Page 45 of Brotan

She hesitates, visibly torn, then sighs. "I can't. I have emergency calls routed to my cell—might be a patient."

Reluctantly, I release her. She crosses to her bag, digging out the phone with a frown that deepens when she checks the display.

"Unknown number," she mutters, then answers with professional detachment. "Dr. Johnson speaking."

The transformation is immediate and disturbing. Her spine straightens, shoulders squaring, expression shifting from playful to guarded in the span of a heartbeat. She turns away from me, moving toward the living room, voice dropping.

"Yes, hello." A pause. "Things are going well." Another pause, longer. "Yes, I'm aware of the timeline."

The sight unravels something tightly wound inside me. I follow her, stopping short of touching her, uncertain of my place in this moment. Her body language has closed completely, arms folded across her middle like armor.

"I appreciate the offer, but as I explained before, Shadow Ridge needs a doctor." Her voice takes on a forced lightness I've never heard from her. "Three months is the standard probationary period we discussed. I understand, but my decision hasn't changed."

I move closer, gently wrapping my arms around her from behind, offering whatever support I can against whoever is on the other end of that call. She leans into the contact, then steps away, shoulders rigid with tension.

"Yes, I'll consider it. Thank you for calling." She ends the call, staring at the phone in her hand like it might bite her.

"Maya?" I keep my voice low and careful. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She turns, attempting a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Just my mother. Checking in."

I step closer, reaching for her. "Didn't sound like just checking in."

For a brief moment, she leans into me, her forehead resting against my chest, fingers clutching at my sides. She's holding onto me like I'm an anchor, like she's borrowing what strength I have. The vulnerability in the gesture undoes something inside me. Then she pulls back, arms crossing over her chest, rebuilding walls I thought we'd demolished.

"It's nothing," she insists, voice brittle. "They worry I'm wasting my training. Same conversation we've had since I left Manhattan."

The air between us has changed. Whatever her mother said has changed the connection between us, erected a barrier where none existed minutes ago.

"Maya—"

"I didn't realize how late it was," she interrupts, checking her watch. "I need to get cleaned up and open the clinic." She glances toward the bathroom, then back to me. "It might be better if you go ahead. Diesel should be waiting outside any minute now."

"Are you sure?" I search her face, desperate to understand the change. "I can stay until he gets here."

"I'm sure." Her smile is forced, professional—the one she uses with patients, not with me. "I'll see you later?"

It's a dismissal, wrapped in a question. All I know is that the warm, open woman who teased me about bacon and invited me to share her shower has vanished, replaced by someone guarded and distant.

"Yeah," I say finally. "Later."

I retrieve my shirt and jacket, watching her retreat behind emotional barriers I thought we'd torn down days ago. Part of me wants to demand answers, to discover exactly what her mother said to cause this withdrawal. But the greater part, the part that respects her boundaries, that recognizes her right to privacy, keeps me silent.

At the door, I pause. "Call if you need anything."

She nods, already moving toward the bathroom. "I will."

The door closes between us with a finality that echoes in my chest. I stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, wondering how a short phone call could erase three days of connection so completely.

I shouldn't care this much. Attachment is weakness—the first lesson they beat into us in the camps, reinforced in every fight I've survived since. But as I turn away from Maya's bungalow, my chest tightens with each foot that separates us, the physical pain of distance proving it's already too late for those warnings.

Diesel's bike rumbles up the street as I'm mounting mine. He parks beside me, removing his helmet with a questioning look.

"She inside?" he asks, nodding toward the bungalow.

"Yeah." I kick my bike to life, in no mood to discuss what just happened. "She'll be heading to the clinic in about thirty minutes."

He studies me, too perceptive for comfort. "Everything okay, brother?"

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