Chapter 8 Roz #2
Roz took a step back, her gaze flickering briefly to the observation window where Sam had been standing just hours before. “She’ll be in recovery,” Roz said, her voice softening just slightly. “The next forty-eight hours will tell us more.”
Sam didn’t reply immediately, her eyes locked on Roz as though searching for something, anything, behind that stubborn facade. Finally, she nodded, though the tension never left her shoulders.
Roz turned away first, striding toward the nurse’s station without another word. Her footsteps echoed against the tile, but even as she walked away, she could still feel Sam’s gaze on her back, hot, frustrated, and so much more than either of them could admit.
Roz pushed open the door to her apartment, the familiar click of the lock sliding home echoing through the empty space.
She dropped her keys into the small dish by the door, the sound sharp and jarring in the silence.
The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the living room windows.
She hesitated for a moment, standing motionless in the doorway as the weight of the day pressed down on her shoulders.
The argument with Sam. The surgery. The text she still hadn’t answered.
The emotional chaos had been chasing her all evening, nipping at her heels like a predator she couldn’t outrun.
With a sharp exhale, Roz flicked on the lights.
Her apartment felt sterile tonight, too large, too empty, too devoid of the warmth she’d seen flickering in Sam’s eyes, even when they were at odds.
The spacious living room, with its exposed brick and leather furniture, had always been a refuge after long shifts, but now it felt cold. Lifeless.
Tugging off her blazer, Roz draped it over the back of a chair and poured herself a glass of wine. The deep red liquid swirled in her glass as she stared at it, her mind churning. She dropped into her armchair, sinking back as she sipped and let the warmth of the wine spread through her chest.
Work. That’s what she needed.
Roz leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and grabbed the stack of patient files she’d brought home.
She flipped one open with practiced precision, her eyes scanning the medical jargon and numbers, her world, her armor.
Her mind tried to settle into the comfort of it, but the words blurred together on the page.
“I just… I need to know you care as much as I do.”
Sam’s message echoed in her mind, soft and yet so sharp it cut through everything else. Roz slammed the file shut with more force than she intended, the sound startling even herself. She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling deeply as she tried to push Sam out of her thoughts.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Roz had always been careful, cold, and professional, always keeping the personal at arm’s length. She’d built a life of control, carved out her identity in a world that expected her to be sharp and untouchable. Vulnerability was a liability. Feelings were dangerous.
But Sam… Sam had wrenched open a door Roz had thought was sealed shut forever.
The way Sam had looked at her in the hallway—raw, angry, desperate—haunted Roz. Sam had laid herself bare, even if it had been in frustration, and Roz had stood there, holding herself back. She could still hear the edge in Sam’s voice, the unspoken plea beneath it all.
“It’s not just about you.”
Roz tipped her head back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t about pride or proving herself—at least, it hadn’t been with that surgery. She did care. More than she should. More than she wanted to admit.
And that terrified her.
Her phone sat face down on the table beside her, Sam’s unanswered message a silent accusation.
Roz reached for it, her fingers brushing the edge of the screen before she snatched her hand back like it had burned her.
She wasn’t ready to respond, not yet. Not while the rift between them yawned wider with every passing hour.
What could she even say? That Sam was right? That Roz was afraid to care because once she did, there would be no turning back?
Roz let out a shaky breath, running a hand through her pink hair as she fought the wave of emotions threatening to swallow her whole. This was why she avoided connections, why she stayed in control. Because the second she let someone in, it all unraveled.
The wine sat forgotten on the table as Roz stood abruptly, retreating to her bedroom.
She stripped off her clothes, slipping into a loose shirt and a pair of soft shorts before collapsing onto the edge of her bed.
She stared out the window, her reflection faint in the glass, her green eyes shadowed and tired.
The silence of her apartment surrounded her, but tonight, it wasn’t a comfort. It was suffocating.
Roz lay back against the pillows, pulling the blanket over her as she stared at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed once, probably another message, but she didn’t look. She turned it face down on her nightstand, her chest tightening as she rolled onto her side and shut her eyes.
The rift between her and Sam felt like a chasm now, wide and dark and impossible to bridge. And Roz wasn’t sure she had it in her to try. Not without risking everything—her control, her heart, herself.
For a long time, she lay there, still and silent, the weight of her own walls pressing in around her. She could push Sam away, bury her feelings, and hide behind her work like she always did.
But deep down, Roz knew Sam Quinn had already slipped through the cracks. And nothing Roz did would ever make her forget it.