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Chapter twenty-six

D amien

Hospitals never sleep.

Even on my last day, the place hummed with a low, constant rhythm—monitors beeping, sneakers squeaking down sterile hallways, clipboards shifting in calloused hands. It was the heartbeat I’d lived by for most of my adult life.

And today, I was walking away from it.

I moved slowly, deliberately. No rush now. No one to page me. No emergency to chase. Just echoes of a hundred lives I’d touched—and more than a few I’d let slip away.

The OR stood quiet behind the glass, dark and cold. I pressed my palm against the door like it might thrum back with memory. For a moment, I saw it all—the bright lights, the scalpel in my hand, the charged tension of split-second choices. It had once made me feel invincible.

Now, it just felt… distant.

I kept walking.

The staff lounge was half-full. A few younger residents huddled by the coffee machine, laughing too loudly over something on a phone. They didn’t notice me. I liked it that way.

It reminded me of who I was when I first walked into this building—hungry, stubborn, ready to carve my name into the world. Back then, I thought medicine would fill all the cracks.

I didn’t realize I’d built my entire identity around fixing things—while quietly breaking myself.

I stepped into the locker room and opened mine for the last time. Inside was the usual: backup scrubs, a notebook filled with old case notes, and a photo of my mom I’d taped to the back wall years ago. Her smile still made my chest ache.

Taped beneath it now was a dried clover Ruby had once handed me after I’d talked an anxious patient through a panic attack. “For good luck,” she’d said, grinning like it was magic.

I slipped the clover into my wallet next to the daisy.

Then I reached into my bag, pulled out a white envelope, and left it inside the locker.

For the next young surgeon.

They’d find it when they needed it. Or maybe they wouldn’t. But I needed to leave something behind—not advice from a pedestal, but truth from the trenches.

Don’t let the work become your identity. Let it be your gift—not your cage.

Remember to rest. To listen. To fall in love with something outside the OR.

And when you forget—because you will—start again. That’s the only real rule.

I closed the locker slowly, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should’ve.

That was it.

No parade. No final case. No clapping hands or dramatic speeches.

Just a man who came here chasing a calling—and was leaving because he’d found something even more sacred.

Peace.

I walked out the back exit and into the late afternoon sun, slinging my duffel over my shoulder. Ruby’s letter sat on the dashboard of my truck, folded and reread a dozen times. The paper had softened at the edges, but the words still hit like they had the first time:

You taught me love isn’t a thunderstorm—it’s the garden that blooms after.

I ran my fingers over the daisy next to it. The pressed petals were delicate, brittle now, but still beautiful. Still intact.

Just like us.

I turned the key and let the engine purr to life, then pulled out of the hospital lot without looking back.

I didn’t need to.

That chapter was closed.

As the highway unrolled ahead, the tension that had once lived permanently between my shoulders began to ease. My breath deepened. I adjusted the rearview mirror, not to see behind me—but to make room for what came next.

I didn’t know what would happen with Ruby’s proposal. Or with the community hub we dreamed of building.

But I knew one thing with certainty:

I wasn’t chasing a title anymore.

I was following a feeling. One that smelled like lavender and sounded like laughter in the garden.

One that waited for me in Cedar Springs.

I reached over and touched the edge of her letter again, the corner lifting in the breeze from the cracked window.

“I’m coming home,” I whispered.

And this time, I meant it with every beat of my heart.

The city receded behind me in the rearview mirror, but before I could officially call it done, I had one more stop to make.

Brandon’s clinic sat tucked between a faded laundromat and a mural-covered bookstore on the corner of 7th and Hill.

Nothing about it screamed “modern medicine.” There were no motion-activated doors or polished marble floors—just peeling brick, a hand-painted sign, and the smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of takeout.

But inside, it always felt like coming home.

I parked and walked in without knocking. Brandon never kept his door closed—not to patients, and certainly not to me.

He looked up from his desk, wearing that same beat-up blue cardigan he swore gave him “clinical wisdom.” His glasses hung low on his nose, and a half-eaten granola bar perched on top of a folder labeled Smith, L. in thick black ink.

He didn’t smile right away.

Just studied me.

Then, with a slow nod, he said, “Took you long enough.”

I barked a laugh and dropped into the chair across from him, the familiar creak of worn vinyl beneath me.

“I needed time,” I said. “And a few mistakes.”

He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “You always were the kind who learned best by falling hard.”

“I fell, all right.” I let out a breath, hands resting on my knees. “But I didn’t break.”

Brandon nodded again, slower this time. “Good. Because the Damien Cole I knew didn’t need to be flawless. He just needed to remember why he started.”

I stared at the framed photo on his wall—an old one, us at some charity gala a decade ago, both in tuxes and pretending we knew how to smile for cameras. We were younger then. Hungrier. A little lost in all the right ways.

“I thought success meant never needing anyone,” I said after a long pause. “That if I worked hard enough, gave enough, fixed enough… I’d never have to ask for anything.”

Brandon tilted his head. “And how’d that turn out for you?”

I chuckled softly. “Lonely. Exhausting.”

“Predictable,” he corrected gently. “You were always chasing excellence, Damien. And that’s not a bad thing. But somewhere along the way, you stopped letting people walk beside you.”

“I thought they’d slow me down.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

I smiled, but it didn’t feel cocky. It felt… earned. “Now I want someone who walks beside me. Even if I stop to smell the roses.”

