Page 10 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Later, after changing into dry clothes (okay, fine—one of Damien’s oversized T-shirts Marge loaned me, which hung down to my knees and smelled like cedar and control issues), we made our way to the inn’s tiny lounge for dinner.

The space was pure storybook: dim sconces, a fire crackling in the hearth, old armchairs that looked like they’d seen generations of secret rendezvous and long games of chess.

Marge served up bowls of butternut squash soup and warm bread that smelled like home. We settled into the nook beside the window—rain still streaking down the glass, wind whistling just beyond the cozy cocoon of the inn.

I wrapped my hands around the soup bowl and inhaled. “I always forget how good it feels to stop.”

Damien glanced over. “You don’t stop often?”

I shook my head. “Not really. Not ever, actually. My brain’s like… a sparkler. Fun, unpredictable, kind of a fire hazard.”

He hummed, clearly not surprised.

I dipped a chunk of bread into my soup, hesitated, and then said it out loud—because maybe the thunderstorm had fried my filter. “I used to think being a mess meant I’d never be taken seriously. Like if I wasn’t perfect—if I didn’t have every ribbon and invoice and bouquet lined up just so—no one would believe I could do somethingreal.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

So, I kept going.

“Growing up, I was always the ‘pretty mess.’ The girl who doodled instead of taking notes. Who wore two different shoes to prom. Everyone smiled and shook their heads like,Oh, that’s Ruby,but no one ever looked at me like I was dependable. Capable.” I forced a laugh. “So now I run a business, and I’ve got lists and spreadsheets and backup plans… but the glitter still sticks, you know?”

I didn’t mean for it to come out so raw. I stared into my soup like it held some kind of answer.

Damien’s voice was quiet. “Hospitals are machines.”

I looked up.

He stared into the fire, eyes unfocused, like he wasn’t really here. “Every part has a job. Mine was the scalpel. Sharp. Precise. You don’t get to feel things when people’s lives are in your hands. You shut it off. You become useful, not human.”

I blinked.

He glanced over. “I didn’t walk away because I couldn’t handle the pressure. I walked away because I couldn’t remember who I was outside of it.”

Silence settled between us—not heavy, but full. Shared.

“You’re not a scalpel,” I said finally. “You’re just a guy who thinks fairy lights are a crime against humanity.”

His lips twitched. “They’re impractical.”

“And you’re allergic to joy.”

“I prefer functionality.”

“And I prefer sparkle,” I said, raising my spoon. “Guess we balance each other out.”

He looked at me then—really looked.

And something in the air shifted.

Like the room had narrowed around us. Like the crackle in the fire jumped into the space between our knees, our shoulders, our breath.

I wasn’t sure who smiled first, but soon we were both laughing.

Not sarcastic. Not forced.

Just… laughing.

Easy. Warm. Unexpected.

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