It’s midnight by the time we spill out into the cold. The wind is biting and my eyes water.
“Travel safe,” Amber calls out as she loops her arm through Nevaeh’s.
“Text when you get in,” Ezra adds.
Rio hugs me, longer this time. “Promise me something?”
“That depends,” I tell him with a nervous smile.
“Promise you’ll take care of yourself. Not just your patients.”
I’m touched by the concern. “I promise.”
He lets me go with a tight smile and a muttered “good.” Jogging after the others, he nearly falls down on a patch of ice.
Walking the few blocks to the nearest station, my heart is full from the night out. These people knew me long before trauma cases, sleepless shifts, and secondhand grief wore down parts I’m still trying to reclaim. They see the real me—not Nurse Campbell, not Racer Ivy, not whichever version I’m struggling to hold together any given day. And God, I love them for it.
The sting in my eyes has nothing to do with the wind. It’s gratitude, sharp and overwhelming. I forget, sometimes, that I’m allowed to be this version of myself—a messy and loud woman who loves laughing too hard with her friends. Not responsible for saving anyone. Just a girl in her late twenties who loves wearing something else than scrubs or workout gear while listening to live music.
I wish we had more nights where nothing mattered except glitter-rimmed cocktails and the safety of being surrounded by people who have witnessed life’s worst moments and stayed. But life’s not built that way anymore. My schedule is hectic, their lives are full, and every time I blink, another month has slipped by.
Still, I make myself another quiet promise: I won’t let too much time pass again. Not with the ones who remind me who I am. Because in a world asking so much from me, they’re the rare kind of magic I never want to lose.
18
IVY
DECEMBER 22
The air of the nearly empty outdoor arena smells of shaved ice and rubber as I lace up my skates, the cold seeping through my practice gear. I pop my visor down and let the start countdown run in my head: three…two…one…go. My thighs are already sore from today’s gym training, but I shove off anyway. I lean into the first banked turn, the ache in my right knee reminding me of an old injury. It should make me slow down.
Instead, I push deeper into the curve, chasing the sting. Because pain makes more sense than what’s in my mind right now. Pain is simple. You fall, you bruise, you rise. There’s a pattern to it. Unlike my deepening feelings toward a man who refuses to leave my mind.
Teddy pops into my thoughts no matter how hard I try to ignore him. I’m crushing on a patient while praying I’m not walking into the same fire I’ve burned in before. The attraction feels like the drop from the start ramp: my stomach is in my throat, gravity yanking me forward and there are no brakes once I’ve launched.
But the risk draws me in.
And that’s a major problem. Broken men bring challenges that have always been my weakness. I patch them up, pour myself out, and tell myself this time will be different. It never is. They never see the true me or how much I need to be cared for, too. I swore I’d never let myself get pulled into that cycle again. So why does my pulse sprint the second his dimple shows? Why do I crave the way his walls go down when we’re alone? Sure, it might be harsh to put Teddy in the same box as my ex-flings, but we met because he’s my patient. If that’s not at least mildly broken, then I’ve seriously misjudged my scale.
The boards blur in my peripheral vision as I throw myself into another lap, skating recklessly. Every crash I’ve ever taken flashes through me like old bruises, but at least when I hit the ice, I know why I fell. On the track, the risks are clean and the consequences straightforward. There are no games or messy entanglements. Not like with men and matters of the heart.
I push myself, running the track again and again, until sweat slicks the back of my neck and the metallic taste lingers on my tongue. Only when my legs threaten to give out do I finally stop. Tugging my helmet off, strands of sweaty hair stick to my forehead. My reflection stares back from the windows of the building housing the dressing rooms—I’m the girl who’s supposed to know better. Hell, I’ve lectured other nurses about boundaries; I’ve given myself the same talk, but it isn’t sticking.
My mind veers to Teddy again—his laugh, his stupid charm, and how his voice softens when he lets me see the cracks. I tell myself not to think about him. That I’m just setting myself up for another fall. But standing here, I realize I’m already tipping over the edge.
I should go straight home and ice my body. Practice totally wiped me out. My legs are overcooked noodles, and my ribs ache from when I clipped the barrier on a downhill turn. Every breath I take carries a reminder:you’re human.
Instead, I drive three extra blocks to Hudson Hash Diner. The Queens location is open all night, with the flickering sign promising the best pancakes in all of the five boroughs. The large windows are fogged with steam, and the scent of sizzling butter wraps around me the second I step inside.
“Two portions of plain pancakes with butter and maple syrup to go, please,” I tell the guy behind the counter, sliding a tip into the jar.
In a matter of minutes, I’m in my car with a brown paper bag warming my lap, wearing my post-shower hoodie and joggers, my hair damp from a rushed rinse at the arena.
Checking the time, I wince. It’s technically after visiting hours, but I know who’s working tonight. And I know Teddy, he’ll be happy to get his pancakes. He’s not expecting me; but once practice ended, all I wanted was to see him.
Thirty minutes later, I nod at Samson, one of the other nurses, sitting behind the desk. He spots the bag in my hand and gives me a look screaming“girl, really?”before offering a resigned wave-through. Thank fuck he’s not the gossiping kind, so the rest of the nurses won’t hear about my surprise visit.
I knock once, letting myself into Teddy’s room. He’s upright in bed, looking toward the door.
