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Chapter twenty-eight

D amien

The first thing I noticed when I woke was the scent of lavender.

It clung to the sheets, hung in the air, and soaked into my bones.

For a second, I didn’t open my eyes. I just breathed, letting the quiet hum of Cedar Springs seep back into my soul.

When I did open them, soft morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains.

Ruby’s guest cottage might be small, but it was magic in the morning.

I rolled over, half expecting to find her tangled beside me, but the bed was empty. Only a faint warmth on the pillow remained. She’d been here recently.

Pushing myself up, I swung my legs over the side and let them hit the hardwood floor with a satisfying thud. My boots were by the door, my duffel open in the corner, and on the bedside table sat a single daisy in a tiny glass jar. Still fresh.

I smiled, shook my head, and padded barefoot out onto the front porch.

The air was already alive with motion. Across the street, Marge was stringing bunting between two oak trees, a roll of duct tape hanging from her elbow. Hazel stood nearby with a basket of blueberry muffins, arguing good-naturedly with a man holding a folding chair.

Eleanor was pacing a few feet away, fanning herself dramatically with a stack of index cards. I could practically hear her muttering speeches under her breath.

I took a long sip from the coffee mug Ruby had left for me. It read: Grump Level: Diagnosed.

How could something as small as that mug make me feel more seen than my entire career?

Hazel spotted me first. She lit up like the Fourth of July and made a beeline for the porch.

“Good morning, Dr. Not-So-Grumpy,” she said, handing me a still-warm muffin.

“Morning, Hazel,” I said, peeling back the wrapper. “Blueberry?”

“Your favorite. Or at least it will be now,” she winked.

Marge hollered from her side of the street, “Make sure he eats at least two! We need him fueled before speeches and foundation planting!”

I saluted with the muffin. “Understood.”

Hazel leaned on the railing beside me, watching the town bustle around us.

“You look... lighter,” she said after a moment.

“I feel lighter.”

“Good. Ruby’s been carrying enough for the both of you.”

That hit deep. I looked down at the muffin. “I know.”

Hazel nudged me. “She doesn’t need rescuing, Damien. But she does need someone who shows up. You did that.”

“I’m planning on sticking around,” I said, softer than I meant to.

“Then you’re already ahead of most.”

Eleanor trotted over next, her stack of notecards flapping in the wind.

“Darling!” she exclaimed. “We’ve scheduled speeches, cake-cutting, and a symbolic dirt-turning! You’ll speak second, right after me.”

“Of course,” I said, startled.

“Good man.” She handed me a card. “Your talking points. Feel free to cry. The mayor cried last year and everyone loved it.”

Hazel snorted. “Let the man breathe, Eleanor.”

“He’ll breathe after the ceremony. And after cake.”

Eleanor marched off to wrangle the microphone cable from a teenager trying to loop it into a lasso.

I shook my head, laughing under my breath.

Hazel elbowed me. “So... you sticking with the ‘grump who got lucky’ speech angle? Or something more poetic?”

“I was thinking about muffins and soil,” I said, half-joking, half-not.

Hazel’s smile was soft. “That’ll preach.”

And it would.

Because standing on Ruby’s porch, in the house she’d painted with her own chaotic flair, with flower crowns being woven by kids and old ladies alike, I felt it in my chest—this was the kind of success I’d never dreamed of in Manhattan. This was the kind of healing no hospital wing could ever offer.

A place. A purpose. A woman who saw every cracked part of me and called it beautiful.

I took another bite of muffin, then leaned my elbows on the railing.

And as the laughter and chatter of the town carried through the morning breeze, I said aloud, mostly to myself, “I used to think success looked like skyscrapers. Turns out it smells like muffins and soil.”

Hazel raised her muffin like a toast. “To new roots.”

“To home,” I replied.

And for the first time in years, I meant every word.

There’s something about wearing a construction hard hat in front of an entire town that makes you question your life choices. Especially when said hat is pink, courtesy of Hazel, and has “Dr. McGrump” written across the front in glitter letters.

I adjusted it for the third time as Ruby leaned in and whispered, “You look very rugged. Like Bob the Builder if he had emotional depth.”

I snorted. “Glad to know I’m finally growing as a person.”

