Page 25

She studies me, and slowly, her expression softens, not into a full smile, but the ghost of one, the barest hint of warmth long forgotten.

“Good,” she says.

The word hits like Carter’s, a stone dropped in still water. I pull on fresh gloves after washing my hands and grab the bandages. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

The rest of my shift blurs into paperwork, police interviews, and guiding my patient through the wreckage he left behind. When I finally change out of my scrubs and grab my bag, the sun’s dipping below the hospital’s east wing, stretching long shadows across the parking lot.

I push through the main doors, exhaustion heavy in my bones, and freeze.

The parking lot looks like a Devil Souls gathering.

My dad’s bike stands guard at the entrance, my mom perched behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. Carter leans against his own bike a few feet away, arms crossed, his cut gleaming in the dying light. Matthew stands rigid with barely contained rage, feet wide, jaw clenched. Morgan, sitting on the hood of Matthew’s truck, stops her swinging legs. Even Trenton, leaning against a bike, wears Matthew’s grim expression.

Every head turns toward me.

Nobody moves for a moment, everyone holding themselves at odd angles, anger and pride and a whole afternoon’s worth of dread still written in their shoulders and jaws.

My mom breaks first, sliding off my dad’s bike and covering the distance in determined strides. She pulls me into a hug that smells like leather and jasmine, her hair brushing my cheek. “Your brother called,” she whispers. “We came as soon as we heard.”

I glance over her shoulder at Matthew, still rooted to his spot. His eyes are hard, protective, just like that night in the barn.

“You didn’t need to come,” I mumble into her shoulder.

“Like hell we didn’t.” My dad’s voice is gruff and unyielding, carrying across the lot. He stays on his bike, hands gripping the handlebars, his face set in worn lines that hold back something fierce.

I step away from my mom and face them all. Their collective gaze feels tangible, pressing against my chest. Carter’s eyes haven’t left mine since I walked out.

“I’m fine,” I say to them all. “Not a scratch on me.”

“Chris said you hit him,” Matthew says, voice tight. “Broke his nose.”

I straighten, meeting his stare. “I did.”

Matthew’s jaw loosens a fraction. My mom squeezes my arm gently. And Carter’s expression flickers with something hot and fierce that makes my stomach flip.

“Good,” my dad says, the word packed with weight.

Morgan slides off the truck hood, her steps measured, eyes bright and knowing. “Karen called me,” she murmurs, stopping in front of me. “She told me what happened. What you did.”

I choke back emotion. “I just reacted. Instinct.”

“No.” Morgan shakes her head, a small smile pulling at her lips. “It was training. It was you choosing to fight back.” Her hand clasps mine, firm. “That wasn’t instinct, Trixie. That was you.”

The words hit me, cracking open something sealed tight. I think about the exam room, how my body acted of its own volition, the crunch of cartilage, the shock on his face when I didn’t run.

That was me. Not just reacting or defending. Just me.

I look past Morgan to Carter. His posture has softened, something almost like reverence in his eyes.

“I taught her that,” he says, his voice rough with an emotion that’s almost territorial.

“You did,” I agree, holding his gaze. “But I chose to use it.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close. “Yeah, you did.”

My dad revs his engine, a decisive sound cutting through the tension. “We’re taking you to dinner,” he announces. “All of us. Celebrate my daughter kicking some ass.”

I should argue. Say I’m tired, overwhelmed. But their faces—my mom’s fierce pride, my dad’s gruff approval, Matthew’s watchfulness, Morgan’s solidarity, Trenton’s respect, and Carter’s intense gaze—make me realize I don’t want to be alone tonight.