13. Chapter 13
Sunlight stretched across the sheets, warm and golden, creeping up her bare legs and sinking into the fabric wrapped around her.
She stirred, shifting slightly, muscles loose, heavy from the deepest sleep she’d had in—God, how long?
She blinked, slow and sluggish, her body too comfortable to wake up fully just yet.
Everything felt too soft.
The bed. The air. The absence of exhaustion clawing at the edges of her mind.
She never slept like this.
She never woke up feeling like she had actually rested.
Her fingers slid over the sheets beside her. Empty.
Her stomach dipped.
Had she dreamed it?
Had she imagined all of it—the shower, the way he held her, the way he carried her here and stayed?
She rolled onto her side, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she reached for her phone on the nightstand.
One message.
From Heath.
Morning, Doc. Had to leave early for work. Have a great day.
She stared at the screen, something uneasy curling in her chest.
Of course he had to leave for work. She knew he would. She didn’t know why that bothered her. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem.
Maddie let the phone drop onto the mattress, exhaling as she rolled onto her back.
The ceiling was fresh and white, the paint job clean, modern—just like the rest of the room.
Just like the work he had done for her. Heath had come in, stormed through her life with those calloused hands, that careful confidence, those frustratingly patient eyes.
And now?
Now she didn’t know what the hell to do with it.
Because none of this made sense. None of this was supposed to work. She wasn’t supposed to let someone in. She wasn’t supposed to find herself in the arms of another man this soon after leaving her husband.
She was supposed to be selling this house. Signing the papers. Moving away. Doing things on her own.
That had been the plan. The plan that made sense. Not this. Not waking up in a room he had fixed for her. Not thinking of his hands on her, of how it felt to be wrapped up in something solid and sure, just for one night. Not feeling the absence of him like it actually mattered.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Breathed deep. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
She was rebounding. Hard. And she wasn’t going to let herself fall into something that had no future.
She pushed back the covers, forcing herself upright. Her body protested, loose and heavy from too much sleep. She needed to wake up. She needed to get back on track. She needed to freshen up, clear her head, and remind herself exactly what she was doing here.
Because if she didn’t—
She was going to let herself believe in something she couldn’t have.
The day unfolded in a blur, a fast-moving current she had no choice but to drift along with.
Maddie woke slowly, stretching against the sheets, her body still heavy with the kind of sleep she hadn’t allowed herself in years. Twelve hours. She should have felt like a new person, but exhaustion clung to her like an old coat, reluctant to leave.
She peeled herself from bed, feet hitting the cool floor as she shuffled to the bathroom, blinking at her reflection in the mirror. Hair a mess, lips swollen with sleep, skin still carrying the imprint of sheets she barely remembered burrowing into. A hot shower would fix that.
The spray jolted her awake, pounding against her shoulders, bringing her fully back into herself. She let it wash away everything—the lingering warmth of Heath’s presence, the comfort of being held, the temptation of whatever the hell last night had been.
She dried off, wrapped herself in a towel, and made her way to the kitchen, still half on autopilot, craving caffeine and something to ground her before the day took off.
And that’s when she saw it.
The kitchen. Clean. Spotless. Like someone had taken a pressure washer to her half-lived-in mess.
Her feet stopped in the doorway.
Who the hell was this man?
She exhaled, shaking her head, stepping inside. The dishes were gone, the counters gleamed, even the fridge handle was free of fingerprints.
A part of her wanted to be annoyed.
Instead, she just felt something shift in her chest—something unsettling, something terrifyingly close to gratitude.
She shoved that down and made her coffee. Nibbled on a piece of toast. Sat at the counter like a stranger in her own damn home.
And then she pulled out the separation paperwork.
No hesitation. No staring at the words, tracing over her name, wondering what could have been.
She picked up a pen, signed it, and texted her lawyer to send a courier for pickup.
By midday, she felt the full weight of everything. The sleep. The decision. The fact that she was doing this alone, really doing it.
She curled up on the couch, a half-finished room still begging for Heath’s help, and fell asleep again.
And in that liminal space—half-dreaming, half-wondering if she had lost her mind letting him into her life—one thought kept circling back.
He’s coming back, right?
A vibration against her hip startled her awake. Her phone.
She groaned, rubbing her eyes, grappling for it as she forced herself upright.
Sandra.
Maddie answered, still blinking herself into awareness. “What?”
