Page 81 of Burned By the Broken Doctor

As the minutes tick by, the initial anger gives way to a crushing sense of loneliness. The cozy cottage, once a haven of warmth and comfort, now feels like a prison, a stark reminder of the connection I'd so desperately wanted, and so abruptly lost.

Picking up my glass of wine, I take a long, shaky sip. The acidic taste echoes the bitterness in my heart. Maybe this has all been a mistake. Maybe it is time to face the reality that sometimes, even the brightest sparks fizzle out, leaving behind nothing but ashes and regret.

27

LIAM

My stomach churns like a washing machine on high spin.

Each step back and forth across the worn carpet of my room feels like trudging through mud. Emma's tear-streaked face plays on a loop behind my eyelids, her accusing words echoing in my head.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging me to rush back to the cottage, to pull her into my arms and apologize for everything.

Except…what exactly would I apologize for? The fear? The primal, bone-deep terror that seizes me at the mere thought of…a permanent future with someone? Kids? I called them a curse, and the hurt in her eyes at that word still burns in my memory.

But the thought of having a child isn’t the only thing that scares me. No. The truth, the terrifying, exhilarating truth, is that I want Emma. More than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. And that, that right there, is the scariest part.

Because wanting someone, letting yourself need them, is a recipe for disaster. At least, that's what my past experiences have taught me. It always ends in pain, a soul-crushing, all-consuming pain that leaves you raw and exposed.

The pain I feel now, the tightness in my chest, the ache behind my eyes—that is just a taste of what could be waiting for me if I let myself continue to fall for Emma…because it won’t stop—I’d want her more, need her more—and then one day, she’ll grow bored of me. But we’ll fall out of love as rapidly as we’d fallen into it, and the only thing left would be disaster.

And we’ll probably be unable to separate easily because we’ll have kids, and that will only make us hate each other’s guts the more.

“Liam! Wanna head downstairs? Dinner’s ready.”

Dad’s home. “Fuck,” I cuss out loud. “I am so screwed.”

He’ll be insistent on making sure I have dinner. I want to skip it entirely, but I don’t want him to suspect something is wrong.

Running a hand through my hair, I stumble toward the bathroom, my reflection in the mirror a haggard mess. Get ahold of yourself, Liam. Jesus. This pain, this fear, it is temporary. I have to believe that.

Splashing cold water on my face, I bury my head under the faucet, letting the icy water cascade down my neck and chest. The shock jolts me momentarily, but the knot of worry in my stomach remains. Damn it. I am so screwed.

Dad’s gruff voice calling my name from downstairs breaks through the fog of my thoughts again. I yearn to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut the world out. But facing my dad, answering his questions with a straight face—that is a challenge I can't avoid.

Drying my face with a towel, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. The second I walk into the kitchen, my dad's keen eyes meet mine. “Everything alright, son?” he asks, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah, fine,” I mumble, shoving my hands into my pockets. Fine. Right.

He sets a steaming plate of food in front of me, the aroma of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables filling the air. The smell usually makes my stomach grumble, but today, the only thing churning is my insides.

“Wedding stuff coming along?” he asks, settling into his chair across from me.

I force myself to take a bite of chicken, the taste bland on my tongue. “Yeah,” I mumble around the mouthful of food. “Just finalizing some last-minute details.”

We eat in a mostly comfortable silence for a few moments. Comfortable, except for the elephant-sized worry sitting between us.

“So,” my dad begins, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, “tell me more about this bridesmaid, Emma. You seem to be spending a lot of time with her lately.”

The question catches me off guard. I hadn't expected him to pick up on it. “We're just working together on the wedding,” I say defensively. “Nothing more.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Working together, huh? Sounds like a convenient excuse for something else.”

A flush creeps up my neck. “Dad, it's not like that,” I protest. But even as I say the words, I feel a flicker of doubt.

“Look, son,” he says, his voice softening, “I'm not trying to pry. But you've never been one to spend so much extra time with someone you weren't interested in.”

He has a point. But can he really understand what is happening here? The precarious dance between desire and fear, the terrifying weight of wanting something more?

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