Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Lottie
The doorbell rang, and I froze. My body tensed with the familiar anxiety that always accompanied medical visits. Walker must have noticed because he gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before going to answer the door.
I heard their voices in the hallway, Walker's deep rumble and Dr. Atkins' more measured tones. When they entered the kitchen, I tried to look more composed than I felt.
"Good morning, Lottie," Dr. Atkins said, setting his medical bag on the counter. "You're looking much better today."
"I am, thank you," I murmured, fighting the urge to hide behind Walker.
Dr. Atkins pulled out a chair. "Mind if I check your vitals?"
I nodded, but as he reached into his bag, panic fluttered in my chest as I saw Walker take a step backwards. "Walker?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. "Could you...would you mind staying?"
The smile that spread across Walker's face made something warm unfurl in my chest. "Of course," he said, moving to stand beside me.
Dr. Atkins worked efficiently, checking my blood pressure, temperature, and listening to my heart and lungs. His touch was gentle but clinical, nothing like the rough handling I'd experienced at overcrowded clinics where I was just another number to process.
"Blood pressure's looking better," he said, making notes on a small tablet. "How are you feeling with the new insulin pen?"
"It's easier," I admitted. "Doesn't hurt as much."
He nodded approvingly. "And your levels?"
"140 this morning," Walker answered before I could, his hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder. "We checked right after she woke up, and I would have texted you if it wasn’t in the range you gave me."
I felt a strange flutter at his use of "we," as if my diabetes management had somehow become a shared responsibility overnight.
Dr. Atkins looked pleased. "That's excellent.
Much better than last night." He reviewed some notes on his tablet.
"Based on what I'm seeing, Lottie, your body needs time to recover from the prolonged periods of unstable blood sugar.
You need at least a week of consistent management, proper nutrition, and rest."
"A week?" I straightened in alarm. "But my job—"
"Is less important than your health," Dr. Atkins said firmly, though his eyes remained kind. "I'm not exaggerating when I say you were headed for a serious medical crisis. The kind that ends in a hospital ICU with likely long-term consequences."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.
"Let me be blunt. Your body is showing signs of stress that concern me. Your kidneys are working overtime. Your circulation is compromised. These aren't things you can power through with determination." His voice softened. "You need time to heal."
"But I can't afford to lose a week's pay, and he'd fire me," I whispered, the familiar panic about money rising in my throat.
"And you can't afford to destroy your health, either," Dr. Atkins said. "Type two diabetes isn't something you can neglect without serious problems."
I glanced up at Walker, who was watching me with concern etched across his features. The weight of my situation pressed down on me—no savings, barely making rent, and now being told I needed to take time off work. It felt like being trapped in quicksand, each struggle only pulling me deeper.
"What about a doctor's note?" Walker suggested. "Would your boss accept that?" I thought about Marco, about the way his eyes had lingered on my bruises. "Maybe. I don't know. I've never missed work before."
Dr. Atkins reached into his bag and pulled out a pad. "I'll write you a medical excuse. If your employer has any questions, they can call me directly."
As he wrote, Walker's hand remained on my shoulder, warm and steady. I wanted to lean into that touch, to let someone else carry the weight for a while. The thought was both terrifying and tempting.
"I spoke with the clinic you use this morning," Dr. Atkins said, tearing off the prescription note and handing it to me. "They confirmed you haven't been in for a check-up in over four months, and they recommended three months to you last time."
Heat crept into my cheeks. "I couldn't afford it."
Doctor Atkins glanced at Walker. “We have that covered now," Walker said. "Fiona came by.”
The doc smiled immediately. “Excellent. Fiona is an amazing young woman.” He glanced back at me. "They also mentioned you haven't picked up your most recent prescription."
"I was going to," I said defensively. "On Friday. When I got paid."
Dr. Atkins exchanged another glance with Walker that I couldn't interpret.
"Well, you won't need to worry about that now.
I called in a new prescription that will better suit your needs.
Walker already got it delivered." He paused. “I’m happy to take over your regular care but you really need to go see an endocrinologist.”
I swallowed. “That’s—”
“Let’s take it one step at a time,” Walker interrupted before I went into a meltdown. He glanced at the doc. “Are you happy for the moment?”
He nodded. “So long as I can trust you to stay on top of it and check her sugar levels.” It took me a moment to realize he was talking to Walker not to me and—
"But how much—" I tried again.
"Don't worry about that," he said firmly.
My throat tightened. It was too much—the kindness, the help, the way they were both acting like taking care of me was normal and not an imposition.
"I can't pay you back," I whispered, hating how my voice cracked. "Not right away."
"Nobody's asking you to," Walker said, his voice gentle but firm.
Dr. Atkins closed his bag. "I'd like to see you again in three days.
In the meantime, follow the management plan we discussed, get plenty of rest, and eat regular meals.
" He handed me a business card. "My personal number is on there.
Call anytime if you have concerns." He glanced at Walker.
"Upload her sugar levels as we discussed. "
Upload? Like to some sort of app?
After he left, I sat at the kitchen island, turning the card over in my hands. The silence stretched between Walker and me, filled with all the things I couldn't bring myself to say.
