She looks like a ghost. Her skin is sallow, with shadows under her eyes so dark they look like bruises, and her hair is pulled back in a knot.
She’s no less beautiful. Just tired.
When she sees me, she doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even look surprised. She just sags against the doorframe.
“I’m really tired, Doc. I’m just going to take a shower and go to bed.”
“I’ll wait.”
Her eyes flick to mine, defensive. “I’m not coming back out. I’m going to sleep for a week.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be on the couch. I just want to make sure you actually eat something.”
I can see the way she’s vibrating with that high-frequency hum of a person who is about to snap. If I let her close this door now, she’ll bolt it from the inside—emotionally and physically—and I’ll lose the ground I’ve gained.
I don’t think she has the energy to argue, so she simply turns, leaves the door open, and disappears into her apartment.
A moment later, I hear the bathroom door slam before the roar of the shower echoes in her apartment.
I make her a sandwich and a cup of coffee, then I sit and wait.
I’ll wait all damn night if I have to.
Twenty minutes later, the steam clears, and shewalks out. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie and those ridiculous slippers, her damp hair clinging to her neck. She sees me sitting at her table, and I catch the moment grief turns to fire. She’s done being the steady one. She needs to hit something, and I’m the only target in range.
“Why are you still here, Beckett?” she snaps, crossing her arms. “I told you I was going to bed.”
“You need to eat.”
“I don’t need a keeper,” she fires back. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Really, it was great, but I think it’s a bad idea for us to—”
“For us to what?”
She swallows. “For us to see each other anymore.”
Her gaze locks with mine for one, two, three seconds before it drops.
You want a fight, baby? Bring it on.
I lean back, crossing my arms. “Bullshit.”
She freezes, her eyes widening. “What?”
“I said bullshit, Madison. You’re not ending this because you don’t want me. You’re shutting me out because I’ve seen the parts of your life you keep hidden. You’re terrified that now that I’ve seen everything, the mystery is gone and I’ll take off running.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she scoffs, reaching into the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water with trembling hands.
“Put it down,” I say.
“No.”
“Put the water down and look at me.”
She slams the bottle onto the counter. “You can’t just swoop in here and fix me, Beckett. I’m not one of your patients. I’m not a cracked rib or a puncturedlung. You can’t stitch this up and tell me I’ll be fine in six weeks!”
“I don’t want to fix you.” I finally stand, my chair scraping harshly across the floor. I’ve reached my limit. I’ve spent weeks worrying and holding back, and I’m done being patient.
“Then what do you want?” she screams. “Why are you still standing in my kitchen?”
