Page 94 of Worth the Shot

If nothing else, I need her to understand that it’s okay to not be the Delaney Collins who walks around like the world doesn’t get to her. Because it does. I can see it, and she shouldn’t have to hide it.

“You’re always on,” I tell her softly, as I catch the tears falling from her eyes. “Always the one people fall apart in front of, and you know exactly how to put them back together. But right here, right now? It’s just us, Laney. Just you and me. You don’t have to hold it in.” I brush my thumb along her bottom lip as it starts to tremble. “You can fall apart. You can always fall apart with me.”

Her lip trembles harder, and this time she doesn’t try to stop it. She presses a soft, fleeting kiss to my thumb, and then she lets go. Delaney Collins falls apart in my arms like it’s the safest place she’s ever known, and I hold her tighter, making sure she knows that it is.

We stay like that for what feels like a stolen moment in time. Eventually, she pulls back, just enough to look at me and her eyes are glassy, lashes clumped together, cheeks flushed and damp. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t,” I say immediately, brushing a piece of hair back from her face. “You don’t ever have to apologize for this. Not with me.”

Her gaze lingers on mine like she’s searching for answers I don’t have, and that’s when it hits me. She asked for space. Even if she needed me right now, even if she called me back here anyway, even if every part of me wants to stay right here and make sure she’s okay tonight, that doesn’t change what she said before. Or what she needs now.

My chest tightens as I pull back just enough to give her room, my hands lingering for a second longer before I let them fall away. “I should go,” I say quietly.

Disappointment flickers across her face, just briefly, before relief settles in. “Okay,” she says, just as soft.

I nod, even though it feels like the last thing I want to do. “Call me if you need me. For anything. I mean it.”

She gives me a small nod, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my shirt for half a second before she lets go and it almost undoes me, but I don’t let it. Instead I stand, forcing myself to move before I can change my mind, before I do something selfish like stay. I grab my keys, hesitate for a fraction of a second, then look back at her. She’s still on the floor, arms wrapped around herself now, watching me like she’s trying not to.

“I’m here,” I tell her. “Even when I’m not.”

Her lips part like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. She just silently nods, telling me it’s time.

So I leave.

Every step away from her feels like I’m doing exactly what she needs and the exact opposite of what I want, but I’d do anything for that woman, even if it wrecks me. Every single time.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Delaney

The thing about being an adult and having big feelings? You have to let them go. You have to move the fuck on, and you have to go to work. You have to save lives and stop being so damn emotional. If I’m being honest, this last year has wrecked me in ways I didn’t expect. The man I thought I was building a life with left for LA without a trace, I met another man who made me believe in happily ever after and love in ways I didn’t ever expect, and then the first guy comes back and begs for all of that with me despite his own quarter life crisis episode, which really, do I have room to judge right now?

Brennan left last night and I pulled it together, somehow. I replayed my conversation with Matt over and over again, but then I remembered who took me home. Who knew what I needed just by the look on my face. Before putting the car in drive I pull my phone out and send Brennan a “Good luck” text, adding a red heart at the end. I shove my phone in my scrub pocket and drive to work.

It’s a slow night. Actually, it’s been a slow week. Days since any action. I’m bored, underwhelmed, and fully ready to go home.

My brain is already halfway to my couch when my pager screams:

trauma alert, eta 7 minutes

I drop the chart I was finishing like it’s lava and start moving before my brain catches up. My legs know the way. Trauma bay, bright lights, adrenaline already buzzing under my skin like bees. The team is assembling as I walk in: respiratory is setting up the vent, the trauma surgeon is snapping on gloves, the techs are tearing open packaging and laying out gear. I click suction on, test it, throw trauma shears on a side table, set out IV kits, and check monitors. My hands move automatically, but my heartbeat? Very much not automatically. The charge nurse strides in and her voice is sharp and rapid.

“Puck to the face, unresponsive on ice. Severe concussion likely. Orbital and nasal bridge deformity. Airway questionable, prepare for intubation. Delaney, you’re primary.”

My throat goes tight.

I pretend I didn’t hear the “puck” and “ice” part whisper something horrifying that sounds a lot like—never mind. No. No. I’m not doing that. Could be anyone. Has to be anyone. I steady myself, fingers tapping against the bed rails. I’ve done this a thousand times. I can do it again. Doesn’t matter who it is.

Then the bay doors crash open.

EMS barrels in fast, wheels squealing, the gurney streaked with blood. A lot of blood. The metallic smell of it hits me like a slap. I look at the face—or what’s left of it—and the world drops out from under me.

It’s Brennan.

I freeze for half a second, just long enough to feel something splinter under my ribs. For a beat, it’s like I’m the one who can’t breathe, like I’m the one who needs the airway and the oxygen and the hands dragging me back to life. The smart part of my brain says tap out. My mouth even parts to do it, but there’s no one else. I know I shouldn’t be the one to do this. There are rules specifically meant to prevent nurses from treating the people they love. But we’re short-staffed, the room’s already spinning into motion, and swapping out now would put him at risk. I also can’t shake the irrational certainty that no one will fight for him the way I will.

The charge nurse catches my eye and gives a firm nod to say “you’ve got this” and that tiny gesture snaps everything back into place. And then my training slams into me, brutal and automatic, like a hand around my throat yanking me forward. My pulse is chaos, my heart is wrecked, but my hands? My hands remember exactly what to do.