18. Chapter 18
Caroline
I panicked.
Not immediately.
Immediately after the kiss, I stood behind my desk with my fingers pressed against my lips and listened to Colt's footsteps disappear down the hallway.
I told myself to breathe. Told myself that one catastrophic lapse in judgment did not erase years of training, licensure, supervision, and ethical practice.
Then I went home.
And I didn't sleep.
By morning, the kiss had become evidence.
Evidence that I'd destroyed everything. Evidence that I was no longer capable of being a responsible therapist. Evidence that my professional judgment was so compromised that I couldn't ethically treat anyone, let alone someone I had feelings for.
By the second day, I had replayed every second of it until I could no longer separate what had actually happened from every possible consequence.
His mouth against mine.
My hand on his face.
The sound he'd made when I moved closer.
The fact that I had wanted more.
That was the part I couldn't forgive.
Not the kiss itself. Not really. If it had been a momentary mistake driven by stress and vulnerability, maybe I could have taken it apart clinically. Identified the precipitating factors. Acknowledged the breach. Established safeguards.
But I wasn't sorry.
I'd told him that.
And I had meant it.
By the third day, the panic crystallized into a decision: distance.
Complete, absolute, professional distance.
I called Dr. Williamson first.
She answered on the fourth ring. "Caroline?"
"I need to terminate my consulting role with Colt's case."
Silence.
Not long. Maybe two seconds.
It felt like an hour.
"Why?"
I stood in my kitchen staring at a cup of coffee I hadn't touched. "My emotional investment has crossed appropriate lines."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I can no longer be objective."
"Caroline."
I closed my eyes. "I can't continue in any clinical or consultative capacity."
"Did something happen?"
My throat tightened.
There it was.
The question I should have answered honestly.
Instead, I gripped the edge of the counter and said, "Enough happened that I'm telling you I need to step away."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you right now."
Another silence.
Then Dr. Williamson exhaled.
"Have you spoken to Colt?"
"No."
"You need to."
"I don't think that's appropriate."
"You're terminating an established therapeutic relationship."
"I'm aware."
"Then you're also aware that abrupt termination without a transition plan can be harmful."
The words landed exactly where they should have.
I ignored them.
"I'll provide referral options."
"Caroline—"
"I have to go."
I hung up before she could stop me. Then I canceled Colt's upcoming session.
The notification went out at 10:17 that morning.
His text came at 10:19.
Everything okay?
I stared at it until the screen went dark.
At 10:26, another message appeared.
Caroline?
I set the phone facedown.
At eleven, he called.
I watched his name flash across the screen and told myself answering would blur the boundary further. Told myself that hearing his voice would make me weak. Told myself that if I picked up, I might say something else I couldn't take back.
The call went to voicemail. He didn't leave one. That hurt worse.
The next day, Sweet's wife reached out.
Hey. Not trying to pry. Colt's acting weird and said you canceled. Are you dealing with something?
I typed three different responses before deleting all of them.
I'm sorry, but I can't discuss anything related to Colt's care.
Professional.
Appropriate.
Cowardly.
I was maintaining boundaries the only way I knew how: by building walls so high and so thick that nothing could get through.
Not Colt.
Not the kiss.
Not the terrifying possibility that I had fallen in love with a man I had no ethical right to want.
For the first few days, I told myself the silence was working.
Then I started hearing things.
Not directly. Never directly.
A comment from Rochelle that Colt had been "hard to find lately." A clipped conversation with Sweet's wife that ended the second I asked whether everyone at the club was okay. Dr. Williamson mentioning during an unrelated call that Colt had not engaged with either of the referrals I'd provided.
I tried not to ask questions.
I failed.
"Has he scheduled with anyone?"
Dr. Williamson was quiet.
"No."
My stomach twisted. "Has anyone followed up?"
"Several times."
"And?"
"He isn't responding."
I sat down slowly.
"Caroline, this is why I told you abrupt termination concerned me."
"I gave him referrals."
"You gave a trauma patient who struggles with abandonment a list of strangers after disappearing three days after an emotionally significant event."
My entire body went cold.
"You don't know what happened."
"No," she said. "Because you still haven't told me."
I ended the call five minutes later and spent the rest of the day furious with her.
Because she was wrong.
Because she didn't understand.
Because she was right.
Over the next two weeks, the fragments became harder to ignore.
Colt had started going back to the underground boxing matches.
Ditch was worried.
Sweet had tried to reach out and gotten pushed away.