Sandra’s voice was brisk. “Dr. Zaire wants you in early. There’s been a trauma case, and we need extra hands in the OR.”
Maddie frowned. “I’m not on until—”
“Yeah, well, it’s all hands on deck. That means now.”
Maddie was already moving. Towel off, hair in a bun, sweats pulled on.
By the time she hit the door, her face was fresh, her mind sharp, her second coffee of the day in hand. The last remnants of sleep, of Heath, of the way his hands had steadied her the night before—all of it faded into the background.
Time to focus.
* * * * *
The sliding doors hissed open, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled Maddie’s lungs as she stepped into the relentless movement of Balboa Naval Medical Center. The air was thick with the clash of scrubbed floors, sterilized instruments, and the ever-present bitterness of burnt coffee.
She moved without thinking, dodging tired nurses, hurried orderlies, and patients on gurneys being wheeled toward imaging or pre-op. Balboa functioned like a war machine—every action, every second accounted for. There was no space for hesitation.
Her sneakers squeaked against the polished linoleum as she made her way through the maze of hallways, following the well-worn route to the staff-only wing.
The Surgical Intensive Care Unit (SICU) was always loud but controlled, the sound of medical monitors blending with the clipped voices of doctors and the rhythmic beeping of life-saving machines.
Maddie had been on personal leave, and returning felt like jumping onto a moving train. Technically, she was on nights now, but today, she was wherever they needed her.
She passed the secured doors into the surgeon’s locker room, where the air was cooler, flushed with the sterile scent of fresh scrubs and surgical detergent. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off the metal lockers lining the walls. A long bench cut through the middle.
Dr. Sandra Jin sat on the bench, tying up her scrub cap, her black hair twisted into a precise knot at the nape of her neck. She looked up, a smirk already forming.
“Oh, look who finally decided to show up.”
Maddie tossed her bag onto the bench and rolled her eyes. “Bite me, Jin.”
Sandra grinned, letting her surgical mask dangle loose around her neck. “No time, McAuley. We’ve got work to do.”
Maddie shrugged into her white coat, snapping her badge into place before turning. “What’s the sitrep?”
Sandra shook her head, pulling her gloves from her pocket. “Haven’t been briefed yet. I was called in just like you.”
Maddie frowned, her instincts humming with unease. “It’s weird, right? Getting pulled in early like this?”
Sandra lifted a brow. “Weird is an understatement. Feels like something big.”
Maddie clipped her stethoscope around her neck, muscles tensing. “Let’s find out.”
They cut through the nurses’ station, where staff moved like gears in a well-oiled machine—updating charts, adjusting IVs, checking vitals. Maddie barely registered the hum of medical jargon as they pushed toward the surgical consult room just off the main OR wing.
This was where the real decisions were made.
The room was windowless, lined with whiteboards scrawled with notes, imaging screens glowing with scans, and shelves stacked with surgical manuals no one actually needed.
Dr. Zaire stood at the head of the table, flipping through a series of abdominal CT scans with practiced efficiency. His reading glasses were perched low on his nose, but his sharp gaze missed nothing.
Dr. Hankins stood beside him, arms crossed, her usual air of calm authority in place. A few residents hovered near the edge of the room, looking both exhausted and laser-focused.
Maddie and Sandra slipped inside, falling in beside the counter as Dr. Zaire launched into the briefing.
“Listen up. We’ve got a military trauma case inbound.”
The air in the room shifted.
Maddie set her stance, tuning in as Zaire clicked through a series of sharp, monochrome images on the monitor.
“Petty Officer Second Class Chris Rawlings, SEAL Team 7. Sustained shrapnel to the abdomen during an operation in the Pacific. Initial surgery was conducted at a forward-deployed facility, but they only had time to stabilize him before transport.”
Maddie’s stomach tightened.
A SEAL.
Military cases weren’t unheard of at Balboa, but they were rare—and always serious.
“He’s been in transit for nearly a full day.” Zaire’s voice was steady, authoritative. “We need to be prepared for potential sepsis, internal bleeding, and any foreign debris that wasn’t fully removed in the first procedure.”
Sandra crossed her arms. “So we’re opening him up again.”
“Correct.” Dr. Hankins spoke this time, her voice as calm as it had always been. “Time is working against us, so we don’t wait. This is a high-profile case, and there are military protocols at play. No room for error.”
Maddie exchanged a look with Sandra.