Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Beckett
“Sit up a bit,” I say, the weight of the pasta bowl in my hand feeling like an olive branch.
Madison rolls her eyes, but she shifts. No biting commentary, no sharp-edged sarcasm about my bedside manner. It’s a first.
Once she’s propped up against the cushions, she takes a mouthful. A beat of silence passes. “This is so good.”
“Your standards are low,” I counter.
She snorts, her focus returning to the bowl. I retreat to the kitchen counter, leaning back with my arms crossed. I keep one eye on her, monitoring for any sudden winces, and the other on the TV she’d flicked on for background noise.
The screen is currently dominated by a breaking news banner. The senator is issuing a public apology. The usual “I’ve failed my family” script. His wife stands beside him, her expression a masterclass in frozen dignity, eyes fixed on a point beyond the camera.
I nod toward the screen. “Are you responsible for that?”
She pauses mid-bite, her gaze drifting to the TV. “Yes. It’ll be the last thing I do for him. I don’t work with cheats.”
I study the sharp line of her profile instead of the politician. “That must limit your client list in this city.”
“It does,” she agrees. “But I sleep better, or I used to, before a particularly loud upstairs neighbor moved in and started treating his floor like a track meet.”
From here, I can see the slightest, treacherous curve of her lips.
I scoff. “Sounds like a real asshole.”
“He can be. But he’s a great cook, so…”
“You win some, you lose some?”
She holds up the half-empty bowl. “Exactly.”
I glance back at the television. He’s saying all the right things. I’ve heard versions of this speech before. Different setting. Different stakes. Same damage control.
“Must be strange,” I murmur, “watching your handiwork play out in real-time.”
“It’s stranger when you know what didn’t make it into the press release,” she replies. “I don’t start fires. I step in when they’re already burning. I just hate when I’m forced to work with liars.”
“That’s not far from what I do.”
She glances over, her brow furrowing. “You save people.”
“So do you. You just do it differently.”
She considers it, her eyes narrowing as if she’s turning it over from multiple angles.
“I don’t always like the people I treat,” I continue. “But liking them isn’t in the job description. Judging them isn’t either. You stabilize first. You stop the bleeding. Everything else—the morality, the ‘why’—that comes later.”
Her gaze softens, the usual steel in her eyes replaced by something quieter. “That’s surprisingly reassuring.”
I finish the last few bites at the counter while she’s still eating on the couch. I rinse my plate, wash hers when she’s done, and dry both without thinking about how easily the earlier awkwardness fell away.
When I’m finished, I move back to the couch and hand her the pills. She takes them without a single protest, curling her legs under her as she sinks into the corner of the sofa. It’s a terrible position for her lumbar spine, but she looks comfortable, so I keep my medical opinions to myself.
The news cycle has looped back to the senator.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Madison says suddenly.
“Who?”
She nods toward the screen. “His wife.”
“She doesn’t have to.”
“No, but she will. She’ll go home tonight, and she’ll be angry. But then the ‘what ifs’ start. She’ll replay every conversation, every argument, every moment she was too tired or too busy or too trusting.”
My jaw tightens.
“But later,” she goes on, her voice barely a whisper, “when the house is silent and no one is watching the performance, she’ll stand in front of the mirror and wonder what wasn’t good enough.
She’ll wonder what she missed. What she did wrong.
How she could have been more. Prettier. Kinder.
Less demanding.” She swallows hard. “Even when she knows, logically, that he’s the one who broke it. ”
There it is. The raw, jagged edge of experience.
Something hot and protective settles in my chest. It’s an anger I didn’t have when I walked in here. “That doesn’t sound fair.”
She shrugs. “Since when has fair been the metric?”
I shift closer without thinking. I can feel the warmth of her body, the lingering tension in her shoulders.
“You know why she’s standing there?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“She’s terrified of being the woman people whisper about,” she says. “The one who couldn’t hold it together. The one who gets blamed for a grown man’s choices.”
I breathe out slowly, the weight of her words hitting me like a physical blow.
“It’s the plight of a woman,” she adds, finally meeting my eyes. “We’re trained to carry other people’s shame like it belongs to us.”
I don’t know why I keep pushing, but there’s a flicker of pain in her eyes that I want to reach in and pull out by the root. “Sounds personal.”
She smiles. It’s a sad smile, and I realize I fucking hate it.
“It’s personal because I recognize the look in her eyes.”
I turn to face her fully. “Did he hurt you?”
I have no idea who the fuck the “he” is, but I want to know for reasons I don’t want to dissect.
She shakes her head and lets out a humorless laugh. “I thought it would be easier if he did. At least physical bruises have the decency to be visible. You can point to them and say, ‘See? This is why it hurts.’ It’s a sick thought, but I couldn’t help it.”
Something hard and cold settles in my gut.
“It messes with your head,” she says. “Being told you’re beautiful and not enough in the same breath. You start to doubt your own instincts. You question your worth.”
I hold her gaze, refusing to let her look away. “What happened?”
She pulls a loose thread from the throw blanket, her fingers trembling. “I got lucky. I remembered who I was before I disappeared completely. Not everyone does.”
“Madison—”
“I think I’ve had enough heavy conversation for one night.” She tries for a lighter tone, but it falls flat, sticking in the air between us.
Then, before the walls can snap back into place, a single tear escapes and tracks down her cheek.
I don’t think. My hand comes up, my thumb catching the salt and heat of the tear before it reaches her jaw.
The room goes still. The hum of the TV fades into the background. Her eyes are a deep, wet green, brimming with everything she isn’t saying.
I realize I’m still touching her, and I pull back. “Sorry.”
I crossed a line. I know it. But for a split second, I recognized that quiet breaking point, the moment when the cost of holding it all together finally becomes too high.
She wipes her face and offers a small, genuine smile. “We need to stop doing this, Doc. I’m making a habit of crying in front of you.”
The news drones on, forgotten.
When she finishes her water, I refill it and set it on the table. “Do you need anything else?”
“You’ve done enough. Thank you.”
“You’re going to be stiff tomorrow,” I warn. “Heat tonight. Gentle movement in the morning. And absolutely no running.”
She smirks. “I don’t run.”
“I have a treadmill if you ever decide to change your mind.”
“Doubtful.” She shifts, sinking deeper into the fabric of the couch. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on how much you’re going to judge the answer.”
“Why are you so opposed to running outside? Why the cage?”
The question is casual, but the timing isn’t. She’s learned when to ask. That’s obvious now.
“Inside keeps my thoughts in one place,” I say, the honesty surprising even me.
Her brows lift, and then she… laughs.
“What’s funny about that?”
“It makes sense to me. That’s all.” She watches me for a second, then tilts her head. “So why trauma medicine?”
“I like knowing exactly what to do when things go wrong.”
It’s a half-truth, but it’s the only part I’m willing to give away for free. She nods once, recognizing the boundary I’ve just drawn.
I straighten. “I should go. Let you sleep.”
“Thank you for dinner.”
“Get some rest, Madison.” I turn toward the door.
“Beckett?”
I look back. She’s watching me from the shadows of the couch.
“I don’t mind that you keep your thoughts in one place, but could you do it quietly?”
“Can’t do that.”
She frowns. “Why not?”
“Because I enjoy arguing with you far too much to stop now.”
A faint blush creeps across her cheeks, and her lips spread into a real, devastating smile.
“You’re flirting with me, Doc. Get out of here. I’m injured.”
“Goodnight,” I say, my hand on the doorknob.
Then I leave before I forget why that’s the right choice.