She squeezed my hand and gave me that look—the one that hit me in the chest harder than any scalpel or hospital badge ever had. The one that said you belong.

We stood side by side under a hand-painted sign that read: Future Home of the Cedar Springs Holistic Wellness Garden. It was staked into a plot of land right between Main Street and the old bookshop, surrounded by townsfolk who’d shown up in everything from Sunday best to gardening gloves.

Ruby’s floral crown was slightly crooked. My shirt was half untucked. Hazel had tears in her eyes already, and the ceremony hadn’t even started.

I looked out at the crowd and realized I knew most of their names now. Not because I’d read them off a patient chart—but because they mattered. Because Ruby had folded me into their lives like I’d always been here, just a little late to the party.

Eleanor stepped up first, clearing her throat with the kind of drama only she could summon.

“We gather today not just for a groundbreaking,” she began, lifting her hands as if conducting a symphony, “but for a heart-mending.”

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. Someone clapped. Someone else sneezed. Classic Cedar Springs.

Eleanor went on, her words poetic, flowery, and only vaguely off-script—just the way Ruby liked them.

When she finally stepped back, she gave me an overly theatrical wink, then passed the mic to Ruby.

Ruby’s fingers curled tighter around mine for a second. Then she let go and stepped up to the podium—a makeshift table with a sunflower tablecloth and a potted daisy centerpiece.

She took a breath. Not a shaky one, not a performative one—just the kind you take before doing something that means everything.

“This isn’t just a place for plants or medicine,” she said, voice steady. “It’s for healing. For laughter. For second chances.”

A hush fell over the crowd. Even the breeze stilled.

She looked over her shoulder at me, eyes bright. “This started as a wild idea—like most of my best ones. But the moment I shared it with Damien; it stopped being just a dream. It became a plan. And today, it becomes a promise.”

Hazel sniffled loudly. Marge nodded so hard her flower crown slipped sideways.

“I know healing takes time,” Ruby added. “I’ve lived it. I’ve fought for it. And I’ve watched this town do the same. So, this—” she waved to the empty dirt lot “—this is for every person who ever thought they had to do it alone. You don’t. Not anymore.”

The applause that erupted was thunderous. Joyful. The kind that made your ribs vibrate and your heart feel five sizes too big.

I took the mic next, cleared my throat, and looked out at all the faces that had somehow become part of my story.

“I don’t have Ruby’s poetic charm,” I began, earning a few laughs, “but I do have a grateful heart.”

I paused and let my eyes rest on her.

“I used to think healing was something you gave other people. Something you stitched, fixed, or prescribed. But Ruby taught me it’s something you grow. Something you fight for. Something you protect—like roots under soil.”

She wiped a tear from her cheek, and my words wavered, but I kept going.

“This place is going to be more than just therapy rooms and flower beds. It’s going to be the kind of place that sees you, knows you, and reminds you that your mess doesn’t make you unlovable. It just makes you real.”

The crowd clapped again, a few people whistling.

Marge stepped forward and handed us a ceremonial shovel, then immediately dropped her own on her foot with a loud clang.

“Oops!” she cried, hopping on one leg. “Carry on!”

Ruby and I burst into laughter, and the tension finally broke. Hazel handed out tissues. Eleanor tried to give an impromptu toast with a lemonade glass. Someone turned on a portable speaker playing an old bluegrass tune, and Hazel’s nephew started slow dancing with a golden retriever.

And there we were—two fools in hard hats, surrounded by cake, flowers, community, and chaos.

Exactly where we were meant to be.

I looked down at Ruby as we stood side by side, our hands linked again.

“This is real, right?” I whispered.

She leaned into me. “The dirt under our feet, the confetti in my bra, and the woman sobbing because she’s out of deviled eggs? Yeah. Very real.”

We both laughed, and I knew I’d never need a stage or a surgical spotlight again.

Just this. Her. Us.

And as the sun dipped low and golden behind the Cedar Springs hills, the crowd danced, cried, and celebrated around us.

…

I didn’t hear her come in.

The old barn that would serve as our temporary office was quiet except for the scratch of my pencil against blueprint paper and the low hum of a fan lazily spinning overhead.

Ruby’s floral apron was tossed over the back of a chair, still dusted with soil and petals.

