Page 12

Chapter 12

The Anatomy of Us

We lapse into comfortable silence again, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my skin, now with no intent beyond connection.

"How did you get this?" I trace the outline of a scar on his ribs, curious about its origin.

"Fell out of a tree when I was twelve," he explains, noticing my attention. "Caught a branch on the way down. Seventeen stitches."

"Climbing trees at twelve?" I tease, imagining a younger Cole with the same fearless approach to life. "Weren't you a little old for that?"

"Never too old for climbing trees," he counters with a smile I can hear in his voice. "Especially when you're trying to impress Melissa Jenkins, who lived next door and thought I was a 'boring bookworm.'"

I laugh softly, imagining the scene. "Did it work? Were you impressive?"

"Well, the ambulance ride definitely got her attention," he admits ruefully. "Though not in the way I'd hoped."

The casual anecdote reveals another layer of him—the boy beneath the confident man, the vulnerability beneath the strength. I find myself hungry for more of these glimpses, these pieces of his history that have shaped who he is.

"Any other scars with stories?" I ask, shifting to prop myself on one elbow to see his face.

His smile is warm and indulgent. "A few, but it's your turn. What about this?" His finger traces a thin white line below my left collarbone, barely visible against my olive skin.

"Bicycle accident. Six years old. Went over the handlebars into a rosebush."

His wince is sympathetic. "Ouch."

"I was more upset about ruining my favorite shirt than about the injury," I recall, the memory surprisingly vivid. "My mother was horrified—she's always been squeamish about blood, which is ironic given that both my parents are doctors."

"Ah, so medicine is the family business." His tone is light but interested. "No pressure there, I'm sure."

"None whatsoever," I agree with exaggerated innocence. "Just subtle reminders about legacy and tradition at every family dinner."

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath my hand. "And yet you chose trauma surgery—probably the specialty most guaranteed to give your blood-averse mother heart palpitations."

The observation is unexpectedly insightful. "I never thought of it that way," I admit. "But you might be right. There may have been an element of rebellion in my choice."

"Along with genuine aptitude and passion," he adds, not letting me diminish my achievements. "You don't become a department head through rebellion alone."

I smile, appreciating his perspective. "True. I do love what I do, maternal approval notwithstanding."

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture tender in a way that makes my chest tighten. "It shows. When you talk about your work, you light up. It's beautiful to watch."

The simple compliment touches me more deeply than more elaborate praise might have. He sees me—not just the accomplished surgeon or the attractive woman, but the person beneath, with all my passion, drive, and purpose.

"What about you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Did you always want to be a doctor?"

He considers this, fingers still playing with my hair. "Not always."

"What changed your mind?"

"Funny enough, I shadowed a trauma surgeon during my sophomore year of college," he explains. "Watched him manage six critical patients simultaneously, coordinate with every department in the hospital, advocate fiercely for his patients' needs, and never lose his composure or compassion through a forty-eight-hour shift from hell."

His admiration for this mentor is evident in his voice. "I realized that was the kind of healthcare provider I wanted to be—in the thick of it, hands-on, forming real connections with patients. The direct care, not just the diagnosis and treatment plan."

The insight into his professional choices helps me understand him better—his focus on community, his emphasis on relationship over status, and his comfort with a less prestigious but no less vital role in healthcare.

"You're good at it," I tell him, thinking of how I watched him interact with patients during my brief stay in Angel's Peak. "The connection part, especially. Your patients trust you implicitly."

“I appreciate that.” He smiles at the compliment, the kind that lingers in his eyes more than on his lips.

A beat of silence passes. His fingers trail lazily down my spine, not sexual—just there, steady, anchoring.

“But truthfully?” he says, voice dipping quieter. “Med school wasn’t even on my radar until I realized the military would pay for it.”

“You served?” That catches my attention, and then I vaguely remember him mentioning it the night we met.

“Seven years. Army. They paid for my education. I gave them my time—and then some.” His thumb brushes my shoulder absently, his voice steady, matter-of-fact. “I worked on a critical care transport team. We flew into hot zones, stabilized soldiers on the front lines, and got them to a hospital alive. High-intensity trauma, field medicine, no margin for error.”

I feel him beneath me—not just the body, but the weight of his past, his purpose.

