Chapter 24 Simon
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Simon
The flu that’s running through town keeps me on my feet for hours. I’ve washed my hands so many times that the skin between my fingers is raw, the sharp bite of sanitizer clinging to me like a second scent.
By the time I shrug out of my coat and check the last chart, it’s past seven. My whole body aches, and the thought of my bed pulls at me like a rope.
But then I remember the promise I made earlier—ice cream. Wren’s voice was teasing me, reminding me that I lured her to the hospital with the idea of it. And Christ, I meant it.
I don’t break promises, not to patients, not to anyone—and especially not to her.
The problem is, I don’t even know if there’s a shop open this late. If anyone would know, it’s Beau. He’s got a sweet tooth he pretends not to have, but I’ve seen him demolish pie and sundaes without flinching.
My hand is halfway to my phone, thumb hovering over his name, when it hits me—I don’t even know what flavor she likes. Strawberry? Chocolate? Vanilla? Does she prefer cones or cups? Hot fudge? Whipped cream?
The thought grates at me. How can I want her this much, crave her like oxygen, and still not know something so small? Something that feels important because it’s about her?
I’m still debating when my phone vibrates in my palm. Her name flashes across the screen.
My pulse leaps. I answer on the first ring. “Hey, sweetheart.”
She exhales into the line, but it isn’t the playful sound I expected. There’s a strain in it, a crack that makes my chest tighten.
“I was just about to call you,” I add, straightening in my chair. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice is thin, a thread pulled too tight. “I’m not feeling too well. And… Pancake isn’t either.”
My spine goes rigid. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.”
She takes a shaky breath. “I’m a little dizzy. Achy. My stomach’s off. And Pancake—he’s been sluggish, not eating much. He just threw up on the rug.”
My brain switches into physician mode, cataloging every symptom, weighing the possibilities, but underneath it all is the primal thrum of something else fear. For her. For that damn cat she loves like a child.
“Okay,” I say, forcing calm into my tone because panic won’t help either of us. “Listen to me. Sit down if you’re not already. Sip some water slowly. Don’t lie flat—you’ll get dizzier. As for Pancake, keep him comfortable, don’t let him outside. I’m on my way.”
“You don’t have to—” she starts, but her voice wavers, and it undoes me.
“I do,” I cut in firmly. “Wren, you called me. That’s enough. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I hear the faint sound of Pancake meowing in the background, weak and pitiful.
“Okay,” she whispers.
That’s all I need.
I grab my bag, shove my stethoscope inside even though I know I won’t use it for a cat, and head out. The brisk outside air slams into me the second I push through the hospital doors.
My truck’s parked at the edge of the lot, and I stride toward it, unlocking it with a sharp click.
The drive to her café is now muscle memory, my hands tight on the wheel. My mind runs in loops—her voice strained, her body maybe feverish again, Pancake curled on the floor somewhere, too weak to move.
It’s ridiculous how fast the thought of either of them hurting ties my gut into knots. I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to compartmentalize. To assess, diagnose, and treat. But when it comes to her, I can’t find that distance.
Every instinct screams “mine.” “Protect.” “Fix. Now.”
Traffic’s mercifully light, and within ten minutes I’m pulling into the back lot of the Fox and Fern. Her upstairs lights glow softly against the deepening night, a beacon that makes my chest ache.
I kill the engine, grab my bag, and jog to the door that is quite clearly open. My knuckles rap against it anyway.
“Wren? It’s me.”
The latch clicks, and the door eases open. She’s standing there in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair messy like she’s been lying down. Even pale, she’s still devastating.
Her eyes are tired, her cheeks flushed in a way that worries me.
“Simon,” she breathes, relief written all over her face.
“Let me in.”
She steps aside, and I cross the threshold. The café downstairs is dim; the counters are cleared, and the chairs are stacked. I follow her up the narrow staircase to the apartment.
The moment I step into her living room, I see the small gray lump on the rug. Pancake lifts his head weakly, then lets it drop again with a soft groan.
“Shit,” I mutter, crouching immediately.
I set my bag down and run a hand lightly over his fur, checking his ears, his nose, the sluggish flick of his tail. His gums are pale, and his hydration levels are not optimal. Not an emergency, but not nothing either.
“Was he like this all day?” I ask.
“Not until this afternoon. He wouldn’t eat dinner. Then he threw up.” Her voice wobbles. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did the right thing by calling me.” I look up at her, and the helpless fear in her eyes makes my chest burn.