He grinned. “Or plant them?”

My chest tightened in the best way. “Especially that.”

He stood and walked to the small filing cabinet in the corner. From the top drawer, he pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A letter of recommendation. It was for a board seat they offered me last year at a teaching hospital downtown. I turned it down.”

“Why?”

He looked at me then, all calm certainty. “Because I realized healing people didn’t have to mean climbing. It meant staying rooted. And I figured one of us ought to be the example, in case you ever needed it.”

I swallowed hard.

“You’ve always been a better doctor when you were a better man first,” he said. “And from what I hear… you’re finally both again.”

“Ruby helped me remember,” I admitted. “Not just who I was—but who I could be. Someone who still saves lives. Just not at the cost of living mine.”

Brandon nodded, his voice soft. “That’s the version of you I always hoped would win out.”

I stood, envelope still in hand. “I’m heading back to Cedar Springs.”

“Good.”

“I’m not sure what comes next. We’ve got ideas—dreams. A hub for floral therapy, mental health, maybe even wellness clinics.”

His eyes lit up. “Now that’s the medicine of the future. People forget the heart isn’t just a muscle. It’s the center.”

“Exactly.”

We hugged—quick and strong, the way men do when they don’t need to say anything else.

As I turned to leave, he called out, “You’ll make mistakes again. Just make them with people who matter.”

I turned at the door. “That’s the plan.”

Back in the truck, I placed the manila envelope on the passenger seat next to Ruby’s letter and the daisy she’d once pressed into my palm. The city skyline blinked in the distance behind me, but I didn’t look back.

The road ahead shimmered with promise.

And this time, I wasn’t running from anything.

I was heading toward everything.

…

The sky outside my windshield burned soft amber, that in-between light where day kissed night and everything felt suspended—like time was holding its breath. I glanced at the dashboard clock. I was cutting it close.

I tapped out the message with one thumb while the other hand steadied the wheel.

Back by sunset. Hope there’s coffee—and cookies you pretend you didn’t burn. Send.

A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. I could almost hear her laugh, the way it curled up like wind chimes in warm weather. I hadn’t heard it in days. I missed it like oxygen.

A small bakery bag rustled in the seat beside me—Hazel had tipped me off to Ruby’s favorite shortbread, so I stopped at a roadside market and grabbed two dozen. One dozen to share. One for emergencies.

The trees along the edge of the road blurred into soft green shadows as I curved down the familiar backroad toward Cedar Springs.

The place that felt more like home than anywhere else had ever dared to.

The duffel bag in the backseat held my past life.

The pressed daisy in my jacket pocket held my future.

I was almost there.

Ruby

I read Damien’s text three times, my fingers curled tight around my phone like I was afraid it might vanish. Hazel, standing beside me with a tray of peach scones, leaned over my shoulder.

And squealed.

Then, before I could blink, she’d spun me around in a full, dizzying circle like we were teenagers at prom and she was escorting me to a Taylor Swift song.

I laughed, breathless. “Hazel!”

She beamed. “He’s coming home.”

“I think he really is,” I whispered.

I stared out the window toward the horizon, where orange and rose gold brushed the sky in long strokes. Cedar Springs glowed like a storybook illustration—lights flickering on in shop windows, the scent of cinnamon and honeysuckle threading through the evening air.

Still, a part of me ached.

“I’m scared I’m dreaming,” I admitted, barely louder than the breeze.

Hazel grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Girl, even your dreams couldn’t script this happy ending. Now come on—we’ve got a celebration to throw.”

The town rallied faster than I could blink.

Someone hung bunting across Main Street.

Eleanor and Marge made signs that said WELCOME HOME, DOC in crooked, glittering block letters.

Kids darted between tables with streamers tangled around their arms. The bakery brought out trays of chocolate chip cookies.

I made a mental note to tell Damien they were absolutely not from me.

I’d never seen Cedar Springs come alive like this. It wasn’t a grand parade or a movie scene—it was simple, heartfelt, and full of mismatched chairs and overdone lemonade. It was home.

And it was waiting for him.

The sun slid lower, casting long shadows on the pavement. The crowd shifted. Murmurs rose. A few folks checked their watches. Eleanor squinted down the road and muttered, “He’s late.”

I laughed nervously. “Maybe he stopped to fix someone’s heart on the way here.”

Hazel elbowed me gently. “He’s coming, Ruby. He wouldn’t miss this.”

I nodded.

But my heart paced harder.

Damien

I hit the brakes and cursed under my breath. A construction sign blinked DETOUR AHEAD in blazing orange, and the two-lane backroad narrowed into gravel. A semi had jackknifed two miles back, rerouting traffic through the woods.

Of course.

I grabbed my phone. No signal.

I glanced at the time—seven thirty-eight.

Sunset was minutes away.

The engine hummed as I turned onto the detour, the tires crunching over gravel and dust. My thoughts raced alongside the pickup.

Please don’t let her think I changed my mind.

Please let her know I’m still choosing her.

Please—

The trees thinned. The gravel gave way to asphalt. And there it was, just ahead—the edge of Cedar Springs. I could see the tips of houses, the steeple of the old church, the silhouette of the Hearts in Bloom sign like a lighthouse pulling me home.

But I was still minutes out.

And she was waiting.