But something inside me tilts. Just enough.
And of course, because the universe can’t help itself, that’s when Mason mentions the doctor.
“Smoke exposure. And that crash not even a week ago? You need to get checked out. Properly this time.”
I want to argue. I really, really do. But Beck’s already turning toward me, brows drawn, jaw tense in that way that says he agrees, even if he’s not about to say it out loud.
I sigh. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.”
Turns out “getting it over with” means I get to sit on the world’s coldest exam table in a gown that smells of bleach and disappointment, under lights that make every bruise I’ve been ignoring look way worse than I thought.
Dr. Quinn enters as he always does, calm, crisp, and ten steps ahead of everyone else.
He looks me over with a critical eye. Doesn’t flinch at the soot stains on my arms or the way I’m still wrapped up tight like I’m bracing for impact.
“How’s your breathing?” he asks. “Any dizziness? Chest tightness?”
“Just tired,” I mutter. “Didn’t sleep great. You know. Fire and all.”
He doesn’t smile.
“Having headaches?” he asks, not looking up from his chart.
I nod, reluctantly. “Off and on. Since the crash.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You should’ve come in sooner. Headaches aren’t good for Omegas. You know that.”
Yeah. Probably. But that would’ve meant admitting I needed help. And I wasn’t in the mood to have another record added to my file in this town.
He runs through the rest of it: blood pressure, oxygen levels, temperature, listening to my lungs. Pokes at the bruise on my hip from where I hit the doorframe escaping the fire.
“You’re lucky,” he says finally, scribbling something on his pad. “Your body’s holding up. But you’re running on empty.”
I shrug. “Aren’t we all?”
That gets a look. One of those quiet, disappointed dad looks. The kind that makes you feel like you just failed a test you didn’t know you were taking.
Then he sets his clipboard aside and sits across from me, suddenly less doctor, more… something else.
“You’ve been through a lot, Lo,” he says. “The crash, now this… and you’ve just come back after everything that happened before. That’s a lot for anyone.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to smirk, “not my first town-wide public disaster.”
“Which is exactly why I’m asking,” he says. “How are youreallyfeeling?”
I freeze.
There it is. The trapdoor.
The question that opens everything up if I answer it honestly.
So I don’t.
I shrug again. “Tired. A little crispy. Nothing a hot shower won’t fix.”
He doesn’t push, not exactly. But he doesn’t let it go, either.
“Lo. Sometimes the body recovers faster than the rest of us. Sometimes what we carry isn’t just physical. That’s especially true for Omegas.”
