Epilogue — Carina
Two Years Later
I'm wiping down the exam table when I hear the clinic door open.
It's after six on a Friday and I already locked the front door, which means whoever just walked in has a key. That narrows it down to exactly one person.
"Back here," I call out.
Footsteps in the hallway, familiar and unhurried. Roan appears in the doorway still in his cut, and the way he's holding his right hand slightly away from his body tells me everything I need to know.
"What did you do?" I ask, setting down the disinfectant spray.
"Had a situation at The Anchor."
"Show me."
He crosses to the exam table and holds out his hand. The knuckles are split open, two of them bleeding, the skin already starting to swell.
I take his hand and turn it under the light. "You hit someone."
"Three someones. College kids thought they could start a fight in Walt's bar."
"And you explained why that was a bad idea."
"Something like that."
I guide him to sit on the edge of the exam table and wash my hands at the sink, pull on gloves, gather supplies. He settles there without complaint, watching me move around the small space.
"This is going to sting," I tell him, opening the antiseptic.
"I know."
I clean the wounds, wiping away blood and dirt. He doesn't flinch, just watches my face the way he always does.
"How bad were the college kids?" I ask.
"Walked out. Won't be starting fights for a while."
"And Walt?"
"Fine. Appreciated the help."
I finish cleaning and reach for the antibiotic ointment. The swelling is getting worse but nothing looks broken.
"Ice when we get home," I tell him.
"I know."
"And if it's not better in two days—"
"You'll look at it again." His mouth quirks. "I know."
I wrap his knuckles with gauze, secure but not tight. When I finish I don't let go of his hand immediately, just hold it between both of mine.
"You could try not hitting people," I say.
"I could."
"But you won't."
"Probably not."
I look up and find him watching me with the same intensity he had the first day we met. Two and a half years and it hasn't faded at all.
"You like this," he says.
"Patching you up?"
"Yeah."
"I like that you let me."
He reaches up with his good hand and cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. Then he kisses me, slow and deliberate, and I step between his knees and kiss him back.
When we break apart his forehead rests against mine.
"We should go," he says. "Zoe's making dinner."
"Is it edible?"
"She wouldn't say what it is, so probably not."
I laugh and pull off my gloves. He stays on the exam table while I finish closing up, checking my overnight patients and locking the medication cabinet.
When I'm done he follows me to the front and waits while I set the alarm.
His truck is next to my car in the lot. He opens my door for me and I slide in, watch him walk around to the driver's side favoring his right hand slightly.
The drive home is quiet. His bandaged hand rests on my thigh and I cover it with mine, careful not to press on the injury.
We pull into the driveway and I can already see lights on in the kitchen through the window. Zoe's car is here, which means whatever she's cooking is already underway.
"Thank you," he says before we get out.
"For what?"
"For this. For still being here."
I look at him. "Where else would I be?"
He doesn't answer, just leans across and kisses me again. Then we head inside to whatever Zoe's attempting in our kitchen, his injured hand in mine, and I think about how I used to be terrified every time the phone rang late.
Now I just keep extra gauze stocked.
Thank you for reading!