Page 23 of Nicky

“We even got married, believe it or not. In 2016. The happiest day of my life.” He chuckled, though it sounded sad. “Lost him two years later. Heart finally gave out. But you know, I’d do it all over again if I could.”

Neither Nicky nor I spoke for a moment, both of us caught in the weight of Carl’s story.

Carl broke the silence with a sly smile. “You two work well together, you know. Like Sammy Davis Jr. and Carmen de Lavallade. Always in sync.”

Nicky flushed and busied himself with tidying up the bedside table. I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head.

“But don’t let this old man tell you how to dance,” Carl added with a wink.

When we were done, Nicky excused himself, mumbling something about checking on another resident. I watched him go, his shoulders tight, his steps brisk.

Carl cleared his throat, drawing my attention back. “He’s a good one. A hard worker. Excellent with the residents, though a little rough ‘round the edges.”

I didn’t answer, just gave him a nod and headed out the door.

And there he was. Nicky, standing right outside, close enough that I could catch a faint hint of his shampoo—something fresh and clean. I blinked, surprised. My mind raced, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he waiting for me?

His gaze flickered up, meeting mine for just a beat before he dropped it again, like he was unsure whether to say something.

“Can we talk?” His voice was softer than usual, almost careful.

At about five foot six or seven, he barely came up to my chin, but somehow he always managed to command the space around him. Now, though, he looked uncertain, his eyes flicking to the closed door behind us before meeting mine.

“Sure.” I gestured down the hallway. “Let’s use my office.”

As we walked, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was about to bring up. Did he want to talk about last week? About showing up at my house, or how he’d been avoiding me ever since? My mind churned with possibilities, but I stayed quiet, letting him set the pace.

Once we were inside my office, he hovered by the door for a second before stepping in fully. His arms crossed, then uncrossed, before he finally let out a breath and looked at me straight on.

“I’m worried about Carl.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected.

I leaned back against my desk, crossing my arms loosely. “Why? He seems fine—better than fine, really.”

Nicky shook his head, his brows drawing together. “It’s not that.” He shifted, and I could see his shoulders tense as if he was expecting me to react differently, or maybe he was worrying about something else entirely.

Was he thinking that—? Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Look, I’m pretty sure that was just more of the residents’ shenanigans to get us in the same room. Another excuse to playmatchmaker.” I raised my hands in surrender. “I’ve got nothing to do with it. I’ll always be professional. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I think something’s off, Dr. Webber. Carl seemed really tired, and his lips were dry. When I checked his water jug, it was still full, his glass didn’t have a drop of water in it—like he hadn’t had a sip all day. Maybe it’s nothing, but I thought I should say something.”

The way his voice wavered just slightly, the furrow in his brow—it reminded me of the first time we met, when he’d cornered me about Beverly’s sore with the same mix of worry and determination.

How had I gone straight to assuming he was worried about Carl playing matchmaker when that wasn’t it at all? I was overthinking this.

“You’re right to bring it up.” I straightened, grabbing my tablet. “Let’s go check on him again.”

Carl’s room was as we’d left it, save for him looking smugger than before.

“Back already?” Carl grinned, but it faded slightly when I pulled a chair close to his bed and rested my hand lightly on his.

“Just a quick check, Carl. Humor me.”

I gently pinched the skin on the back of his hand, watching how long it took to smooth out. Longer than it should have. Nicky, without a word, grabbed the pitcher from Carl’s bedside, filled a glass, and brought it over, moving with calm efficiency.

“Drink,” he said, his tone firm but kind.

Carl gave a theatrical sigh but took the glass, sipping slowly.

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