“He’s uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s life-threatening.
I’ll call the vet in the morning and get him checked.
For tonight, keep him inside, let him rest. If he vomits more than twice, call me. ”
She nods quickly, swallowing hard.
Then I rise, closing the space between us. “Now tell me about you.”
Her mouth opens, but I see the way her knees soften, how she braces one hand on the counter to keep herself upright. That’s enough to have me reaching for her wrist, guiding her gently to the couch.
“Sit,” I say firmly.
She obeys, sinking into the cushions. I kneel in front of her, tugging her sleeve up to touch her wrist. Her pulse beats faster than it should. Her skin is hot under my fingers.
“Fever,” I murmur. “How dizzy?”
“Like the room tilts when I stand.”
I frown. “Any nausea?”
She nods.
“Any chance this is heat again?” The words slip out before I can stop them, low and careful.
Her eyes widen. “No. I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like that.”
I exhale slowly, relief threading through me. Still, her symptoms aren’t nothing. “You’re run down. Probably caught whatever bug is circulating through the hospital. Combine that with stress, and your body’s waving a white flag.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, like this is her fault.
“Don’t,” I say sharply. Then softer, “Don’t ever apologize for being human. You’ve been through hell these past weeks. You’re allowed to crash.”
Her lips tremble, and for a second, she looks like she might cry. I reach up without thinking, brushing my thumb under her eye, letting my hand cup her cheek.
“You called me,” I say quietly. “That means you trust me. That matters.”
Her gaze holds mine, green and glassy. “Of course I trust you.”
The words undo me more than they should.
I clear my throat, stand, and fetch a glass of water from her kitchen. When I return, she takes it in both hands, sipping obediently. Pancake has curled into a small ball by the radiator, his breathing slow and even.
For a moment, the apartment is quiet—just her, me, and the soft hum of the fridge.
And all I can think is that I’ve never wanted to stay anywhere more than I want to stay here tonight.
The hours drag and blur. She burns hot against my side, her forehead damp with fever sweat, and I spend the night listening to her breathing, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Every time she stirs, I coax her to sip water, cool her cheeks with a damp cloth, and murmur reassurances until her body settles again.
Pancake curls against her hip, loyal even in his own sluggish state, as if the two of them are working their sickness out in tandem.
Sometime after two, I feel it break. Her temperature shifts under my palm, the unbearable heat cooling just enough that her skin doesn’t scald.
She blinks awake, green eyes glassy but more transparent than before, and a soft laugh slips out of her.
“I don’t even know how I caught this,” she murmurs, voice scratchy. “I was fine just a few hours ago.”
“You weren’t fine,” I correct gently. “You were at the Smokehouse. Half the town’s been coughing in there for days. If there’s a place to catch something, it’s there.”
Her lips curve faintly. “I should’ve known.”
“Next time, I’ll quarantine you,” I tease, brushing hair off her damp temple.
“Better bring ice cream to that quarantine,” she says, eyelids drifting lower.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I murmur.
She exhales, eyes sliding shut again, but after a moment her voice softens. “In the morning, I’ll call Norah. Last time we spoke, she said she was fine, but I want to check.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “She’ll want to hear from you.”
There’s silence for a beat, then her words come hesitantly. “Did she tell you Dorian’s back?”
The name rings faint bells in my mind. “She mentioned him?”
She nods faintly, cheek pressed into the pillow. “Her ex. It wasn’t good. She doesn’t talk about it much, but she was nervous just saying his name.”
I filed that away. Norah’s always struck me as sharp, no-nonsense, but everyone has shadows.
I brush my thumb over Wren’s knuckles, grounding her. “What about you?” I ask quietly. “Rob. Do you want to tell me about him?”
Her mouth presses into a line before she exhales. “He was a Beta. We dated for a while. He was… nice at first. Then he started making me feel small. I felt like I owed him something just for being with me.
“It wasn’t violent, but it was constant. The comments. The control. When I left, he told me no one else would want me.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Sometimes I believed him.”
“Don’t,” I say, sharper than I intend. I adjust, gentler. “Don’t ever believe that. Not for one second.”
Her lashes flutter open, meeting my gaze. “You don’t know what it did to me.”
“I know what I see now,” I tell her. “And I hate that you went through it. But you’re not small, Wren. Not to me.”
Her lips part, like she wants to answer, but instead she asks softly, “What about you? Any exes worth mentioning?”