen while I finish dictating notes, while I sign off on two discharges, while I walk from one end of the corridor to the other pretending I’m not aware of the weight in my pocket.

Eventually, I stop pretending.

I open it.

We need to talk.

I stare at the words longer than I should.

My first instinct is to reply.

Second is to call.

Third—

I lock the screen and put the phone face down on my desk.

I’ve spent three days forcing distance into something that didn’t want it, and I’m not going to undo it with one message, not when I don’t have the whole picture, not when I already said more than I should have in a room that was the worst possible place for it.

If I talk to her now, I’ll push.

If I push, I’ll make it worse.

So I don’t.

It doesn’t feel good, but it feels necessary.

By the time I get home, I’m tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

The apartment is quiet.

It always is.

I drop my keys on the counter, loosen my collar, and for a moment I just stand there, staring at nothing.

Then the doorbell rings.

I don’t move immediately.