Page 4

Chapter four

D amien

The soft gray light of early morning crept through the curtains like it was afraid to intrude.

I was already awake.

Had been for hours.

I lay there, on my side, unmoving, watching the rise and fall of Ruby’s breath beside me.

Her hair was a tangled mess across the pillow, a halo of wild curls that looked more like poetry than chaos now.

One arm was stretched across the bed, hand resting palm up where mine had been.

Almost like she’d reached for it in her sleep.

Something in my chest pulled tight.

I’d lived my life surrounded by precision. In the hospital, every cut, every stitch, every second had a purpose. No mess. No risk. No room for anything that couldn’t be controlled.

But last night had been none of those things.

It had been warmth. Laughter. A slow unraveling of walls I didn’t even know I’d rebuilt since leaving the operating room behind.

And then… that kiss.

That unavoidable , impossibly real kiss.

I could still feel the imprint of her lips on mine, the softness of her voice when she whispered back into the darkness, the way she didn’t flinch from my truth.

Now she lay wrapped in the blankets like some kind of beautiful, sleepy storm I’d accidentally let past my defenses.

And I didn’t know what to do with any of it.

I slid quietly out of bed, careful not to wake her. The floor creaked beneath my feet like it had a conscience. I glanced back once—just once—committing the sight of her to memory.

Then I grabbed a pen from the desk by the window and scribbled on the back of Marge’s breakfast menu.

Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for last night.—D.

It felt inadequate.

But anything else—anything more—would feel like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.

By the time I made it back to my cottage, the clouds had begun to clear, leaving behind a sky the color of washed denim. Birds chirped like nothing monumental had happened the night before. Like I hadn’t just crossed some invisible line between common sense and something dangerous.

I tossed my keys onto the counter, kicked off my boots, and ran a hand through my damp hair.

Pacing came next.

Pacing, second-guessing, and overthinking—my specialty.

Had I made a mistake?

It had been a storm. One night. Close quarters, a fireplace, emotions running high. Anyone would’ve gotten caught up in it.

Right?

Except… it hadn’t felt like a mistake.

It had felt inevitable.

Like everything about Ruby—her laugh, her fire, her soft confessions—had slipped under my skin when I wasn’t paying attention.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t do this . I didn’t do feelings or lingering glances or the kind of kiss that left you dizzy and wanting more.

And yet...

The memory of her hand in mine, the way her eyes searched mine like she was seeing something no one else ever had—it clung to me like a second skin.

I leaned against the kitchen counter and closed my eyes.

What if she woke up and thought I’d run?

What if she read the note and assumed it meant regret?

What if I had crossed a line?

The worst part?

I didn’t know how to be what she might need. I knew how to fix hearts. Not how to hand over my own.

But it was already too late for that, wasn’t it?

Because somewhere between bickering over floral arches and laying awake beside her in a bed that felt too intimate for two practical strangers, she’d started to matter.

Too much.

And I had no idea what came next.

The coffee had long gone cold in my hand, but I didn’t move. I just sat at the edge of the kitchen stool, staring into the mug like it might offer answers I hadn’t been able to find anywhere else.

The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome, too loud in the quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after you leave something behind and aren’t sure if you’re meant to go back for it.

I blinked once, and without warning, last night returned in full detail—like flipping open the cover of a book you weren’t done reading.

…

The fire had burned low, casting flickering gold across the Magnolia Suite. The room smelled like melting wax and lavender, the storm outside finally giving up its tantrum and quieting to a low hiss against the windows.

We sat on the floor, legs stretched out, side by side in front of the hearth. Ruby had pulled a bottle of red wine from the inn’s guest basket and poured it into mismatched mugs that said Mr. Right and Mrs. Always Right . She handed me the former with a smirk.

"Don’t read into the mugs," she said, cheeks slightly flushed—maybe from the wine, maybe from the kiss we’d just shared. "Marge has a sense of humor and zero boundaries."

I took a sip, then leaned back on one elbow. “You’re really not what I expected.”

She looked over, tucking a curl behind her ear. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone who took floral arrangements as seriously as I take surgical prep.”

She grinned. “You mean with scalpels and spreadsheets?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” She leaned her head back against the armchair behind us, gazing into the fire.

“Truth is… I never really wanted to just sell flowers. I mean, I love them—don’t get me wrong.

But I always dreamed of something bigger.

Something like… a wellness space. A full-blown floral therapy boutique.

Rooftop garden. Community classes. Maybe even a little greenhouse retreat with coffee and yoga and beeswax candles and—”

I let out a low laugh, and she paused.

