Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Melissa
The vending machine hums softly in front of me, its fluorescent glow too bright for the early afternoon lull of the oncology floor.
I stare at it like it’s asking me a deeply personal question.
Chips or chocolate. Sweet or salty. Something indulgent or at least pretending to be practical.
My badge swings lightly against my scrubs as I shift my weight, arms folded, eyes scanning the options I already know by heart. I’m not even that hungry. This is just … thinking time. A pause. A way to stand still without anyone asking me for anything.
“Having a moment?” a familiar voice murmurs behind me.
Before I can turn, arms slide around my waist. I inhale sharply.
Colton’s presence is unmistakable. It’s solid and warm. His chest presses into my back, his chin hovering above my shoulder. The contact is brief enough to be deniable, close enough to make my pulse spike.
I glance around instinctively. The break room is empty.
“Colton,” I whisper, half a warning, half a breath.
He smiles into my hair. “Relax. No one’s here.”
“This is wildly inappropriate,” I say, even as my hands rest over his forearms.
“And yet,” he replies quietly, “you’re not moving away.”
He’s right. I’m not.
He doesn’t tighten his hold. Doesn’t push. Just stays there, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like we’re a couple who wraps their arms around each other in hospital break rooms all the time.
And that thought—that this feels like a couple thing—sends a ripple of fear straight through my chest.
I’m falling for him. I know I am.
There’s no dramatic realization. No thunderclap. Just the quiet understanding that these moments are starting to feel less thrilling and more … settling. They feel comfortable, like we’ve been doing it for much longer.
“What are you debating?” he asks softly.
“The eternal question,” I reply. “Peanut M&M’s or pretzels.”
He hums thoughtfully. “M&M’s.”
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
“Life’s too short to pretend pretzels are dessert.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, leaning back slightly into him. He squeezes me once, quick and affectionate, then steps away as casually as he arrived.
My heart keeps racing long after his arms are gone.
“Frank’s asking for you,” he says, voice back to neutral, professional.
“Okay.” I nod. “I’ll head there now.”
As I grab the M&M’s—because of course I do—I feel his eyes on me for a beat longer than necessary. But when I turn, he’s already gone.
I don’t know whether that makes it easier or harder.
Does he think this is all in good fun? Am I the only one battling this internal monologue that tells me that things are moving quickly?
Frank is propped up in bed when I enter his room, the afternoon light slanting through the window behind him. His TV is on, muted, some daytime talk show flashing by unnoticed.
“There she is,” he says, plastering on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “My favorite nurse.”
“Careful,” I tease. “Trudy will hear you.”
“She knows she’s second place,” he replies weakly.
I step closer, scanning the monitors out of habit. His vitals are stable, but I can see it. It’s the subtle changes. The way his shoulders seem to sink a little more into the mattress. The way his color is slightly off.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask gently.
“Like I ran a marathon in my sleep,” he says. “And lost.”
I force a small smile, but my eyes drift back to his chart. Labs. Trends. Numbers I’ve been watching closely over the last few weeks.
They aren’t improving.
Treatment after treatment, adjustment after adjustment, and still, his body isn’t responding the way we hoped. The knowledge sits heavy in my chest, unwelcome and unavoidable.
Frank watches my face carefully. He’s always been perceptive.
“That bad, huh?” he asks quietly.
I meet his gaze. “You’re tired,” I say honestly. “More than usual.”
He exhales. “Yeah, I am.”
There’s a beat of silence between us. The kind that carries more than words.
“But,” he adds, lifting a finger, “I’m still handsome. And charming. And statistically speaking, annoying.”
I laugh, grateful for the levity. “All very true.”
“I heard you laughing in the break room earlier,” he says casually. “With Dr. Broody.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “You have excellent hearing for someone who claims he’s exhausted.”
“Occupational hazard,” he replies. “When you spend this much time lying around, you pick up on things.”
I busy myself, rearranging his IV line, giving myself something to do with my hands. “He’s not broody.”
Frank snorts. “Please. That man looks like he’s constantly restraining himself from either yelling at someone or kissing them.”
I freeze for half a second.
Frank’s eyes sparkle. “Which is it?”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says softly, “you’ve been happier lately.”
That stops me.
I glance back at him. “Do I look happy?”
He nods. “You do. Lighter.”
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Of that.”
He studies me for a long moment, then reaches out, covering my hand with his. His grip is weaker than it used to be.
“Honey,” he says, voice low, “after everything you’ve lived through, you don’t owe anyone your grief forever.”
A sharp, hot lump forms in my throat. I told him about Bryce during one of our many talks.
“You deserve moments,” he continues, “even if they scare you.”
I swallow hard. “You always know what to say.”
“Years of practice,” he says. “And a lot of mistakes.”
I squeeze his hand, committing the warmth of it to memory. “Get some rest,” I tell him. “I’ll be back later.”
He nods, settling back against the pillows. “Don’t take too long. I need you functioning.”
“I always am,” I promise.
As I step back into the hallway, the weight of everything presses in. I think of Colton’s arms around me, Frank’s fading strength, the quiet fear blooming in places I haven’t fully acknowledged yet.
I take a steadying breath and keep walking.
Somewhere between falling and holding on—this is where I am now.