Chapter 35
The Return
Robyn
“We couldn’t make a tower. There’s no way we’re making a pinecone, Robyn.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, turning the cake on its stand. Then I warm the fondant between my palms until it softens. “A pinecone is just layers around a cylinder. We can do layers.”
“We couldn’t even do up,” he says, teasing, but there’s no bite to it.
His smile spreads easily, lifting his cheeks, warming his whole face in a way that makes everything I felt for him bubble up to the surface.
And everything I feel now because there’s more steadiness to the version of Nate standing in front me.
The kitchen smells like butter and cinnamon, sugar melting slowly on the stove while Nate insists, through that same smile, that I’m about to burn his apartment down.
The low lighting of dusk spills across the counters, catching in the flour dust like something suspended, something almost magical—maybe if we keep going, we might actually get this right.
There’s no way the pinecone will work. But maybe we’ll get something else right.
“Here,” I say, nudging his elbow, tipping my chin toward the fondant. “Start with a teardrop. Just shape it.”
He takes it, rolling it out with a focus that looks reverent, smoothing the paste until it’s thin but not fragile, steadying it beneath his palms. He reaches for the pastry scalpel, carving careful lines, turning the sheet between his fingers.
When his hand wavers, just slightly, I slide the barstool toward him with my foot. “Sit.”
He scoffs, but that smile stays, easy and unguarded. “Bossy.”
As he lowers himself onto the stool, his knee brushes my thigh. The contact is light but sends a jolt through my nervous system.
“Focus on the cylinder,” I murmur. “We don’t need a six-inch spine for our pinecone.”
“What if I’m going for the world’s biggest cake pinecone?” I ask, meeting his glance.
“Then we’re doomed either way.” He lifts one of the pieces, and it bends slightly, losing the shape he’d given it. “This already looks worse than the tower.”
“Our giant pinecone just needs a little patience.”
He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Now it’s ours?”
“Yes.” I glance at him, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “I’m not letting you take all the blame this time.”
I reach for his hand, guiding his fingers, pressing the back of the knife gently into the fondant. “Score it. Like this. Then rotate. Repeat.”
His hand stills under mine. He doesn’t pull away, and I let my thumb linger where our hands meet, a quiet acknowledgment that he’s not alone.
My phone buzzes against the counter, sharp, out of place. The screen lights up. Hospital.
“I thought you were off,” he says.
“I am.” I don’t look at it right away.
When I finally do, the dimple in his chin deepens, taut with tension from his jaw—gone before it can settle. Still, he shifts, his shoulders drawing in just enough that I feel the space open between us even before he moves his hand away.
“Robyn …” he starts, already giving me the out. “You should—”
I flip the phone over, sending it to voicemail.
The buzzing stops, but the silence following it is heavier, expectant. I wait for the speech-to-text transcription, eyes fixed on the screen until the words resolve. A small lab discrepancy regarding a patient of mine, they’ll wait ten minutes or the on-call doctor will make medication adjustment.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. “I’m here.” My voice is steady, no hesitation behind it. “If anything changes, they’ll handle it. Tonight …” I hold his eyes. “Tonight I’m with you.”
This moment between us carries the weight of every time I didn’t stay. Every time I chose to run so I could solve a problem I didn’t yet have while overlooking the one I did have.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod, reaching for the flour just to ground myself, letting it dust over my hands, the counter, the moment. “Yeah.”
He watches me for a second longer, then leans back in, our shoulders brushing.
We fall into rhythm—score, turn, repeat.
Then he hands me one of the scales of the pine cone we just scored, and I press them into the cylinder.
After that, I hand one to him, and he’s the one to press it.
With each layer, the pinecone takes shape between us.
It barely looks like what we intended, but every imperfection makes it more real.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, “this is … almost edible.”
I glance at him, smiling. “Careful. That sounded like a compliment.”
The dusk turns to night as I’m mesmerized by our hands working together, moving in sync.
“I should have done more staying the first time around,” I mutter.
Nate’s complaining that this isn’t a trail. In his defense, I’m not the sporty kind and it does look more like a worn ribbon of dirt, cutting through grass and leaves of pine and aspen. It smells of the sweet sap bleeding out of the Juniper trees lining the path, and dry, smokey earth.
He’s slower than he would be, but he’s still walking a good five steps ahead of me.
Even two weeks after the accident, the concussion has him on strict instructions: light activity, no exertion, no alcohol, no screens for long stretches.
For a man who runs daily, being reduced to wandering a nature trail like an elderly retiree isn’t sitting too well.
“We can go faster,” he says without turning around.
“No, we can’t.” I speed up just enough that I’m a step behind him. “You got dizzy tying your shoes.”
“That was just one morning,” he counters.
“That was this morning.”
He glances back at me, mouth tugging sideways. “I’m fine, Robyn.”
I tighten my finger around the straps of my backpack. It’s filled to the brim with water, snacks, and so much emergency and safety stuff you’d think we’re camping for the weekend.
He turns back toward the path and continues down the trail.
The neurologist in me catalogs everything: pupils equal and reactive a moment ago, gait steady, no visible fatigue beyond what’s expected, attitude healthily contrarian.
He’s fine. Still, the words Nathan Leighton in the ER echo in my head, and that’s all my heart seems to care about.
“I know,” I murmur. “Just … humor me.”
His gaze moves slowly over my face, lingering on my brows until I smooth them, then on my mouth until I force it to relax. He nods. “Alright.”
We walk in silence as the path dips slightly, sunlight flickering through the trees in broken patches.
Nate reaches back when the ground gets uneven, his fingers brushing mine.
I tense because he was hurt and I got scared out of my mind.