“Too much?” she asked, sheepish.

“Not enough,” I said, surprised at my own voice.

She blinked, then gave me a small smile that tugged at something in my chest.

“I always thought,” she continued softly, “that if I could build something beautiful enough, meaningful enough, people would stop seeing me as a walking disaster and start seeing me as… capable. Like I actually belonged here. Like I mattered.”

There it was again—that openness. That unfiltered truth she shared without trying to dress it up or protect herself.

It was the opposite of how I’d lived my life.

And somehow, it was what made me speak next.

“Sometimes,” I said slowly, “I think the only time I ever really connected with someone… was last night with you.”

She turned to me, eyes wide, soft.

I looked away.

“I spent so many years saving lives with steady hands and an unshakable heart. But I don’t think I ever felt anything when I did. Not like this. Not like—”

“Like connection,” she finished quietly.

I nodded.

The fire cracked and shifted.

She reached for my hand again, no hesitation.

And for once, I didn’t pull away.

…

Back in the present, I set the cold coffee mug on the counter and rubbed a hand over my face.

That memory played on repeat. Her voice. Her dream. The feeling of her fingers slipping between mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I couldn’t shake it.

She hadn’t just peeled back a layer—I had. I’d let her see something no one else had in a very long time. And the moment I had, I panicked.

I told myself leaving early was the right thing. That it gave her space, gave me space.

But now, sitting here with nothing but silence and regret as company, I realized something far worse.

Maybe I’d walked away from the only person who ever made me feel like a man—not a machine.

And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t know how to go back without breaking the very thing I didn’t know how to build.

Three days passed.

Three days without a message. A call. A flaming bouquet of apology peonies left on my doorstep—which, frankly, felt like her style.

But nothing came.

And I didn’t reach out either.

Not because I didn’t want to.

Because I didn’t know how to do it without breaking something. Her trust. My boundaries. Whatever fragile thread had formed between us in that firelit room.

I told myself space was good. Logical. Necessary. It gave us time to sort out what had happened—if it even meant anything beyond a stormy night, a shared bottle of wine, and a temporary ceasefire between opposing worldviews.

But the truth?

The silence was worse than anything she could’ve said.

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was just… empty.

And that emptiness rattled around inside me louder than her laughter ever had.

“So,” Brandon’s voice crackled through the speakerphone with far too much glee for someone three states away, “you survived the great Cedar Springs sleepover.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned back in the leather chair in my office. “Is this a social call or are you just bored in surgery?”

He chuckled. “Don’t dodge me, Cole. I want details. Did you kill each other? Kiss? Or both?”

I stared at the ceiling. “We didn’t kill each other.”

“That’s not a ‘no’ to the other thing.”

I said nothing.

Brandon let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be… The Ice Man melts.”

“Not everything is a punchline, Brandon.”

“No,” he said, the teasing slipping into something gentler. “Some things are wake-up calls. Like finding a woman who somehow gets under your skin without you noticing.”

“I didn’t say she got under my skin.”

“Right. You just kissed her. Opened up about your existential crisis. Spent the night with her in a candlelit inn. But sure, let’s pretend she was just a temporary glitch in your well-oiled schedule.”

I rubbed a hand over my jaw, exhaustion settling into the spaces my logic couldn’t patch over.

“She hasn’t reached out.”

“And you haven’t either, have you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Damien,” Brandon said, softer now, “you keep running from things that scare you, Doc, and you’ll end up alone. Just you and your surgical trophies and a house full of silence.”

The words landed with more weight than I expected.

Because the truth was, the silence didn’t feel like safety anymore.

It felt like punishment.

Later that night, after a dinner I didn’t taste and a hot shower that didn’t help, I pulled on the same coat I’d worn during the storm and shoved my hands into the pockets.

And there it was.

A crumpled flyer.

Bright pink cardstock. Slightly water-stained. Ink smudged near the corners. Ruby Bloom’s Annual Spring Awakening Workshop —complete with doodled flowers, a little bumblebee, and a quote that read: “Grow wildly, love freely.”

I held it in my hands longer than I should’ve.

My thumb traced the edges. My eyes landed on the scribbled RSVP deadline—long past. But it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t about the workshop.

It was about her .

About the way she left pieces of herself everywhere—on menus, on flower tags, in warm laughter and the space beside me that still smelled faintly of vanilla and rain.

I looked at the trash can beside my desk.

Then at the flyer again.

And I folded it carefully, tucked it back into my coat pocket, and walked away.

Because maybe I wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.

But I wasn’t ready to throw her away either.