Chapter 41 First Clinic （Eden）
FIRST CLINIC (EDEN)
The thing about healing? No one warns you about the setbacks.
It’s been three weeks since I filed the police report, and I wake with my heart racing before my eyes even open.
Panic still blindsides me—passing a finance logo on a glass door, hearing that particular laugh, catching a whiff of expensive cologne.
My therapist calls them “body memories.” I call them a pain in the ass.
Today, I make the adrenaline count. The first community clinic opens in an hour.
It landed in my lap two weeks ago when Jess called, sounding harried. “Look, I need a favor. Nate’s got community service to fulfill, and frankly, we need good press. Can you handle a small clinic? Eight kids max, basic injury prevention. The Foundation will cover your rates.”
My first instinct was hell no. The last thing I needed was more attention. But then she mentioned the payment, and my half-empty appointment book stared back at me from the desk.
“What’s the catch?” I’d asked.
“Nate will be there. It’s part of his service requirement. But Eden, you’re in charge. Completely. He’s just for decoration.”
I’m wiping the same table for the third time and second-guessing everything. Eight kids on a Saturday is easy…until the cameras roll and the internet sharpens its knives.
The door chimes, and Joy breezes in with three girls in leggings.
“Reinforcements,” she announces. “This is my Sunday morning crew. Their studio got them signed up for injury prevention work.” She lowers her voice. “Parent money, I suppose. They want to make sure their daughters don’t blow out ankles before summer intensives.”
I blink. “You didn’t mention—”
“Details,” Joy waves off. “They need the screening, you need the client base. Win-win.” She’s already herding the girls toward the back, chattering about summer camp and cross-training benefits.
Before I can process any of that, the front door opens again. A woman with a tablet and a boy about twelve who’s dragging his feet walk in.
“Mrs. Peterson?” I check my list. “You’re early.”
“Traffic was better than expected.” She glances around, taking in the clean lines, the professional setup. “This is nice. Very...legitimate.”
The word stings more than it should. I force a smile. “Thank you. I will be right with you.”
Three more families trickle in over the next fifteen minutes. The parents eye me cautiously, not quite sure what they’ve signed up for. The kids complain about giving up their Saturday morning. The energy feels scattered, tentative.
Then Nate walks in.
He’s in jeans and a Defenders hoodie, water bottles tucked under one arm. Our eyes meet for half a second before I look away, my pulse doing complicated summersaults.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Water station.” I point toward the corner. “Keep the kids hydrated. Joy will take some footage later. That’s it, I suppose.”
He nods and heads over without argument. Professional distance. Good.
The first hour is rocky. The Peterson boy whines through every stretch. One of Joy’s dancers keeps checking her phone. A hockey kid tries to show off during balance drills and nearly takes out a lamp.
“Easy,” I tell him, steadying his arm. “It’s not a competition.”
“Feels like you’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, echoing every teenager I’ve ever worked with.
Nate appears beside us with a water bottle. “Trust me, if she wanted you dead, you’d know it.” The kid laughs despite himself, some of the tension melting. “Besides, this is nothing. Wait until she makes you do single-leg deadlifts.”
“Nate,” I warn, but I’m fighting a smile.
He holds up his hands, backing away with a grin that’s too familiar. “Just saying.”
The rhythm settles. Joy takes over the gym corner, turning balance drills into choreography.
Kira cycles a new kid onto her table every thirty minutes without a pause, and each one floats out glassy-eyed and blissed—first massage magic.
The hockey boys start trying—really trying—once the dancers nail clean lines.
Parents finally lower their phones and just watch.
I’m adjusting a girl’s hamstring stretch when a dad laughs—loud, sharp, a laugh meant to own the room. It lands, a slap, and the clinic drops away. I’m nineteen at a party. That same laugh cuts the air while I fight to stand, the room tilting, everything wrong…
My hands freeze on the girl’s leg. The room goes distant and tiny, like I’m underwater. My therapist’s voice echoes: “Ground yourself. Five things you can see.”
Treatment table. Girl’s purple socks. Nate handing out water bottles. Joy demonstrating turnout. Parents watching their kids.
“Four things you can hear.”
Music from the speakers. Joy calling out instructions. A different parent laughing, softer, kinder. My own heartbeat, too loud.
“Miss Eden?” The girl’s voice pulls me back. “Are you okay?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at nothing for who knows how long. “Sorry. Just...checking your alignment.” I finish the stretch with shaking hands, then excuse myself to the bathroom.
In the mirror, I look pale and rattled. I splash cold water on my face, grip the sink until my knuckles go white, breathe until the panic recedes. When I return, Nate’s eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch him watching me more closely after that.
By the time the last family leaves, I’m running on fumes. The clinic feels too quiet after all the noise and energy.
“Good turnout,” Joy declares, packing up her speaker. “The Peterson kid actually asked about scheduling regular sessions.”
“Really?” That surprises me. He’d whined through every drill.
“Teenagers. They complain louder when they’re impressed.” She shoulders her bag. “Same time next month? Can I bring a few more of my girls?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
After Joy and Kira leave, it’s just me and Nate. He’s stacking chairs without being asked, movements efficient and quiet.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks without looking up.
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever happened during that girl’s stretch that made you white as a ghost.”
I consider lying, then decide I’m too tired. “Flashback. That dad’s laugh triggered it. Happens sometimes.”
Nate’s hands still on the chair. “You alright now?”
“Getting there.” I appreciate that he doesn’t push or try to fix it. Just nods and goes back to stacking.
We finish tidying up in silence. “You hungry?” he asks as we walk toward the door. “There’s a place around the corner I saw on my way here. Want to check it out?”
I should say no. Go home, take a bath, try to decompress from the day. Instead, “Okay.”
