Page 14

Chapter fourteen

D amien

The envelope was thick, crisp, and clinical—like everything that came out of Manhattan General. My name was typed neatly on the front, no return address necessary. I already knew who it was from the moment I saw it on the floor of Ruby’s shop, half-shadowed by a bouquet of yellow snapdragons.

I didn’t open it right away.

When I finally tore the seal, I could almost hear my old life breathing through the pages.

"We’d like to formally offer you the position of Lead Investigator for the New Horizons Cardiac Research Initiative.

This role is designed with hybrid flexibility, allowing part-time remote engagement from any location of your choosing.

Your contributions to the field make you uniquely suited for this opportunity. ”

I stopped reading.

My jaw flexed, heart drumming in a rhythm too familiar. The kind that used to fuel me through fourteen-hour surgeries and red-eye flights to medical summits.

This offer wasn’t just a job—it was the dream. The one I’d bled for. Burned out for. Left behind when my hands started shaking and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt human.

I stared out at the lake, its surface still and honest. No paparazzi. No white coats. Just the scent of pine, the call of a loon in the distance, and the echo of Ruby’s laughter from the night before.

“I thought I closed this door,” I muttered, folding the letter in half. “Why does it still creak open?”

The porch steps groaned lightly behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was her.

She padded up beside me barefoot, a hoodie zipped over her pajamas, mug in hand. The sight of her—messy hair, sleepy eyes, soft smile—hit me harder than the letter had.

“Morning,” she said, voice raspy with sleep.

I nodded and scooted over slightly, leaving room for her beside me. She didn’t sit. Instead, she held out her mug. “Chamomile. Don’t worry—I didn’t poison it.”

I took it, grateful, and she crossed her arms, staring out over the lake with me.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

That was the thing about Ruby—she knew how to make space for words without demanding them.

After a few beats, I reached out and gently tugged her hand. She blinked, surprised, as I pulled her down into my lap.

Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, instinctive and warm.

I rested my forehead against hers.

“I haven’t said yes,” I murmured.

She hesitated, then whispered, “You haven’t said no either.”

I closed my eyes.

Silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable, but weighted.

“I’d be working with the best,” I said quietly. “Leading a team. Saving lives in ways I used to only dream about. They’re offering flexibility—remote options. It wouldn’t be like before.”

“But it wouldn’t be this either,” she said, her voice barely a breath.

I nodded. “No. It wouldn’t be Cedar Springs. Wouldn’t be this porch. Wouldn’t be your sketchbook next to my medical journals.”

Her fingers moved slowly through the back of my hair. “You’ve spent your whole life saving people, Damien. Maybe now it’s okay to choose a life that saves you, too.”

I looked at her, heart in my throat.

“I don’t know how to stop being the guy who runs toward pressure. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe you don’t have to stop. Maybe you just need to learn that there’s strength in stillness too.”

I breathed in deeply, the scent of her shampoo grounding me.

“I used to think the only way I mattered was in an OR. That if I wasn’t breaking records or getting published, I didn’t deserve peace.”

“And now?”

“Now…” I swallowed hard. “Now I’m wondering if peace is what I’ve been trying to earn this whole time.”

Ruby’s expression softened.

“I can’t make this choice for you,” she said gently. “But I need to know you’re not running because you’re scared to stay.”

I kissed her temple, slow and certain. “I’m not scared of staying.”

Her lips twitched. “Then what are you scared of?”

I exhaled slowly. “Of being enough outside of the hospital. Of not having the title or the validation. Just… being a man who loves a woman and wants to build a life full of plants and porch swings.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder. “That sounds like a pretty great life to me.”

I held her tighter, heart warring between the echoes of who I’d been and the pull of who I was becoming.

Eventually, we just sat there, the letter folded on the swing beside us, untouched like a ghost of a life I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore.

The sun crept higher, painting gold across the water.

And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel like I had to fix anything.

I just had to choose.

I stared at the lake long after Ruby had gone back inside, her laughter still lingering in the corners of my mind like the faintest scent of wildflowers.

The letter sat on the porch table beside me, folded neatly, taunting me with its weightless promise of prestige.

Cardiac research lead. Flexible schedule. A team of the brightest minds in medicine. My name in headlines again.

But every time I reached for it, my chest tightened. Like my body already knew what my heart wasn’t ready to admit.

If I said yes, would I lose the only peace I’d found in years?

Or worse—would I lose her?

The breeze kicked up, rustling the trees. I picked up my phone and hit the contact I always did when the world felt too loud.

Brandon answered on the third ring, his voice a welcome blend of sarcasm and warmth. “If you’re calling to ask if you should get bangs, I’m hanging up.”

I huffed out a laugh. “I’ve got a letter.”

“Unless it’s from Santa, I’m not interested.”

“It’s from Manhattan General.”

There was a pause. “You opened it?”

“Yeah. They want me to lead the New Horizons research project. Hybrid flexibility. Prestige. All of it.”

He whistled low. “That’s your white whale, man.”

I didn’t answer.

“You haven’t said yes,” he added, catching the silence.

“No.”

“Why not?”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, rubbing the back of my neck. “Because every time I picture going back… I don’t see me. I see the guy who forgot how to breathe. Who lived on black coffee and adrenaline. Who didn’t know how to stop until the shaking started.”

“Damien,” Brandon said, voice steady now. “You’ve already proven you’re a miracle worker. Your hands saved a thousand hearts. Maybe now it’s time to use them to build one.”

That hit harder than I expected.

“You think I’m just scared of going back?” I asked.