The investigation into Xtinction surveillance was continuing, but Colt had withdrawn from parts of the operation. He was missing meetings. Ignoring calls. Showing up when he felt like it and disappearing when anyone asked too many questions.
Every new piece of information tightened something around my ribs.
I told myself I was making the right choice. That professional ethics required distance. That my conflicted feelings meant I couldn't be trusted to support him appropriately.
But watching him spiral from a distance was infinitely worse than being part of his crisis.
One night, I opened our text thread.
His last message was still there.
Caroline?
I typed before I could stop myself.
I'm sorry.
Deleted it.
I should have explained.
Deleted that too.
Finally:
Are you safe?
My thumb hovered over send for almost a full minute. I locked the phone instead.
Because what if he answered no?
What if he answered yes?
What if he told me he hated me?
What if he asked me to come back?
***
By the third week, Rochelle called me directly. I almost didn't answer. "Hello?"
"He's drinking."
No greeting. No explanation. Just those two words. I closed my office door.
"How much?"
"Enough."
"Rochelle—"
"Don't therapist-voice me. I'm not calling for that."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead. "Then why are you calling?"
"Because whatever happened between you two, he's coming apart."
My chest constricted.
"Has Ditch—"
"Yes."
"Sweet?"
"Yes."
"Has anyone contacted Dr. Williamson?"
"Yes, Caroline. Everyone is doing everything they're supposed to do."
The accusation was quiet. That made it worse.
"What do you want from me?"
"I don't know." Rochelle's voice softened. "Maybe nothing. Maybe I just thought you should know."
"I can't be responsible for his choices."
"No one said you were." But I heard the question underneath it anyway. Where are you?
I ended the call and sat alone in my office until well after dark.
I wanted to reach out.
Wanted to call and tell him that I was sorry for abandoning him. That my panic response wasn't his responsibility. That he deserved better than being left alone to manage his trauma without support.
But I didn't.
I told myself that reaching out would just make things worse. That he needed to learn to survive without depending on me. That I was doing him a favor by forcing independence.
I was lying to myself.
And I knew it.
The next call came at 2:07 a.m. the one I didn’t expect.
I woke with my phone vibrating against the nightstand and Ditch's name glowing on the screen. My heart started racing before I answered.
"Hello?"
"Colt's been injured."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"Badly."
The room tilted.
"Where?"
"Memorial Hermann. ICU."
For one second, I couldn't breathe.
Then training took over.
"What happened? Is he conscious? What's his Glasgow score? Does he have intracranial bleeding? Who's his attending?"
"Caroline."
"What?"
"You need to come."
Everything inside me stopped.
"I can't."
The answer came automatically.
Ditch went silent.
I threw back the covers and stood anyway, my body already moving while my fear kept talking.
"I'm not his therapist anymore. I referred him out. It's not appropriate for me to insert myself into—"
"I don't give a shit about appropriate."
His voice was flat.
Dangerously flat.
"He asked for you."
I froze with one hand on my bedroom door. "What?"
"Not tonight. Not after the fight. For weeks."
Pain split through my chest.
Ditch continued before I could speak.
"He asked Sweet if you'd called. Asked Rochelle if she'd heard from you. Showed up at the club half-drunk one night and asked me what the fuck he'd done to make you disappear."
I covered my mouth.
"No."
"Yeah."
"I didn't know."
"You didn't want to know."
The words cut cleanly.
I deserved them.
"Ditch—"
"He's been asking for you for weeks. And right now, he's unconscious in an ICU because he stood in a ring and let a man beat the shit out of him."
My knees weakened.
I caught myself against the wall.
"So you're going to get in your car and come to the hospital," Ditch said, "or I'm going to come get you myself."
The line went dead.
I stood there holding the phone.
Then I moved.
By the time I arrived at Memorial Hermann, I had constructed an entire narrative of what had happened.
Colt had gone to one of the underground boxing matches. He had taken on an opponent too dangerous. He had fought recklessly because he didn't care anymore about survival.
I told myself Ditch had exaggerated.
He was angry.
Scared.
Looking for someone to blame.
Then I saw Ghost.
There was dried blood on his shirt.
My steps stopped.
"Oh God."
Ghost looked up from the waiting-room chair. The expression on his face destroyed the last of my denial.
"What happened?"
He stood. "Fight went bad."
"That's not enough."
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
I didn't care.
"Tell me exactly what happened."
Ghost looked toward Ditch.
Ditch didn't save him.