All it’s ever done is bleed me dry.
They’re calling it a promotion. But it feels like a slow death. Like they’re opening the lid on my coffin and calling it a luxury resort.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed, exhaling hard through pursed lips. Fifteen years of chasing codes, stitching wounds, setting broken bones with one hand while holding back a flood of policy garbage with the other. And now they want me to trade all of that for meetings. Budgets. Committee reports.
And a life outside the hospital I might actually get to live.
I look over at the envelope, glowing faintly under the dome light like it knows exactly what I’ve been thinking since he handed it to me.
Better pay. Better hours. Predictable shifts.
If I’d had those things earlier, I never would have lost Jadelyn. But if I hadn’t lost her, I wouldn’t have met Lucy. But here she is, messy and fierce, full of sharp edges and softer things she doesn’t even know she’s showing me. And now those things I swore I’d never want again… I do.
I want to come home and know she’ll be there.
I want mornings.
I want dinner that isn’t interrupted because the hospital needs me again.
I want to be the man Lucy can count on, not just the man who patched her up when she fell.
I bring the truck engine to life, and pull out of the parking lot, headlights slicing through the quiet dark. The town passes in familiar blurs—closed shops, blinking streetlamps, a stray cat darting across Main. And all the while, my brain builds it. The life. The pitch.
If I take this job, she doesn’t have to go back to Los Angeles. Doesn’t have to worry about finding a new apartment or hustling for jobs that don’t respect her body or her heart. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t have a place to go back to in Los Angeles. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t have a job. I can give her space to figure out what she really wants. Here. With me.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe this is how I get to keep her.
Maybe this is what good timing looks like.
By the time I pull into the driveway, resentment has transformed into hope. The porch light is on. So is the lamp in the front room.
Lucy’s awake.
I take a breath, grab my keys, and step inside.
The door clicks shut behind me. Lucy looks up from the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, one of my hoodies hanging loose on her frame. There’s an unread book open in her lap and a mug on the table beside her that smells like chamomile.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me. Like she’s been doing the same thing all night—thinking,spinning, pacing the walls of her mind and ending up right here, unsure how to start.
“Hey,” I say, voice rough, the look on her face eroding the hope I’d built on the drive home.
“Hey,” she says softly in return.
I nod and hang up my keys. “Sorry I was so late.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She sets the book aside. “I was… hoping we could talk.”
I step closer, trying not to read too much into the way her fingers twist together in her lap.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
Lucy stands, slowly, favoring the injured side just slightly, and meets me halfway. “My agent called today.”
I nod, let her fill the space, even though I see where this is going to lead.
“A spot opened up on the Sandro René tour and they’re offering it to me. A second chance in an industry that doesn’t give them.”