“I think you’re scared of letting go of the identity you’ve worn like armor.

But I also think,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “that the guy who once stitched a newborn’s heart the size of a walnut while running on zero sleep…

would be terrified of the life he actually wants.

Because wanting something for yourself means you can lose it. ”

I exhaled, slow and shaky. “I don’t want to lose her.”

“Then don’t.”

“But what if I’m wasting my talents by staying here?” I said, more to myself than to him. “What if I’m letting all those years of training go to waste just so I can string fairy lights with a florist who thinks daffodils have moods?”

He laughed. “Did you just call her the florist?”

I blinked.

Yeah. I did.

Brandon didn’t gloat. He didn’t have to. His voice dropped to something softer. “Look, you’re not turning your back on medicine. You’re choosing to use it differently. You’re allowed to have layers, Damien. You’re allowed to be more than the sum of your résumé.”

I sat back; the phone cradled to my ear like it might anchor me.

“What if I say no, and in ten years I regret it?”

Brandon didn’t hesitate. “Then you regret it. But you’ll do it with someone who holds your hand through every ‘what if.’ That’s the trade-off. And only you get to decide if it’s worth it.”

I closed my eyes, pressing my thumb into the center of my palm.

“And what if I say yes… and lose her?”

This time, the pause was longer. Then he said, “Then you’ll have all the accolades in the world and still be alone at the end of the day. No career, no city, no award will warm your bed or calm your storms like she does. That woman… she’s the one you call home.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I knew he was right.

I ended the call and set the phone down next to the letter. Ruby’s handwriting was still visible on a note she'd left this morning—Don’t forget to water the basil or it’ll yell at you. A heart drawn beside it.

She saw the world in color. In chaos. In things that grew because someone loved them enough to keep them alive.

And somehow, she’d managed to bring me back to life without even trying.

I ran a hand over my face.

The only thing I was truly certain of anymore—was her.

The way she laughed in the middle of a disaster. The way she kissed me like she was fastening herself to solid ground. The way her fingers trembled slightly when she handed me dreams drawn in pencil and ink.

The rest? Just noise.

I picked up the letter one more time. Folded it in half. Then folded it again.

And slid it back into the envelope without reading the rest.

Some doors weren’t meant to stay open forever.

Because sometimes, the miracle wasn’t in going back.

It was in finding the strength to stay.

That night, the world quieted.

No gala. No emails. No decisions. Just the warm scent of lavender tea and the soft murmur of Ruby’s voice as she lay curled beside me on the couch, one foot tucked under her, the other brushing against my leg.

She held an oversized book with cracked leather corners and faded gold lettering across the front— The Wild Encyclopaedia of Blooms & Blunders —and was flipping pages like it held the secrets to the universe.

“This one’s called Scabiosa atropurpurea ,” she read, her voice dramatically formal. “Sounds like a spell. Or a particularly nasty skin condition.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Attractive.”

She grinned, eyes twinkling. “Apparently, it symbolizes ‘unfortunate love.’ Cheerful, right?”

“You’re really selling it.”

“Wait, there’s more!” She traced the description with her finger. “Also known as mourning bride. Which sounds like a soap opera I absolutely want to star in.”

I laughed, unable to take my eyes off her. Her hair was messy from the wind, her sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and her socks—two entirely different colors—were poking out from under the afghan draped across her legs. She looked like chaos personified.

And I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

She looked up and caught me staring.

“What?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

I reached over, ran my knuckles along her jaw, and murmured, “You’re my best decision.”

Her breath caught slightly, her fingers tightening around the book before she slowly closed it and set it aside.

“You mean that?” she asked.

“More than anything I’ve ever meant in my life.”

She smiled, soft and real, then leaned in. I kissed her forehead, letting it linger. Then her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath my lips, her pulse fluttering beneath her jaw.

When our mouths met, it was slow—like we were building something, not breaking anything.

No urgency. Just the quiet certainty that this mattered.

She moved closer, shifting onto my lap as her hands framed my face.

The kiss deepened. I pulled her closer, one arm wrapped securely around her waist, the other resting against her back.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, and her breath hitched as our mouths moved in sync, slow and tender and full of everything we hadn’t said yet.

She pulled back just enough to whisper against my lips, “I want this.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes were shining.

“Not just tonight,” she added. “Us.”

I kissed her again—gentle and sure—and said, “Then you’ve got me. All of me.”

She smiled through it, her hands resting on my chest as I stood and lifted her into my arms.

The book slid to the floor with a soft thump.

I carried her down the hall, the dim light catching in her hair as she rested her head against my shoulder.

And when the bedroom door clicked shut behind us, the world outside faded away.

The morning light was still soft and pale when I eased out of bed, careful not to wake her. Ruby was tangled in the covers, one arm draped over my pillow, her mouth slightly parted in sleep. I paused at the edge of the bed, watching her for a moment.

How she looked so peaceful in a world so loud, I’d never know.

I pulled on a hoodie, scribbled a quick note, and stepped outside, closing the door behind me as quietly as I could.

The garden bed was already half-dug behind her porch—a project I’d started on a whim, unsure if I’d have the courage to finish it. But after last night, I knew I needed to.

Not for her.

For us .

I worked silently, the early birds chirping, the smell of fresh soil rising in the breeze. By the time the sun crested over the treetops, I’d smoothed the last scoop of dirt and placed a hand-painted sign at the center of the bed.

The words were simple, written in my terrible, blocky handwriting.

“For every bloom you’ve ever planted in me.”

It wasn’t poetry.

But it was honest.

And sometimes, honesty bloomed brightest of all.