Her scent—jasmine and something citrusy—still lingered in the air.

I leaned over the desk; tongue pressed to the corner of my mouth as I shaded in the new section I’d added: a sensory garden for kids.

Bright colors. Soft moss paths. Lavender for calm. Bamboo chimes for sound. It had come to me after watching Hazel’s youngest spin in the grass earlier today, giggling at the way the wind tickled her face.

I didn’t want this space to just be for adults rediscovering themselves. I wanted it to be for the kids who needed a world that understood them—before life ever taught them to hide.

“You’ve changed,” Ruby said softly.

I turned, startled, finding her in the doorway. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, her sundress streaked with dirt, and her eyes—those wild, warm, chaotic eyes—were fixed on the plans spread in front of me.

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she added with a smile. “But I didn’t want to interrupt the genius at work.”

I gestured to the blueprints. “Hardly genius. Just some scribbles that might pass for thoughtful design.”

She stepped closer, glancing down at the sensory garden section. “You thought of the wind chimes?”

I nodded. “And soft benches. Textured paths. Even shaded corners for quiet moments.”

She rested her hand lightly on the table beside mine.

“That’s not the Damien Cole I met in an alley with a cracked flower pot and a thundercloud scowl.”

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

“That Damien didn’t know what it felt like to build something for someone else,” I said. “That version of me only knew how to fix things with scalpels and silence.”

Her thumb brushed across mine, the contact barely there but grounding all the same.

“So,” she whispered, “what happened?”

“I didn’t change,” I said simply. “I finally became who I wanted to be.”

Ruby’s eyes softened, glistening. She leaned in slowly, and I met her halfway.

The kiss was warm, unhurried. Familiar, but never less thrilling. Sawdust danced in the beams of late afternoon light. Hammers clinked faintly outside. But all I could hear was her.

Her laugh broke the quiet as she pulled back. “We’re kissing next to a box of screws and an old paint can.”

I wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her closer. “Romance, Ruby. We invent it wherever we are.”

She shook her head but rested her cheek against my chest. “You’re lucky you’re charming now.”

“‘Now’?” I teased. “You’re saying I wasn’t before?”

“Oh, you were plenty charming,” she said, stepping back. “In a brooding, emotionally constipated sort of way.”

I grinned. “Thanks. I think.”

Just then, the door creaked open again—and the mood evaporated like dew under sunlight.

A man in a dark suit stepped inside. Clean-shaven, clipboard in hand, face all business.

He didn’t match anything about Cedar Springs. He looked like someone from the world I’d left behind—gray, exact, clipped at the corners.

“Dr. Cole?” he asked.

I stood straighter. “Yes?”

He handed me a manila folder. “There’s a delay in the land title transfer process. Some legacy documentation was filed incorrectly by the previous owner. Until that’s resolved, construction must pause.”

Ruby’s brows knitted together. “Wait—what?”

He looked at her briefly, then back at me. “It’s not unusual. It could be weeks. Maybe months.”

“But we’ve already broken ground,” Ruby said, disbelief coloring her voice.

“I understand,” the man said, with the air of someone who definitely didn’t. “But anything beyond the ceremonial level could put the project at legal risk.”

I stared down at the papers, the words blurring slightly.

We’d just gotten here. Just found our footing. And now this?

Ruby didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside me, eyes narrowed, fists clenched at her sides.

“I’m sorry,” the man added, though his tone didn’t exactly scream compassion. “I’ll be in touch with updates.”

With that, he nodded once and walked out, leaving silence and a swirl of dust in his wake.

I closed the barn door behind him, then turned to face Ruby. She was staring at the plans still on the table, lips pressed together.

“They can’t take this from us,” she said finally.

“No,” I agreed. “They can’t.”

“But?” she asked, clearly hearing the hesitation in my voice.

“But we might have to wait. Shift things. Find a way around it.”

She exhaled, crossing her arms.

“We’ve waited before,” I said gently. “And we’re not who we used to be. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She looked up at me, her expression threaded with disappointment—but also something stronger. Resolve.

“You better believe we will,” she murmured.

Outside, the hammers had gone quiet. The light was fading. But inside this moment, with blueprints between us and love still blooming in the corners—we weren’t done yet.

Not even close.