Page 13 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Thatunavoidable,impossibly realkiss.

I could still feel the imprint of her lips on mine, the softness of her voice when she whispered back into the darkness, the way she didn’t flinch from my truth.

Now she lay wrapped in the blankets like some kind of beautiful, sleepy storm I’d accidentally let past my defenses.

And I didn’t know what to do with any of it.

I slid quietly out of bed, careful not to wake her. The floor creaked beneath my feet like it had a conscience. I glanced back once—just once—committing the sight of her to memory.

Then I grabbed a pen from the desk by the window and scribbled on the back of Marge’s breakfast menu.

Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for last night.—D.

It felt inadequate.

But anything else—anything more—would feel like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.

By the time I made it back to my cottage, the clouds had begun to clear, leaving behind a sky the color of washed denim. Birds chirped like nothing monumental had happened the night before. Like I hadn’t just crossed some invisible line between common sense and something dangerous.

I tossed my keys onto the counter, kicked off my boots, and ran a hand through my damp hair.

Pacing came next.

Pacing, second-guessing, and overthinking—my specialty.

Had I made a mistake?

It had been a storm. One night. Close quarters, a fireplace, emotions running high. Anyone would’ve gotten caught up in it.

Right?

Except… it hadn’t felt like a mistake.

It had felt inevitable.

Like everything about Ruby—her laugh, her fire, her soft confessions—had slipped under my skin when I wasn’t paying attention.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t dothis. I didn’t do feelings or lingering glances or the kind of kiss that left you dizzy and wanting more.

And yet...

The memory of her hand in mine, the way her eyes searched mine like she was seeing something no one else ever had—it clung to me like a second skin.

I leaned against the kitchen counter and closed my eyes.

What if she woke up and thought I’d run?

What if she read the note and assumed it meant regret?

What if Ihadcrossed a line?

The worst part?

I didn’t know how to be what she might need. I knew how to fix hearts. Not how to hand over my own.

But it was already too late for that, wasn’t it?

Because somewhere between bickering over floral arches and laying awake beside her in a bed that felt too intimate for two practical strangers, she’d started to matter.

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