Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Colton
Her hair looks different this morning. It’s not in her long, pulled-back ponytail. It’s in a messy bun on her head, and all I can see is the delicate curves of her neck.
Wrong.
Sick.
Stupid.
This is the widow of a patient I lost. I don’t let myself think about which patient.
I push away the memory of the sound of the monitor flatlining or the way she stood at the foot of the bed afterward.
I straighten my shoulders. I need to remain professional. Whatever guard I mistakenly let down was wrong.
Trudy says something at the nurses’ station. Melissa throws her head back as she laughs aloud, a contagious laugh that has Megan, our unit secretary, joining in.
I walk in the opposite direction to my first patient’s room as I try to refocus on what needs to get done today.
The day becomes a series of charts. Orders. Brief exchanges.
I never let it linger. I refuse to let my eyes track her like they want to do.
When she walks into a room, I excuse myself. When she speaks during rounds, I acknowledge her professionally, then move on.
It’s easier this way.
Necessary.
As I chart my last patient, I can feel the tension in my posture growing. My fingers type aggressively against the keyboard.
“Everything okay?” Trudy asks later, arching a knowing brow.
“Fine,” I answer too quickly.
She hums like she doesn’t believe me but lets it go.
I don’t.
Because when I pass Melissa again near the supply room, she hesitates. Like she’s deciding whether to say something to me.
She doesn’t.
She gives me a courteous nod, then keeps walking.
It bothers me far more than it should.
By lunchtime, I can barely get my sandwich down. I’ve lost my appetite. But I force myself to eat anyway, if for nothing else than to give my body the energy to finish my shift.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see it’s a text from my sister.
Aubrey: Mom and Dad want us over this weekend for dinner. You going to bail on me again?
A twinge of guilt floods my chest as I let out a heavy sigh. I don’t mean to put my sister through my own issues. Being around my parents can be tough for me. I know they care. I know they do their best. It doesn’t erase the past.
I stare at the message longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the screen. Aubrey never means it like an accusation, but it still feels like one.
I type I’ll try, and then I delete it.
Not sure yet also feels like a lie, dressed up as honesty, so I delete that too.
The truth is, I don’t know how to exist in that house without feeling like I’m twelve years old again. Without feeling like the adult in the room while everyone else pretends nothing fractured.
I shove the phone back into my pocket without replying.
Avoidance is a kill I perfected early.
She catches up to me outside room 446.
I’m not sure if it’s intentional, but the timing seems odd.
“Dr. Fisher?” she says, softer than usual.
I stop because I have to. Because ignoring her outright would be noticeable. Because some part of me still hasn’t learned how to move without reacting to her voice.
“Yes?” I keep my tone neutral. Professional. Safe.
She’s holding her tablet against her chest, fingers curled around the edge, like she’s bracing herself.
Her brows knit slightly, the way they do when she’s working through a problem or when she’s unsure.
I notice how much I already know about this woman and her mannerisms in the time that she’s been with us.
I don’t notice any other nurses like this.
“I wanted to confirm,” she says carefully, “you want the labs repeated before rounds tomorrow?”
I nod once. “Yes. CBC and CMP. Make sure they’re drawn early.”
She hesitates.
It’s subtle. A half second too long. Long enough that I notice the way her mouth opens, like she might say more.
She doesn’t.
“Okay,” she says instead. “I’ll make sure it’s done.”
I should walk away, but I don’t. It already proves that when it comes to her, I’m weak.
A flicker of confusion crosses her face. It could be confusion or disappointment. The warmth she usually exudes is dimmer, slightly, like a light turned down instead of off.
It shouldn’t matter to me. That’s none of my business.
“You all right?” she asks.
And there it is. Her concern. It’s genuine and instinctive, offered without expectation. I feel it like a punch to the chest.
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly. Then, after a beat, quieter, “Just busy.”
Her lips press together. She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t quite believe me.
“Oh,” she says. “Right. Of course.”
The space between us stretches. Too much for a hallway. Too quiet for coworkers who see each other every day.
Her eyes search my face. Not in a flirtatious way, but in a trying-to-understand way. And that’s what does me in.
Because attraction I can handle. Confusion I can handle.
But the hurt. The faint, unmistakable hurt settling behind her eyes makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t have language for. It’s alarming.
I step back.
Physically. Intentionally.
The distance lands between us like a line drawn in permanent ink.
“If there’s nothing else,” I say, already turning away.
“Right,” she murmurs. “Nothing else.”
I walk down the hall without looking back. I don’t need to.
I can feel it. I can feel the moment she realizes this wasn’t about timing or stress or a bad day.
This was about me choosing not to stay.