17. Chapter 17
Quinn
The barn door bangs open behind me.
I spin on my step stool, marker clattering to the floor. Cade stands in the doorway, chest heaving, phone clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Morning light slices around him like a blade.
"Noah just told me." His voice comes out rough. Raw. "A transfer request. You filed a transfer request."
The words hit harder than I expect them to. I climb down from the stool slowly, buying time I don't have. The chalkboard behind me still shows yesterday's protocol. Week seven. Day four. Ahead of schedule.
None of that matters now.
"Cade—"
"An hour ago." He steps into the barn, letting the door swing shut. Dust motes scatter in the sudden shadow. "You filed it an hour ago, and you didn't tell me."
I press my palms flat against my thighs. Steady. Clinical. Professional. All the things I've spent five years perfecting. "I was going to discuss it with you after—"
"After what?" He moves closer, and I feel the distance between us like a physical pressure. Six feet, maybe five. "After Reyes approved it? After someone else showed up to finish my protocol?"
"I made a clinical decision based on—"
"Don't." The single word stops me cold. "Don't give me the rehearsed version. Not after last night."
Last night. The porch. His hands holding my face. The kiss that took the restrained breath out of both of us. The promise that five more weeks would be worth the wait.
I filed the transfer request at 6:47 this morning. Before coffee. Before I could talk myself out of it.
"That call with Kristen," I start. Stop. Try again. "You said my name. You defended me. And Kristen, she heard exactly what she wanted to hear."
"I told the truth."
"You told the truth about how you feel." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. "On a recorded organizational call. In front of medical leadership and HR."
Cade's jaw works. The muscle I've watched flex a hundred times during our sessions. When the resistance is too hard. When the pain spikes past what he wants to admit. When he's holding back something he knows he shouldn't say.
"And that truth," I continue, forcing the words out, "gives Kristen exactly the ammunition she needs. Personal feelings. Compromised judgment. Patient attached to provider in an unconventional recovery setting."
"I also said you maintained every boundary."
"It doesn't matter what else you said." I press my fingertips to my temples.
"Perception matters. Optics matter. And now there's a recorded statement that the starting catcher for the Boston Red Sox has personal feelings for his physical therapist, who happens to be treating him at her family's private ranch instead of the certified facility. "
The silence stretches between us. Somewhere outside, I hear Noah's truck engine turn over. The rattle of gravel as he pulls away, giving us space neither of us asked for.
"So you're running." Cade's voice has gone flat. "Filing a transfer. Handing me off to someone else just weeks before clearance."
"I'm protecting both of us."
"By doing exactly what the pitcher did." The words hit me like a slap. "Making a decision about my life without asking what I want."
I flinch. Can't help it. Five years since that conference room. Since the lies that shattered my first career. Since I had to rebuild from rubble while everyone whispered about boundaries I never crossed.
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" He moves closer. Four feet now.
Close enough that I catch the cold still clinging to his jacket, and underneath it, something coiled tight.
Adrenaline, maybe. Or just him, strung as taut as I feel.
"You decided. Alone. Without talking to me.
Because you're scared, and when you're scared, you build walls. "
My instinct reaches for my wrist. The band isn't there.
"I watched my career get destroyed once," I say quietly. "By someone I trusted. Someone I thought understood me. And then he lied, and I spent five years putting the pieces back together."
"I'm. Not. Him."
"No." I meet his eyes and hold them. "You're potentially worse. Because I actually—"
I stop. Can't finish. The admission hangs in the air between us, incomplete but understood.
Cade takes another step. Three feet. Close enough to count his breaths.
"You actually what?"
The question is soft. Patient. It's the tone he uses when I push too hard during sessions and he needs a moment to reset. He's giving me space while standing close enough to touch.
"I heard everything you said on that call." My voice comes out smaller than I want. "Every word. The careful phrasing. The way you credited the process and the team but never named me specifically."
His brow furrows. "I was trying to protect you."