“That’s where I fell in love with emergency medicine,” he continues. “Not just because it’s fast, but because it matters. It’s immediate. Life or death, every minute.” His tone doesn’t hold bravado. No need to impress. Just truth. “You don’t always get long-term outcomes. You don’t always get thank-yous. But you get to do something. Right then, right there. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

“It explains a lot." I lay my head against his chest, listening to the quiet thrum of his heart.

“Like what?”

“Why you’re calm under pressure. Why you don’t waste time on bullshit. Why you’re…” I search for the word. “Solid.”

“Solid, huh?” That earns a quiet laugh. "What about dominant?"

“You’re that too, in the best way. Steady. Strong. Capable.” I tilt my head, grinning.

His arms tighten around me, a subtle pull that says more than words.

“You liked the cuffs,” he says, not a question but a knowing statement.

“I did.” I nod, pulse skittering.

“And the crop?” His voice dips low, gravel edged with silk. “You didn’t expect to like that.”

“No,” I whisper, throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t.”

“But you did.”

I swallow, then nod again.

“I need to hear it, sweetheart." His hand cups the back of my head, guiding me to look up at him fully. "No hiding. No pretending.”

“I liked it,” I admit, voice barely more than breath. “The cuffs, the crop… all of it. You made it feel—safe. And intense. And—God—it was so good, better than I ever imagined something like that could be.”

“That’s because you give everything when you surrender." His eyes soften, even as his grip on me stays firm. "You don’t hold back.”

“I didn’t know I could be like that,” I whisper.

“You are like that,” he says, brushing his lips across my temple. “And I fucking love it.”

I press my face into his throat, overwhelmed by how exposed I feel—how seen. Not just for the polished, in-control surgeon I’ve always been… but for this other version of me. The one only he has brought out. The one who kneels. Obeys. Burns.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tease. Just holds me tighter, skin against skin, the silence between us rich with truth.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Every side of you. Every scar. Every secret.”

With startling clarity I realize how safe I am with him. Not just in the bedroom, but in the world.

His hand squeezes mine, warm and sure. I can feel the calluses on his fingers—earned, not inherited.

“So what made you leave the military?” I turn my head slightly, studying his profile in the dim light.

“Being in the military teaches you to assess fast, act faster, and carry the weight when no one else can,” he says softly. “That doesn’t go away when the uniform comes off.”

“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t.”

This is what sets him apart. Not just his strength but his willingness to carry others. To step into the chaos and offer calm. His chest rises with a long breath, his thumb tracing idle circles against my skin.

“Seven years is a long time in combat medicine,” he says quietly. “I’d seen enough broken bodies. Enough loss. I loved the work, the people—but there comes a point when the weight never fully leaves your shoulders.”

He pauses, not for effect, but to gather something heavy before sharing it.

“I didn’t want to burn out or become numb. That’s how mistakes happen. How compassion dies.”

My fingers tighten around his, silent understanding passing between us.

“So you went back to Chicago.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth—wry, nostalgic, tinged with something else.

“Yeah. Took a position at Rush, figured I’d reconnect with family, build a life there.”

“You didn’t like it.” It’s not a question.

He shakes his head. “Big hospital. Prestige, politics. And people who measured success in publications and titles, not in lives touched.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice—just quiet conviction.

“I tried to make it fit,” he continues. “But I felt like a cog in a machine. One patient in, one patient out. No time to see them. To know them. And I missed that. The connection. The purpose.”

I can almost see it—him walking those sterile halls, shoulders tense, jaw tight, feeling like something vital was slipping away.

“So you came back here,” I murmur.

He nods. “Angel’s Peak grounded me. It reminded me why I got into medicine in the first place. Not to climb ladders. Not to chase accolades. But to help others.” His gaze lifts to mine, intense and unflinching.

His smile is pleased but humble. "It's easier in a small community. You're not just treating the illness or injury—you're treating Mrs. Wilson whose grandchildren you delivered, or Jake Miller who taught you to fish when you first moved to town." He's quiet for a moment, considering the question. "In a place like Angel's Peak, I can practice medicine the way I believe it should be—holistically, personally, without the bureaucracy and politics plaguing larger institutions."

The subtle dig at my world—the urban medical center with its hierarchy and competition—doesn't escape me. But there's no judgment in his tone, just a statement of his values and choices.

"Different approaches, different settings," I observe. "Both valid, both necessary." My chest tightens with something I can’t quite name.

