Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Halsey
I force myself to step forward, but it feels like my legs aren’t even connected to my body.
This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on Dustin since Mom dragged me out of Blissful Meadows all those years ago without even letting me pack my things. Dad stayed behind to “put everything in order.” It was important to get me out of town quickly—so people wouldn’t talk.
About me.
About us.
About our love.
To keep me from being ‘tarnished’ by the love that shouldn’t have existed but did.
Of course I’ve seen Dustin everywhere since he started his music career—on TV, headlining concerts, splashed across magazine covers, leading music festivals. But this . . . now we’re in the same room, breathing the same air.
All six foot, two inches of him is lean yet muscular; a man who probably spends as much time in the gym as he does on stage.
His hazelnut brown hair falls in loose, tousled waves just below his shoulders.
It’s longer than I remember, but it suits him.
He’s not the boy from Blissful Meadows anymore.
The man standing before me now is every inch the rock star, but still . . . somehow . . . he’s still him.
And this man? He’s a lot to take in.
His face is sharper now—high cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and a straight nose that gives him a rugged, striking handsomeness.
But it’s his eyes that catch me. They always did.
That piercing green, deep and almost hypnotic, framed by dark lashes.
The intensity in them pulls me in, even when I don’t want to be pulled.
They’re darker now, holding a vulnerability I don’t remember, mixed with something else I can’t quite place.
I swallow hard, trying to keep myself together as I take him in.
A few days’ worth of stubble covers his jaw and upper lip, giving him that rough, unpolished edge that only adds to his appeal.
His lips—God, I’d forgotten those lips—are full, curved just enough to hint at a smile, but there’s no warmth behind it. Not today.
Tattoos snake up his arms, intricate designs winding along his biceps and forearms, peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his black t-shirt. I catch glimpses of skulls entwined with roses and musical notes that seem to pulse with the rhythm of his veins.
He’s dressed in simple black. His shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, outlining every muscular line beneath.
Faded jeans sit low on his hips, worn at the knees, and his heavy boots thud softly against the floor as he shifts his weight, the chain on his belt catching the light, adding to his effortless, rebellious rock star vibe.
All I can do is look at him—this version of Dustin—older, harder, more real than the memories I’ve clung to. Roni nudges me playfully, completely oblivious to the tension radiating between us. “See? I told you this was out of your pay grade,” she teases, grinning. “I can take him off your hands.”
Dustin’s jaw tightens, and something dark flickers in his eyes.
He doesn’t like what she just said—in fact, he wants her gone.
The realization hits me hard: I can still read him, even though I barely recognize this man in front of me.
I might not know this version of Dustin, but the storm in his gaze is unmistakable. He’s barely holding it together.
His entire posture shifts, rigid with tension. “Is there a place we can speak privately, Dr. Lahey?” His voice is clipped, cold, edged with a quiet anger that makes the air between us feel electric. It’s not just irritation—it’s something deeper, something intense and unresolved.
I want to tell him that the name is Halsey, not Dr. Lahey. He used to call me that. Hals, when we were close enough to share everything—secrets, promises, dreams we were na?ve enough to think would last forever. Back when I believed that we could stay together, that what we had was unbreakable.
But now? It’s obvious I’m not that person to him anymore. The girl he used to know is gone, buried under years of silence, distance, and all the things we never said.
Whatever brought him here, it’s not about us or the love we once shared. That love feels like a ghost now, lingering in the spaces between us, but it’s not enough to pull us back to what we were.
No, he didn’t come here for me. Not for the pieces of our past.
But what could he possibly want now?
I glance down at his arms, searching for a reason. His wrist? Tendonitis? Maybe something with his shoulder or forearm—something a guitarist would struggle with after years on stage. But as I look back up at him, I know he’s not physically hurting.
There’s more. The way he’s looking at me—like the old Dustin, the one who made me feel like I was the only person in the world, is still in there, buried beneath the man who stands before me now.
He’s holding something back, something big.
And I don’t know if I even want to know why he came.
It might be best if I show him the door and wave him goodbye.
Roni, of course, is oblivious to the tension. She’s still grinning, her voice even flirty. “We share patients, you know. I can leave, but tomorrow she’ll be sharing your prognosis with all of us.”
Dustin’s eyes harden, narrowing into an icy glare. His entire demeanor shifts, and suddenly, the room feels smaller. “Is that true?” His voice is cold, a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. “I need this to stay just between us. What happened to patient confidentiality?”
I force myself to speak, though the words feel foreign on my tongue. “There is confidentiality, but internally we share patient files to discuss recovery plans.” My voice is distant, robotic, as if the words are a shield, something to keep him at arm’s length.