"I know." That's the worst part. "I know that now. But in the moment—" I stop. Press my lips together. Try again. "It sounded like every other time someone managed a narrative at my expense. The careful omissions. The professional language that gives everyone plausible deniability."
His expression shifts from understanding to something closer to regret.
"That's not what I was doing."
"I believe you." The words surprise me. True despite everything. "But believing you doesn't change what Kristen heard. What she'll use. What it could cost me if this becomes a formal inquiry."
Cade's hand rises. Stops. Hovers in the space between us, asking permission.
I should step back. Should maintain the professional distance that's supposed to keep me safe. Should remember that he's still my patient for a few more weeks and everything we've built could crumble if I let him close again.
I don't move.
His fingers brush my jaw. Light. Careful. The same deliberate touch he uses during his exercises when he's testing his own limits.
"Then tell me what you need," he says. "Not what you think you should do. Not what protects both of us. What do you actually need?"
The question undoes something I've kept carefully closed.
Five years of professional walls. Five years of keeping patients at arm's length. Five years of never letting anyone close enough to hurt me again.
"I need to know you won't disappear." The words come out raw. Unpolished. Nothing like the measured, distant language I use to keep myself safe. "When it gets hard. When Kristen escalates. When the media finds a story. I need to know you'll still be standing there."
Cade's thumb traces my cheekbone. Slow. Reverent.
"I'm not going anywhere." His voice drops. Rough with something I'm afraid to name. "Not when it's hard. Not when it's complicated. Not when your instinct is to file transfer requests at six in the morning and pretend it's clinical."
A laugh escapes me through near tears. Shaky. Surprised. "It was 6:47."
"Quinn." He says my name differently. Has been saying it differently for weeks now. Like it means something. Like I mean something.
"I'm scared," I admit. "Of what happens if this goes wrong. Of what happens if it goes right."
"I know."
"I don't trust easily."
"I know that too."
"And I will probably do something else stupid before this is over. File something else. Build another wall."
His lips curve. Just slightly. "I'm counting on it."
I don't remember deciding to move. One moment there's space between us, and the next my hands are cupping his face and his mouth is on mine, and none of the walls I'd worked so hard to build seem to matter.
This kiss is different from last night, restrained even with everything raw between us, like we both know exactly how easy it would be to let go and exactly why we won't. His hand finds the back of my neck, steady more than searching.
I taste coffee and fear and something that feels terrifyingly like hope.
I pull back first. Just enough to breathe.
"Withdraw the transfer request."
Not a question. Not a demand either. Something in between. A choice I have to make.
"Reyes has a forty-eight-hour hold before it processes." I'm still holding his jacket in my grip. Can't make myself let go. "I can call him."
"Call him."
I should argue. Should point out all the reasons this is a bad idea. Instead, I reach for my phone on the bench. Dial without looking. Wait through two rings.
"Dr. Reyes's office."
"This is Quinn McKenzie. I'm calling to withdraw my transfer request on the Sullivan case." I meet Cade's eyes while I speak. Hold them. "I'll be completing his protocol as planned."
The confirmation takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to undo the decision I'd agonized over all night. Thirty seconds to choose hope over self-preservation.
I end the call.
"Done."
Cade doesn't smile. Doesn't gloat. Just lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. Right where my rubber band usually sits.
"Five more weeks," he says against my skin.
"Five weeks." I let myself lean into him. Just for a moment. "And then you owe me a restaurant with tablecloths."
"And wine."
"And no resistance bands."
His laugh vibrates through me. Warm. Real.
I reach for the rubber band on the bench. Slip it onto my wrist. I don't snap it.
"Your session's in an hour," I say. Professional voice. The one I use to keep myself safe. "Don't be late."
He's already moving toward the door. "I'm never late."
No. He's not. That's part of the problem. Part of why I spent all night staring at my ceiling, knowing I should file the transfer request, and also knowing I shouldn't.
Five more weeks that are going to be the longest weeks of my life.