I groan, running a hand down my face. “But we are talking about a doctor and his patient. It complicates things.”
Lucy drops the spatula onto the counter with a clatter and turns fully to face me, arms folded acrossher chest. “You’re saying all this like I didn’t kiss you back.”
“You did,” I say softly. “And that’s the problem.”
“Is it?” Her chin lifts. Defiant. Stubborn. Unable to see the magnitude of the obstacles between us.
I straighten from the counter, meeting her gaze. “Lucy, you’re in a vulnerable place right now. No job, no car, no place to go. You’re relying on me more than you’re comfortable with, and I don’t want that dependency to blur the lines.”
Her expression softens slightly, but her stance doesn’t. “So, what? You think I don’t know my own mind?”
“I’m old enough to know the beginnings of a problem when I see one. And I don’t want to take advantage.” I step closer. Not by choice. More like my body makes the decision for me.
Her mouth twists. “You’re not.”
“You say that now.”
Another step. The sweet scent of coconut wraps around me.
Lucy’s jaw ticks, clear blue eyes blazing into mine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide what I should feel. Or how I’ll feel tomorrow. Or what I should think or do. My dad does that.” She crosses the space between us with slow, deliberate steps—crutch and all—until she’s just a few feet away. Her eyes search mine.
“I’m not trying to dictate, Lucy. I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what? You?”
I look down. She’s close enough that I can see the pale line of freckles on her shoulder. The curve of her collarbone. Close enough that if I so much as breathed too deeply, I might brush her with my chest.
Close enough to remember the way she tasted.
“I don’t do casual,” I admit. “I’m not built for it. And right now, I can’t separate the part of me that wants to help you heal from the part that just wants you.”
She’s watching me like she can see everything.
And God help me, that undoes me.
But I take a half step back, forcing distance.
“Maybe we call it a pause,” I say, throat dry. “Not denial. Not regret. Just... space.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods once. Not out of agreement, just understanding.
“Space it is,” she says, and turns back to the stove. She flips another pancake with more force than necessary. “We’ll pretend last night didn’t happen.”
Her voice is light, almost flippant. But I hear the edge in it. She’s angry. Damn it. This is why I can’t get involved. The hurt silence. The quiet conflict. The gut punch of doing everything I know to be right and still being misunderstood. I lived it for years with Jadelyn and I never want to feel that way again.
“You burn those,” I say after a minute, trying to inject some levity, “and I’m revoking your kitchen privileges.”
Lucy shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Don’t push me, Doc. I’ve got a hot pan and limited impulse control.”
I chuckle despite myself, grateful for the tension break. For the flicker of her smile.
We eat the pancakes in silence, seated at opposite ends of the island. She adds too much syrup. I drink more coffee than any sane person should.
But for as awkward as this feels, it’s better. Safer. Lucy isn’t mine to keep. She’s here until she heals and then she’s gone. This distance between us? It’s better.
