Page 5 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Five

Richard

The doors slam shut behind us with a finality that vibrates through my bones. For a second, there’s only darkness and the roar of the tornado outside and the sound of our own ragged breathing .

Then the emergency lights flicker on, casting the crowded basement in an eerie, dim glow as the noise diminishes somewhat and stunned silence takes its place.

Tommy Stevens trembles against my chest, his small fingers digging into my soaked shirt. I can feel his heartbeat racing—too fast, too light—against my ribs.

"Easy, buddy," I murmur, smoothing a hand over his damp hair. "You're safe now."

Across from me, Penny sags against the wall, her chest heaving. Rain drips from her ponytail onto the concrete floor. Her eyes meet mine—wide, startled, alive—and something in my chest cracks open.

She could have been out there when it hit.

She almost was.

"Are you hurt?" The words come out rough, easily showing how on edge I am.

She shakes her head, pushing off the wall. "Just winded—and rattled. You?"

I flex my free hand, testing for pain. "Nothing broken."

A woman’s scream cuts through the murmurs of the crowd. "My grandmother—she can't breathe!"

Penny’s already moving before I process the words. "Where?"

The storm continues above us, the building groaning under the fury of wind and hail. The lights flicker again as I pass Tommy to a wide-eyed teenager and follow Penny through the packed bodies.

An elderly woman gasps on a cot near the back, her lips tinged blue. Her granddaughter hovers nearby, hands fluttering uselessly.

Penny drops to her knees beside the cot, already reaching for the woman’s wrist. "Chronic bronchitis?" she asks the granddaughter without looking up.

"Y-yes. Her inhaler—"

"In her bag? Purse?"

"Lost in the scramble."

I’m already shrugging off my soaked jacket, digging in the inner pocket for the emergency kit I always carry. "Albuterol," I say, handing Penny the slim inhaler.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. "You still carry this?"

"Old habit."

From when you needed it after sprinting across campus in the rain.

She doesn’t say it, but I see the memory flicker in her eyes before she turns back to the woman.

"Mrs. Henderson? I’m going to need you to use this inhaler, OK? It’ll help you breathe. Let me know when you’re ready."

The next few hours blur into a haze of triage.

Penny moves through the crowd like a force of nature—calming crying children, redistributing blankets, identifying the worst injuries with a medical professional’s sharp eye.

I set a broken wrist, temporarily at least, stitch a nasty gash from flying debris, and try not to watch her.

I fail.

She’s magnificent.

A flashback hits me like a punch: Penny in our college anatomy lab, handing me instruments before I asked, her brow furrowed in concentration. "You’re thinking too loud," she’d muttered once, pressing a scalpel into my palm. "Just trust your hands."

"Richard."

Her voice snaps me back to the present. She’s holding out a bottle of water, her other hand braced against the wall for balance. Dark circles bloom under her eyes.

"You need to hydrate," she says.

I take the bottle, our fingers brushing again. "You first."

She shakes her head. "There’s a kid with asthma in the corner—"

"Penny." I catch her wrist before she can turn away. Her pulse jumps under my fingers. "Sit down before you fall down."

For a second, I think she’ll argue. Then her shoulders slump, and she lets me guide her to an empty cot.

The basement smells of damp clothes and antiseptic. Somewhere in the crowd, a child cries softly.

The worst of the storm has passed, although the rain continues; some of the uninjured people may be able to return home soon.

Penny’s knee presses against mine as she sits. Neither of us moves away.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

She looks down at her hands, streaked with dirt and someone else’s blood. "I will be."

The lights flicker again, casting her face in shadow.

For the first time in twelve years, I let myself really look at her—the new lines at the corners of her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the freckle just below her ear that I used to trace with my lips.

She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

And I’m still the idiot who walked away.

A crash of thunder shakes the building. Penny jumps, her hand flying to my arm.

"It’s OK. Just more thunder. Shouldn’t be too much longer now," I murmur.

Her fingers tighten briefly before she pulls away. "We should check on Mrs. Henderson again."

I nod, standing with her.

We continue to work on the more minor injuries and the night stretches on—long and exhausting. But for now, in this dim basement, we work side by side.

And for the first time in years, something in my chest unclenches.

The remnants of the storm finally passes just before dawn, leaving behind an eerie silence.

The Community Center doors creak open to reveal a world washed in pale gray light—broken branches litter the streets, power lines dangle like severed veins, and the festival decorations flap tattered from their ropes.

