Page 107 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Hazel spotted me first. She lit up like the Fourth of July and made a beeline for the porch.

“Good morning, Dr. Not-So-Grumpy,” she said, handing me a still-warm muffin.

“Morning, Hazel,” I said, peeling back the wrapper. “Blueberry?”

“Your favorite. Or at least it will be now,” she winked.

Marge hollered from her side of the street, “Make sure he eats at least two! We need him fueled before speeches and foundation planting!”

I saluted with the muffin. “Understood.”

Hazel leaned on the railing beside me, watching the town bustle around us.

“You look... lighter,” she said after a moment.

“I feel lighter.”

“Good. Ruby’s been carrying enough for the both of you.”

That hit deep. I looked down at the muffin. “I know.”

Hazel nudged me. “She doesn’t need rescuing, Damien. But she does need someone who shows up. You did that.”

“I’m planning on sticking around,” I said, softer than I meant to.

“Then you’re already ahead of most.”

Eleanor trotted over next, her stack of notecards flapping in the wind.

“Darling!” she exclaimed. “We’ve scheduled speeches, cake-cutting, and a symbolic dirt-turning! You’ll speak second, right after me.”

“Of course,” I said, startled.

“Good man.” She handed me a card. “Your talking points. Feel free to cry. The mayor cried last year and everyone loved it.”

Hazel snorted. “Let the man breathe, Eleanor.”

“He’ll breathe after the ceremony. And after cake.”

Eleanor marched off to wrangle the microphone cable from a teenager trying to loop it into a lasso.

I shook my head, laughing under my breath.

Hazel elbowed me. “So... you sticking with the ‘grump who got lucky’ speech angle? Or something more poetic?”

“I was thinking about muffins and soil,” I said, half-joking, half-not.

Hazel’s smile was soft. “That’ll preach.”

And it would.

Because standing on Ruby’s porch, in the house she’d painted with her own chaotic flair, with flower crowns being woven by kids and old ladies alike, I felt it in my chest—this was the kind of success I’d never dreamed of in Manhattan. This was the kind of healing no hospital wing could ever offer.

A place. A purpose. A woman who saw every cracked part of me and called it beautiful.

I took another bite of muffin, then leaned my elbows on the railing.

And as the laughter and chatter of the town carried through the morning breeze, I said aloud, mostly to myself, “I used to think success looked like skyscrapers. Turns out it smells like muffins and soil.”

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