"You okay?" Walker asked finally.
"No," I admitted, surprising myself with my honesty. Walker didn’t say anything at first. He just let the silence build, sitting next to me at the kitchen island, his hand warm and solid against my shoulder.
There was no judgment in his touch, or the way he watched me.
Like he was waiting for the truth, the real answer, not just the easy words.
I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat. “Everything’s so…out of control. I don’t know how to fix any of it.” My voice broke, and I hated it, but he didn’t flinch away or give me pity. He just stayed there, steady.
“You don’t have to fix it all at once,” he said, his voice lower, rougher. “You’ve been carrying this alone for too long.”
I shook my head. “But I can’t just fall apart. If I mess up, everything goes to hell. I lose my job, my apartment, my…” I couldn’t even finish. My dignity, maybe. My right to be seen as a person, instead of the problem I'd been all my life.
He made a low sound, almost a growl, and slid his hand up to the back of my neck. The pressure was gentle but firm, grounding. “Lottie, listen to me. You’re not going to lose anything. Not while I’m around.”
I wanted to believe him. I did. But the panic was still there, eating at the edges of my sanity.
“You say that now, but people always say that. Then they get tired. Or annoyed. Or they realize how much work it is, and they’re gone.
” There'd been a school friend. She'd been cool, then I'd gone hypo at her house.
That was when my uncle had decided I should be homeschooled by his new housekeeper.
Not that Miss Beatrice was bad, but she wasn't a friend.
For a second his expression twisted, and I thought I’d hurt him. But he just leaned in, his eyes dark and steady on mine. “I’m not people. I don’t quit. If I say I’m taking care of you, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You don’t ever have to earn that.”
The words hit me hard. Nobody had ever said anything like that and meant it. Not my family, not my uncle, not even the nurses at the clinic who were always too rushed to really see me. I tried to steady my breathing, staring down at my lap. My hands trembled.
Walker’s thumb traced the line of my jaw, so light it barely registered as touch, but I felt it everywhere.
“You’re exhausted,” he murmured. “You’ve got nothing left because you’ve been running on empty for far too long.
” He let out a slow breath. “You need to rest. I’ll handle the rest of the world for a bit. ”
“I can’t just…” I tried to pull back, but his touch anchored me. “I can’t make myself that helpless.”
He huffed, a soft noise, almost amused but not really. “Letting someone help isn’t being helpless. It’s smart. It’s survival.” His hand slid down, covering mine on the countertop. “You don’t have to keep proving you can do it all by yourself.”
I wanted to let go. I did. The urge to lean into that warmth was so strong it made my head spin.
But the habit of holding myself together was stronger.
“It’s not just the diabetes,” I whispered.
“It’s everything. My whole life. I’ve always been behind, always scrambling to catch up when everyone else seemed to just…
move on. I never got a break. Not after my parents.
Not with my uncle. Not once.” I could barely breathe, the pressure in my chest so tight it almost hurt.
Walker didn’t look away. He didn’t try to offer empty words or tell me it would get better. He just sat there, steady and strong, like if the world fell apart around us he’d still be there, holding my pieces together.
I sucked in a shaky breath, trying to make my voice work. “It’s like…I’m always one mistake away from disaster. If I mess up my meds, my job, my rent, it all just collapses. I can’t afford to be tired. Or sad. Or anything.”
“I know,” he said, so low it almost sounded like a growl. “But I’m not going to let that happen to you. Not now.” His hand flexed on my shoulder, the grip grounding me better than air.
“I don’t know how to let go,” I admitted. It felt like surrender, and surrender was dangerous, wasn’t it? He could change his mind. Anyone could. “If I let go, what if there’s nothing left? What if I just…fall apart?”
He leaned in closer, so close I could feel the heat of his body, catch the scent of cedar and soap and something darker. “Then I’ll be here to catch you, princess. Every damn time.”
The tight, horrible knot in my chest unraveled a little. My eyes burned, but I blinked quickly, refusing to let the tears fall. He made it sound so easy. Like I wasn’t a mess, like he wanted all of me, even the parts I hated.
He must have seen the fear in my face, because his hand gentled at the back of my neck, thumb stroking slow, reassuring circles. “One step at a time, remember? You don’t have to carry everything alone. Not anymore.”
My head dipped forward, and for a second, I let myself be held up by his strength. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” he said, firm like steel. “You’re not a burden. When are you going to get that through your head?” His voice was almost fierce, but not rough. It made warmth shiver through me. “You don’t owe me anything, Lottie. Not now, not ever.”
I wanted to believe him. More than anything, I wanted to believe it was true.
But fear was a hard habit to break. “People always say that. But then I’m too much. Too needy, too sick, too…everything. They get tired.”
He shook his head, dark gaze unwavering. “I have never quit on anything in my life. You think I’m going to start with you?” His lips curved in a small, wry smile. “Not much chance of that, sweetheart.”
Something in my chest cracked. I reached up, fingers barely brushing his, and he caught my hand in his, squeezing gently. “Can you just…sit with me for a minute?” I whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.