Penny steps out beside me, her arms crossed against the morning chill. Her scrubs are wrinkled, her ponytail half-fallen out, and there’s a smudge of dirt along her jawline. To me, she’s beautiful.

"Jesus," she breathes.

The town square resembles a warzone. The dunk tank lies overturned near the remains of the pie contest table, blueberry filling smeared across the pavement like some kind of abstract crime scene painting.

A moan from our left snaps us both into action.

"Over there," Penny says, already moving toward the sound.

Mr. Higgins—Tommy’s grandfather—lies pinned under a fallen tent pole, his face ashen.

"Don’t move," I order, dropping to my knees beside him. My fingers find his pulse—thready but steady.

Penny’s hands are already probing his ribs. "Can you feel this?"

"Just my leg," he grits out.

The pole rests across his thigh. Blood has soaked through his jeans. He must have been lying here for hours.

Penny meets my eyes over his body. Compound fracture, she says. Possible arterial bleed.

"Lena!" Penny barks over her shoulder. "I need the first aid kit and something for a splint!"

To my surprise, Lena appears instantly, lugging a red plastic toolbox. "Already on it."

We work in perfect sync—me applying pressure to the wound, Penny fashioning a splint from broken table legs and festival banners. Our hands brush as we tie off the bandages, but neither of us flinches this time.

Mr. Higgins grips my arm as we lift him onto a makeshift stretcher. "You two really make a good team."

Penny freezes.

A memory flashes—us in the anatomy lab dissecting human cadavers during our pre-med labs, our shoulders pressed together for hours.

She clears her throat. "Let’s get you to the triage tent. I’m afraid you’re headed to the hospital, Mr. Higgins."

The morning passes in a blur of minor injuries and shock cases. Penny moves through the chaos like a battlefield medic—calm, efficient, and utterly unshakeable. I catch myself watching her more than once.

The way she kneels to check a child’s scraped knee, her voice softening into reassurance.

How she redistributes blankets without being asked, always finding the elderly first. The stubborn set of her jaw when she argues with the mayor about evacuating the worst cases.

At some point, we find we’ve fallen into an unspoken rhythm. She hands me sutures before I ask. I catch her when she stumbles from exhaustion.

When a teenager panics over his dislocated shoulder, we reduce it together. Her hands steady his while I manipulate the joint back into place.

"Nice work, Dr. Hogan," she murmurs as the kid slumps in relief while she fashions a sling for him.

The sound of my name in her mouth—warm and teasing, just like old times—catches me off guard. "Couldn’t have done it without you."

Her lips quirk. Just a little. Just enough.

Nearby, Mrs. Delaney watches us over her lemonade cup. "Y’all act like you’ve done this before."

I pretend not to notice the flush creeping up Penny’s neck. "Just lucky, I guess."

The truth hangs between us, unspoken but palpable.

We have done this before.

And we were damn good at it.

The morning of the second day is almost over as we finally step away from the basement triage area.

Penny sags against a lamppost, her exhaustion palpable in the way her shoulders slump, the slight tremble in her hands as she pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. We haven’t slept in over 24 hours.

"You’re dead on your feet," I murmur.

She huffs a tired laugh. "Takes one to know one."

I don’t argue. My own body feels like it’s been run over by a truck, every muscle aching from the long day’s chaos. But the thought of her walking home alone in the aftermath of the storm—after everything—sits like a stone in my gut.

"Come on," I say, nodding down the street. "I’ll walk you."

She hesitates, just for a second, before nodding.

We move through the quiet streets, the only sounds our footsteps and the distant hum of generators.

The storm left the air thick with the scent of wet earth and broken pine. Penny walks close enough that our arms brush occasionally, the heat of her seeping through my sleeve.

"You were incredible today," I say.

She glances at me, surprised. "So were you."

I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Still remember how to read my mind, huh?"

A small smile tugs at her lips. "Some things don’t change."

Her house looms ahead, the porch light a warm beacon in the dark. We stop at the foot of the steps, the air between us suddenly charged.

"Thanks for today—well, technically yesterday, I guess," she says softly. "And for… you know. Not letting me get sucked into a tornado."

I grin. "Anytime."

She turns to go, but I catch her wrist. "Penny."

She stills. My thumb brushes the delicate skin under her palm, feeling her pulse jump.

When she looks back at me, her eyes are dark, her lips slightly parted.