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“Nice work,” she says. “You kept us focused.”

I nod. My voice is gone.

I barely sit down when the next call comes in.

11:30 p.m. — Diabetic ketoacidosis. A college student. She’s disoriented. Eyes glassy. Her blood sugar is through the roof, ketones spilling into her system. Her hands shake as I start theIV. She’s mumbling about missing insulin doses because of a tight budget.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “We’ve got you.”

By 2 a.m. we’d stabilized her. I call her older sister to come pick her up, and she starts crying as soon as she arrives. I don’t blame her. I’m barely holding it together myself. I think of how close I am to my sister, Abby, and I totally get it. I just cannot imagine almost losing her to anything like this.

At the end of my shift, I find a corner of the break room and sit. My scrubs are stiff with sweat and dried blood. My hands ache. My back is killing me. But my mind is clear in that way only crisis can create.

This work still matters. Even when it’s messy. Especially then.

I drive home with the windows down. The world is quiet. I’m grateful for it. My shower pounds me until the hot water runs out. I barely remember toweling off before I’m asleep face down on top of my bed covers.

***

Sunday arrives with sunshine and the smell of charcoal. Abby’s backyard is already buzzing when I get there—lawn chairs everywhere, Griff trying to start the grill while Jake launches water balloons at his dad. Beckett doesn’t take it sitting down and launches into a full out race around the yard to catch up and tickle Jake until he squeals.

Wes shows up ten minutes later, holding a store-bought pie with the label still half-attached.

“I made dessert,” he says, deadpan.

“That is, you paid for with cash, right?”

“Exactly,” he says, straight-faced. “Basically homemade.”

Everyone laughs. Even Megan.

Wes still fits here, just like in his school days at Beck’s parent’s house. He laughs with ease, gives Jake a piggyback ride through the sprinkler, gets teased by Liz for overcooking one burger andbeing treated like furniture by Violet, who falls asleep against his shoulder mid tiny bites of potato salad.

I watch him. And I feel something new and fragile bloom in my chest.

Not fear.

Peace.

After dinner, I find him refilling drinks near the picnic table.

“This is the most relaxed I’ve seen my family in weeks,” I say. “They’re always open to having anyone and everyone at their house. It makes for a wonderful, caring place to be.”

“They’re also loud and competitive and secretly judge each other’s potato salad,” Wes interjects.

Then he grins. “Still good people.”

We step away from the group, toward the edge of the yard. The sky glows with the last rays of sun, everything cast in warm gold.

“Wes,” I say, “this thing between us—it’s not just a warm-weather phase.”

“I know.”

“It scares me sometimes. I worked so hard to build something steady after you left.”

“I don’t want to shake that,” he says. “I want to build on it.”

I study his face, the way he says it like a promise, not a pitch.