Page 43

I think about how to show up—not just once, but over and over.

So I pull out my phone and text her:

Me:Got any lunch plans?

A beat passes.

Quinn:Maybe. Depends who’s asking.

Me:The guy who reorganized the snack bins last night. Alphabetically.

Quinn:Sounds like a real catch.

Me:He’s trying.

Quinn:Then he’s halfway there.

I grin. Because maybe, just maybe, that kiss wasn’t the end of a moment … it was the beginning of something real.

***

By noon, we’re sitting on a bench behind her clinic, sharing grilled cheese sandwiches from the food truck parked outside.

“I forgot how good grilled cheese tastes when you’re starving,” Quinn says, brushing crumbs off her scrubs.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. “That was a highly strategic menu choice.”

She arches a brow. “A. Because it’s easy, or B. because you’re still scared I’ll throw hot soup at you?”

“I’ll take Option C. Comfort food is a gateway to forgiveness.”

She snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming.”

The corner of her mouth tugs up, and for a second, it’s easy. Familiar. Like we’ve rewound time and landed in some better, softer version of ourselves.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” she says.

“Me too.”

We sit in companionable silence for a while, watching the slow pulse of traffic and the wind teasing the edge of her ponytail. Finally, I ask the question that’s been pressing on me all day.

“Last night… the kiss. Did it mean something to you?”

Her breath catches just slightly. Then she nods. “Yeah. It did.”

I exhale. Relief blooming in my chest.

“But it also scared me,” she adds. “Because once we cross that line again, it’s real. And real means risk.”

“I know,” I say. “But I’m not running. Not this time.”

She looks at me then, eyes open and searching.

“I need you to prove that. Not with flowers or grand speeches. Just… by showing up.”

I nod. “Every day. I can do that. I WILL do that.”