When I lace my fingers through his, I feel a bit better.
Grabbing at his shirt with my other hand, ensuring he’s solid and upright, unwavering, I feel much better.
When the ground evens again, his hand tightens, and neither of us lets go.
“You know,” he says after a minute, “when I pictured moving here, showing you I could do better … it’s not been what I pictured.”
I hook my thumb under his, brushing it against the inside of his palm. “What did you picture?”
He exhales deeply, his shoulders slumping then hitching one up.
“I thought I’d see you and come up with a grand plan.
Deadlines and blueprints for what to do.
” He shakes his head, carefully moves his leg over a fallen tree, then waits for me to follow.
Never breaking the contact between us. “But it was more about building a bridge and hoping we’d find our way back to each other.
My manly feelings are a bit salty that it’s ended up including supervised forest walks. ”
“You’re not supervised.”
“You literally packed electrolyte tablets.”
“That’s preventative care.” A laugh bubbles from low in my gut until it bursts and sprouts out of my lips. The vibrations feel strange in my chest.
Nate glances over at me again. “You’re different too,” he says.
The comment makes me blink, and I wait for him to explain what he means, but he just shrugs timidly.
“You used to wrap everything around work. To the point that, I think, it made it easy to shut the door on me and us back in Chicago.” He shifts his gaze to me, his smile timidly uneven.
“And I fucking deserved it.” He nudges a rock off the path with his boot.
“But you take time off now. To visit Julian over the summer, be there for my mom, and for me. You’re no less driven, but …
I think you’re making space for other things. ”
The silence of research over the loudness of constant patient care makes room for lots of things. Turns out it makes room for your own thoughts. Thoughts of really wanting to work on both research and patients, and … other possibilities.
I kick the corner of my mouth up. “And what do you think I’m making space for?”
He stops short, and I bump into him. He shoots out his hands, steadying my shoulders before one slides down to catch my hand and then back up again, his fingertips raking lightly into my nape.
“Me.”
When I look up, he’s studying my face in that focused way he has when something matters.
“And what do you think the verdict is?” I ask.
He exhales slowly. “I don’t think you have one yet.”
He shifts a step closer, the space between us narrowing until I can feel the warmth coming off his chest.
“You’re right, I don’t,” I say. “But I pay attention now.”
He arches his brow, thumb brushing under my jaw.
“To what feels right.”
His eyes soften. “And does this feel right?”
The breeze lifts a rogue strand of hair across my cheek. Nate tucks it behind my ear and settles both hands on my neck, one threading into my ponytail while the other traces the curve of my jaw and throat, my pulse fluttering against his thumb.
I stand on my tiptoes, and lean in, pressing my lips against his.
I’m not used to the way his beard brushes against my much-fuller lips, and at first, that’s what our kiss is.
Mouth against mouth, waiting—a suspended instant before a signal crosses the synapse, on the edge of becoming something more.
I’m the one who tips the balance. Turning the pressure into a kiss, then opening the seam of my lips enough for my tongue to slide into Nate’s welcoming mouth.
I slide my palms up his chest and curl into the fabric of his flannel shirt as I press closer, tilting my head until the angle fits.
His breath catches, warm against my mouth, and the sound sends a small electric ripple through my belly.
I’m overstimulated by everything—the scrape of his beard against my lips, the slow thud of my pulse where his thumb rests, his tongue taking over the kiss with demanding intensity.
I could probably chart the cascade of signals firing right now, but the scientist in me fades quickly under the woman who’s relearned this man over Wednesday book club and across state lines.
His tongue is commanding, but it isn’t impatient. It isn’t anguished but determined.
When we finally pull apart, Nate rests his forehead against mine, his breath hitching softly and his cognac fiery eyes glinting.
“What do you think, Doctor,” he murmurs. “Am I worth the trouble?”
I huff out a laugh. Pending further observation. I don’t want to tease him, though. I need him to know. “More than worth it.”
His thumb traces a slow circle against the back of my neck before he drops one more kiss on my lips. The tickle of his beard gone before I can kiss him back.
We stand like that for another second before continuing down the trail, our hands finding each other again naturally. The path curves through a stand of taller trees, shadows stretching longer across the ground.
The kiss was real, not born out of past anger or misguided impulse. The warmth in my chest is real. Every pleasure neurotransmitter is lighting up my brain like a holiday display.
And still—
No matter how steady things feel in this moment, some part of my mind knows how quickly the earth can shift.
I’m sitting at the desk in my office, something I rarely do.
The surface is buried under stacks of articles and patient notes.
I took ten days off to be with Nate, and I wouldn’t trade that time with him for anything …
I get it now. What being the person who makes the food, brings the tea, and stands up to grab exactly what you want before you ask, does for Nate.
The whole world feels steadier when you’re reminded every day you’re someone’s choice.
Nothing extra, just care and attention. So instead of finishing the stroke studies, what I want to do is read Dopamine Nation.
Nate’s pick for book club this month. I palm the book where it sits beside my keyboard, rubbing the corner of the pages with my thumb.
My phone rings.
Without looking, I pick it up and slide the green button sideways.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hello, this is Elena Harris, Head of Neurology at Northmoor. I’m hoping to speak to Dr. Hollis. We met briefly at a conference in Seattle.”
“This is she.”
“Well, Robyn. I have an offer for you.”
My system betrays me, kicking into overdrive while she speaks.
Heart rate up, breath shallow, the faint tremor of adrenaline threading through my hands.
But underneath that noise, a quieter signal fires and overrides everything else: the ground beneath my feet cracking, the sudden collapse that leaves me buried in rubble.
It’s happened before. I still remember the taste of debris in my mouth.