Page 28 of We Can Stay
“Do not offer to help.” Rachel points at me. “You’re officially off duty.”
“Just checking on my patients.”
“Go back to your date.” She shoos me with her free hand. “Don’t keep that poor girl waiting.”
Heat creeps up my neck at her knowing look. “I would hate to.”
I retreat before she can tease me further. My body still hums with want as I hurry back to the shed. Twice as fast as I left.
Flick sits on the bench when I return, legs stretched out, rubbing her wrist absently. The motion is small, probably unconscious, but I notice. Just like I notice the careful way she holds her shoulders. The slight tension around her eyes.
“Sorry again.” I lock the door behind me, fighting the urge to pull her back into my arms immediately.
“Really, it’s fine.” Her smile draws me across the small space.
“Work never stops.” I reach down, take her hands gently, and help her stand. She rises smoothly, but then her whole body locks, breath catching sharp between her teeth.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” My heart slams against my ribs. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s...” She bites her lower lip, clearly fighting to minimize whatever she’s feeling. “My chest is sore from dyeing all week. That’s all.”
“Oh.” The explanation doesn’t quite fit her reaction. Normal soreness doesn’t usually cause that kind of pain response. “Is it the arthritis flaring up?”
“Maybe.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “I overdid it this week. Three custom orders plus restocking for the farmers market. I’ll be fine once I get home, put some heat on it.”
“Let me drive you.” I’m already reaching to pack up our leftovers.
Her hand catches mine. “Sebastian, stop. You don’t need to do that.”
I still, turning to really look at her. “I know I don’t need to. I want to.” The words come out fiercer than intended. “I really care about you, Flick.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise maybe, or fear. She opens her mouth, closes it, then looks away. “You’re sweet.”
The sadness in her voice hits me like cold water. What did I say wrong? But pushing won’t help, not when she’s already in pain.
“Thank you. Let’s focus on getting you home and comfortable. I don’t mind taking you.”
“I’ll be okay. Walking actually helps.” She collects her purse, movements careful. “And Pine Island’s hardly dangerous. No one’s going to mug me for hand-dyed yarn.”
I force a chuckle, but worry gnaws at me. The way she’s holding herself, the careful breathing—she’s managing something more than simple soreness. And she’s doing it alone.
Just like I’ve been doing since the divorce. Pushing through, pretending everything’s fine, never asking for help because that would mean admitting how much it all hurts.
“Text me when you get home?” I sound needy. I don’t care.
She rises on her toes, presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Promise.”
“I had an amazing time tonight.” I find her hips, careful to keep my touch light. “I want to do this again. Soon. Without the interruptions.”
“Agreed.” She laughs, but it’s strained.
I hand her the leftover containers. “Take these. And Flick? If you need anything tonight—ice packs, heating pads, company—just call.”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” But her smile wobbles at the edges.
I watch her go, each step measured and cautious. She pauses at the corner, glances back, waves. Then the darkness swallows her, and I’m left standing in the doorway of my supplies shed, wondering what she’s not telling me.
And what I’m not brave enough to tell her.