Two blocks down, we slip into a tiny Italian spot wedged between a laundromat and a bodega.
Red checks on the tables, fogged glass, walls packed with family photos, a chalkboard of specials, and the soft, steady perfume of garlic and tomato.
The kind of place where the pasta is made by someone’s nonna bossing the kitchen.
We order without much fuss. Him a lean sirloin—“macros,” he says with a half-shrug—me the cacio e pepe. I eye his plate and thank the universe I treat athletes instead of being one. The day’s exhaustion settles between us, easy and warm.
“The clinic went well,” he says finally.
“It was messy.”
“All the good things are.” He leans back, studying me. “You know what I saw today? A PT who knew exactly what she was doing. Kids who felt safe with you. Parents who trusted you with their children.” His voice drops. “That’s not nothing, Eden.”
The food arrives, giving me an excuse to look away. We eat mostly in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s two people finding their rhythm again.
Nate leans back, eyes steady on me. “You want to talk about it?”
He doesn’t say his name, but we both know.
“Not really.” I push pasta around my plate. Then, quieter, “But I probably should. My therapist says it helps.”
He waits. No pressure. Just steady.
“It was buried for all these years. And then he opened his mouth, used that nickname, and it all came roaring back.” I swallow hard. “I’d made myself forget. Until I didn’t.”
His jaw works, his hands tight around his fork. But he doesn’t interrupt.
“My therapist says that’s what trauma does sometimes. Goes underground until something shakes it loose. And then…boom.”
“I hate that he did that to you,” Nate’s voice is a scrape. “I hate that he still gets space in your head. But I swear to you, Eden, he’ll never touch you again.”
Heat pricks behind my eyes. I force the words out anyway. “For years, I thought something was wrong with me. I couldn’t let go with anyone.” My throat closes, then—relief. “Until you. And now I know why.”
The hard lines of his face ease. His hand shifts on the table, hovering toward mine before he reins it in. His voice lowers.
“That’s because it was always supposed to be me.”
My fork stills, my pulse rushing in my ears. For a second, I’m sixteen again, dizzy from pining for my brother’s best friend, then I’m here, now, with everything we’ve lived in between.
My chest tightens, full to bursting. I can’t even pretend to look away. He isn’t smiling. This isn’t a joke. His eyes are steady, reverent, laying sacred ground between us.
I swallow hard. “Nate…”
His mouth curves, not cocky, not even confident. It’s certain. “You know it’s true.”
The world tilts and rights itself again. Heat spreads through me, unexpected but grounding, and I realize my hands aren’t shaking anymore.
We eat after that. Not much more said, but not much more needed. The silence isn’t jagged anymore. It’s the space we both want to sit in.
On the walk back, Yorkville hums quiet around us. Wet sidewalks, strings of storefront lights puddling into stars on the pavement. He keeps close enough that our arms brush.
Halfway home, he halts in front of Insomnia Cookies. The smell hits instantly. Warm butter and sugar, thick enough to make my stomach flip. His grin is boyish. “Time for a treat.”
Before I can protest, he’s pulling me inside. Two minutes later, he hands me a warm paper bag.
“Check the label,” he says, tapping the folded top.
I squint. In thick marker: YOU’LL PICK THE WARM ONE.
I open the bag. Two cookies—one still molten, one already cooling. Under them, a napkin with a second line: AND YOU’LL LET ME HAVE THE FIRST BITE.
My mouth curves. I break the warm one and lift it to his lips. His fingers skim my wrist as he takes the bite.
“Fuel,” he says, voice low. “Doctor’s orders.”
I arch a brow. “Thought you had to watch your macros? Playoffs are coming soon.”
“We won’t tell my nutritionist.” He grins, takes his own bite. “This is our secret.”
I laugh, and the tightness I’ve been carrying finally lets go. He stays close, arms grazing mine. The air is crisp; Yorkville buzzes with taxis surging up the avenue and the occasional late dog walker.
When we reach my building, I turn to face him instead of immediately reaching for my keys. “This was good. The clinic, dinner…just talking.”
“It was.” His eyes search my face. “I’ve missed this. Hanging out with you.”
“Me too.”
We stand there for a moment, the air charged, neither of us moving. I step closer, rising on my toes, aiming for a safe kiss on his cheek.
But Nate doesn’t let it land. A smirk flickers, and his hand comes up, catching my jaw. He tilts me where he wants me, lowering his head until his mouth grazes mine. Barely there. A brush of heat that leaves no doubt who’s in charge.
The tease is gone in a heartbeat. His palm slides fully to my cheek, thumb tracing, holding me steady.
“Eden,” he murmurs, rough and low.
“It’s okay,” I whisper back. “I’m okay.”
And then I let go. His mouth takes mine. He’s setting the pace, tongue sweeping until my knees falter. It’s not rushed, not greedy. But every pull says the distance between us is over. I surrender to it, to him, strung tight under his hands, heat searing everywhere he touches.
When he finally lifts his head, we’re both breathing hard.
“I should go,” he rasps, eyes burning. He doesn’t move. His gaze drops to my mouth, his hand flexing at his side. Then he exhales, rough.
“Should,” I agree, but my hand is fisted in his hoodie, refusing to let go.
He presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed. “I want to do this right with you. Take our time. Make sure...”
“Make sure of what?”
“That when I have you again, it’s because we both know exactly what we’re choosing.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Not because we’re caught up in drama or adrenaline or trying to prove something.”
My chest tightens with a feeling I realize might be love. “When you have me again?”
His smile is patient. “When. Not if.” He kisses my forehead, lingers there. “Good night, Trouble.”
“Night.”
He watches me go inside before walking away. My lips are still tingling, my heart finally steady.
Progress isn’t linear, but it’s still progress. And tonight, that feels like everything.