Cole didn’t return to Angel’s Peak for the slower pace. He returned because it gave him back himself, and maybe, just maybe… this place, this man, this moment—Is starting to give something back to me, too.

He must see the question in my eyes, the quiet wondering if a place like Angel’s Peak really gives him enough of what he needs.

He tips his head slightly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“And for the record,” he says, voice low and knowing, “I still get plenty of trauma experience here.”

“Oh?”

His thumb brushes along my knuckles, lazy and warm. “You’d be surprised how many people injure themselves doing stupid shit in the mountains. Backcountry skiers, overconfident climbers, tourists who think they’re invincible until they aren’t.”

I laugh softly.

He smiles, but there’s an edge of steel beneath it. “Snowmobile wrecks. Avalanche victims. Hypothermia, concussions, compound fractures miles from the nearest road. When those calls come in, I’m back in it—triage, stabilize, transport. It’s like the military in that way. Fast, high-stakes. You do what you can in the moment and get them out alive.”

“And the hospital’s equipped for that?”

“Not always. We need another doc. Two really.”

"Two?"

"A family practitioner and another ER doc or trauma surgeon." His tone is dry. “I’ve got medevac on speed dial, wilderness kits in my truck, and training that doesn’t rely on four walls and perfect conditions.”

I look up at him, more impressed than I want to admit.

“It’s the best of both worlds,” he says simply. “The adrenaline of emergency medicine when it counts… and the quiet, human parts the rest of the time.”

I feel it—that same quiet steadiness he’s shown me since the beginning. The kind of man who doesn’t need to shout his strength because he lives it.

“Exactly.” His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. “The world needs brilliant surgeons in state-of-the-art hospitals just as much as it needs dedicated providers in rural clinics. Different pieces of the same puzzle.”

I smile, but my chest tightens.

Because I heard it.

He said trauma surgeon. Not just any doctor. Not just help. He needs someone like me.

And for a heartbeat, I imagine it—trading my long shifts and overrun OR schedules for mountain sunrises, knowing every patient by name, being part of something quieter, more personal.

But it doesn’t last.

Because no matter how much I want to give him everything, Angel’s Peak isn’t built for someone like me. Not long-term. Not professionally.

The trauma center in Denver throws everything at me—multi-vehicle crashes, gunshot wounds, construction accidents, high-stakes surgery that pushes my skills to the edge of exhaustion. I’ve trained for this. Lived for this. And if I walk away now, I know what happens.

Those skills dull.

Muscle memory fades.

The edge I’ve earned becomes a memory instead of a blade.

He may need a trauma surgeon—but not this trauma surgeon. Not the one who thrives in chaos, who lives for the controlled burn of adrenaline and split-second decisions with lives on the line.

But I don’t say any of that aloud.

Because I just want to be—still, quiet and breathe the same air as him. Letting myself pretend, just for a while, that maybe there’s a world where we fit without compromise.

"Speaking of puzzles," I say, shifting closer to kiss his jaw, "I think I've figured out one piece."

"Oh?" His eyebrow lifts in question, but his arm tightens around me.

"Mmm." I trail my fingers down his chest, feeling the muscles tighten beneath my touch. "I've determined that your assessment of me earlier—'elegant, accomplished, carefully controlled'—was accurate as far as it went."

"But?" he prompts, catching the implication in my tone.

"But it was incomplete." My hand continues its downward journey, gratified to feel his immediate physical response. "There's another side you bring out in me. One that's not in control at all."

His breath catches as my fingers encircle him. "I've noticed," he manages, voice roughening. "It's becoming one of my favorite things about us."

"Us," I repeat, the simple pronoun somehow significant. "I like the sound of that."

"So do I." He moves suddenly, rolling to position himself above me, his weight supported on his forearms. "And I intend to keep bringing out that uncontrolled side of you as often as possible."

His mouth claims mine in a kiss that quickly rekindles the desire I thought momentarily sated. As his hands begin their expert exploration again, as my body responds with increasing urgency to his touch, I surrender to the moment and the connection that continues to grow between us.

Whatever challenges await us—distance, schedules, the competing demands of our respective careers—they can wait. This moment belongs to us, to our discovery of each other, and to the unexpected joy of finding a perfect match in the most unlikely circumstances.

And as Cole proves, yet again, his mastery of my body and his understanding of my deepest desires, I hope that this connection is strong enough to withstand whatever tests lie ahead.