Dustin shakes his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. This isn’t something that he wants, he has something specific in mind. I want to say, Good luck somewhere else, buddy, but stay quiet, watching him.
He pulls out his phone, checking the screen, and then looks back at me, eyes on mine. “What time are you off?”
“This is your last appointment,” Roni chimes in. “You don’t have a game tonight. Why don’t you head out?”
I want to scream at her to stop talking, to read the room, to understand that this is not just a routine consultation. To get the fuck away from here before she witnesses the explosion or . . . I’m not sure what’s going to happen here, but I know it won’t be pretty.
There’s too much unsaid, too much history boiling beneath the surface. I should stop it now, make an excuse, some way to avoid what’s happening, but she keeps prodding. “Dr. Devoss will want you to keep this patient on board.”
Of course he would. Dustin Haverbrook isn’t just any patient. The clinic would love to have him on our list, another name to flaunt, another success story to boast about. But this isn’t about them or their egos.
“This is why I need you.” Dustin hands me his phone, and for a moment, I hesitate.
I don’t want to take it, don’t want to bridge the gap between us.
But I do. My fingers brush against his, and the contact feels electric, sending an unsettling ripple through me that I’m not prepared for.
His skin is warm, rough—familiar yet foreign—and it pulls me back to a place I’ve fought so hard to escape.
I don’t know if I want to pull away or lean in. The urge to run is overwhelming, but the part of me that still aches for something more keeps me rooted. I force myself to focus, to look down at the screen, but the moment my eyes land on the image, my heart plummets into my stomach.
It’s Santos. Our Santos. Lying in a hospital bed, pale and fragile, his leg tightly bandaged, his expression vacant. The photo is a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel it all at once—the guilt, the love, the years of distance that did nothing to dull the pain.
I want to escape, to let go of the phone and this entire conversation. But there’s something in me that can’t. Something that won’t let me tear myself away from this, from him—from everything we used to be.
And then there’s San’s injury. I saw it happen.
Live. The moment his body gave out on the ice, collapsing under the sheer force of his own dreams. I was frozen in horror, watching from a distance as everything he’d worked for slipped away in a single, devastating second.
That night, I went home and replayed it in my head, over and over, torturing myself with every painful detail, knowing there was nothing I could’ve done to stop it. Nothing I could’ve done to save him.
I hand the phone back to Dustin, my hands trembling. “I can’t.”
“What?” His voice is filled with disbelief.
“It’s complicated,” I respond, but the way he looks at me, as if I’m a monster, pushes me to tell him more.
“Our clinic has an exclusive contract with the Dallas Havocs. We can’t just treat any athlete.
They pay handsomely. It’s because of them that we stay ahead—state-of-the-art equipment, top-tier training, everything we need to remain the best. But the contract . . . it limits us.”
“Halsey . . .” His voice softens, and for a brief moment, I hear the boy he used to be, the one who stood by the lake and promised me everything.
But his eyes flicker to Roni, and just as quickly, the softness disappears.
His expression hardens again, and he takes a step closer.
“You can’t just say that. Give me five minutes to talk this through. It’s important.”
“It’s a conflict of interest,” I say, my words spilling out in a rush, desperate to create space between us. Desperate to keep my distance.
I’m trying to kick him out, forget he ever reached out to me. Anything before I do something I’ll regret. Honestly, I want to say something reckless like, give me the equipment and I’ll quit. I’ll dedicate all my time to him, to both of you.
But I know better. I’ve kept myself away for a reason. They’ve moved on, built lives without me. My heart . . . it wouldn’t survive being shattered again.
They never cared for me the way I cared for them. I tried reaching out—twice—but neither of them ever responded. They never looked back. And now, after all these years, they need me?
The realization hits me like a wave crashing against the shore, relentless and unforgiving.
Dustin is standing in front of me after all this time, larger than life, dredging up everything I’d tried so hard to bury.
The memories, the heartbreak, the love that I was forced to leave behind—it all floods back, overwhelming me.
He is here, but how?
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
Dustin’s eyes meet mine. “I’ve always known.”
Something inside me cracks. The walls I’ve built so carefully are crumbling, and before I can react, he steps closer, invading the fragile distance between us. “Now grab your things. We’re leaving. This conversation can’t wait.”
“I have reports to file,” I mutter, grasping at anything to hold onto. This can’t be happening. Not like this.
“No. Grab your shit. You’re done here,” he says. The boy I once knew is gone, replaced by this man who won’t take no for an answer.
He’s crazy if he thinks I’m just going to drop everything and follow his lead.
But there’s something in his eyes—an intensity that tells me he’s not leaving without getting his way.
He’s the kind of person who bends the world to his will, and I can see it written all over his face: he’s not asking. He’s telling.
And for the first time in years, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.