Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Melissa
I’ve been dragging today, and the break-room coffee is not cutting it.
I need coffee bold enough to pack a punch, so I take the elevator downstairs to the main lobby, where they have a coffee shop with real coffee.
The aromas alone awaken my system when I walk in.
I get in line behind the two people in front of me.
Looking up at the menu, I try to decide whether I go for a regular coffee or a latte with two shots of espresso to really get the job done.
The familiar warmth of a body I’ve come to be acutely aware of stands behind me.
“Rough day?” His deep voice sounds in my ear as the warmth of his breath sends shivers down my spine.
I close my eyes as I brace for the onslaught of what his presence does to me, then look over my shoulder.
His deep green eyes hold mine with a hint of amusement I haven’t seen before.
“What makes you say that?” I whisper.
He shrugs his shoulders with his hands in his pockets. “You’re getting coffee down here instead of the break room,” he says knowingly.
“Ah.” I smile and nod my head. “Yeah, I guess you can say that. I must’ve put in more steps than usual. My body is dragging.”
I don’t miss that his eyes scan the length of my body. I’m in baggy scrubs. I shouldn’t feel exposed. I clear my throat and turn back to the menu, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.
“What are you getting?” I ask, mostly to give myself a distraction.
“Black,” he replies. “Whatever’s strongest.”
I smile faintly. “Of course.”
The line inches forward. Silence settles between us. It’s not awkward exactly, but heavy. Intentional. I can feel him thinking, the way his presence shifts, as if he’s made up his mind.
“Melissa,” he says.
Just my name. Nothing else.
I look up at him again. “Yeah?”
His jaw tightens slightly, the amusement from a moment ago gone. “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay,” I say, unsure why my pulse picks up.
“You were here before,” he continues. “Not as staff.”
I blink. “I—yes, I was.”
His eyes don’t leave mine now. Not searching. Remembering.
“You were here with your husband.”
The world seems to tilt.
I don’t answer right away. Not because it hurts, but because I didn’t realize how much I’d been bracing for this moment. For him to say it out loud.
“Yes,” I finally say. “That’s right.”
His expression softens in a way I haven’t seen yet. Not professionally. Not guarded… human.
“I didn’t place it at first,” he admits quietly. “I knew you felt familiar. I should have realized sooner.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly, surprising myself with how true it feels. “I look different now.”
“That’s not it,” he says almost immediately. Then he exhales. “You were barely sleeping back then. You still showed up every morning, like you were holding yourself together by will alone.”
My throat tightens. “You remember that?”
“I remember you,” he says simply.
The barista calls me up next, breaking the moment. I step forward automatically, grateful for the interruption and oddly disappointed at the same time.
When I turn back, he’s watching me again, like he’s trying to decide how much he’s allowed to say.
“I hope it’s okay that you’re here now,” he adds. “Working here, I mean.”
“It is,” I say. “Actually … it’s why I’m here.”
That seems to catch his attention.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “I didn’t know what else to do after. So, I figured maybe I could be on the other side of it this time.”
He studies me for a long second, an unreadable flicker passing through his eyes.
“That makes sense,” he says quietly.
The barista hands me my coffee. I wrap my fingers around the cup, grounding myself in the warmth.
“Does it … make things strange?” I ask. “Working together now?”
His gaze drops briefly, then returns to mine. Steady. Thoughtful.
“No,” he says after a beat. “It makes things clearer.”
Clearer.
I don’t ask what he means by that. Instinct tells me this conversation is already toeing a line neither of us is ready to cross.
We step aside to let the next person order, standing shoulder to shoulder now instead of one behind the other. It feels … easier than it should.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For remembering him.”
His jaw goes rigid again. Not in discomfort this time, but restraint. The barista hands him his coffee.
“Of course,” he replies. “He mattered.”
We stand there for a moment longer than necessary before the spell breaks and reality presses back in.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We walk to the elevator. The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside together.
He presses the button for our floor, then shifts to stand beside me instead of across the car. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him again, subtle but unmistakable.
“So,” he says after a moment, eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above the door, “you moved through nursing school quickly.”
I glance at him. “I did.”
“That’s not easy,” he adds. “Especially not full-time. Most people stretch it out.”
I shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I didn’t really have anything else to focus on.”
“That kind of focus doesn’t come from nowhere,” he says quietly.
The elevator hums as it begins to rise.
“I had a background in physical therapy,” I explain. “It helped. And I already knew how hospitals worked. How exhausting they could be.”
His gaze flicks to me then, curious. “You chose trauma first.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “I thought if I could survive that, I could survive anything.”
“And then you didn’t stay.”
“No,” I admit. “Turns out, surviving and thriving aren’t the same thing.”
Something about that makes his mouth curve slightly. It’s not a smile. It’s more like recognition.
“Oncology is slower,” I continue. “Harder in some ways, but … steadier. I sleep better. I don’t feel like my body’s always bracing for impact.”
“That matters,” he says.
The elevator slows as we approach our floor. Neither of us moves away.
“You’re good at this,” he adds. “At reading people. Anticipating what they need.”
I swallow. “I learned the hard way.”
His jaw tightens like I’ve brushed against something tender.
“I can tell,” he says.
The doors open, and suddenly, the hallway is there. It’s bright, busy, real. The moment threatens to fade. But he doesn’t step away immediately.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds, lowering his voice, “the department’s lucky to have you.”
Heat blooms in my chest, unexpected and grounding, all at once.
“Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot. Coming from you.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.
“Let’s get back,” he says finally.
We walk out together. Not touching, but not quite separate either.