Page 46 of One Night Only

“I mean to chase you. So run if you need to. As far and as fast as you can manage. But I’ll catch you, sooner or later.”

And then he gently, but firmly, pushes me away. My heart drops to my stomach and then to my feet as he grabs his jacket. The distance between us grows impossibly wide with each step he takes toward the door. I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside.

I want to be the one to say goodbye. Not get left behind like this.

“Dr. Cross?” I say, unable to stop myself. “Will you kiss me once more?”

He turns and shakes his head.

“Please,” I beg, beyond self-respect.

“Take a long shower. Order room service. There’s no need to rush. I’ll tell your friends to come back in a while to pick you up.” He rattles off instructions with that calm authority that I automatically want to follow. As if he’s already programmed me to.

He stills at the door. One last look over his shoulder is all he grants me. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart. Take care of yourself for me until I can do it, yeah? Because you’re mine.”

Chapter Twenty

Ethan

The hospital waitingroom is alive with the afternoon rush as I walk past. I prefer the quiet twilight zone it was last night.

Every chair is filled, and the scent of burnt coffee and disinfectant is thick in the air. The buzz of conversation blends with the steady beep of monitors and the occasional crackle of the intercom.

I’m used to the controlled chaos, but today, the hum of activity feels intrusive. Dissonant.

As is the February sun streaming through the glass doors, golden and crisp after the storm that rattled the city overnight. Outside, the streets are still glistening with rain, and the cold clings to my skin.

I’m running on fumes. The sandwich I nearly gagged on is a reminder that I’ll crash soon.

I miss the heat of Annika’s skin, the weight of her body against mine, the quiet, aching way she looked at me before we parted. The way she begged me for one last kiss.

Regret slams me about denying her. But if I kissed her, could I let her leave? I would have done something crazy like tie her to the bed with my necktie. Or told her how I truly felt and scared her a little more.

Neither could I dwell on it in a constant loop. There were plans to make, things to set in motion.

Quitting my position in New York isn’t just about handing in a resignation letter. It means leaving behind a career I built brick by brick, the department I helped shape, the colleagues who rely on me. Selling the brownstone? A logistical nightmare. Finding the right care for Mom in Seattle? Even harder.

And then there’s the paperwork—hospital privileges, licensing transfers, insurance, the offer I have to review from the university. Every item I write into my little notebook branches off into more to-do lists. But the mental fatigue and the inertia that consumed me for months as I considered these same changes are gone.

Each form I fill out, each signature I scrawl, feels less like a chore and more like a step toward something that actually matters.

I’m not just moving across the country. I’m moving toward her, toward us, whatever shape the future might take. And for the first time in years, I’m not chasing success or more prestige or any other external metric.

I’m setting the stage for my happiness. And this is what one night with her has wrought in me.

As I reach the corridor that leads to private patient rooms, I see the two men first, like tall evergreens from our home state, guarding her. My mind registers them in the same way I do the world around me since this morning—in blurry shapes and vague outlines.

Annika’s sitting slouched on the hard plastic seat, long legs kicked out, head lolling back in sleep.

My breath catches, my heart slams against my ribs as if it’s trying to burst right out of my chest.

She’s dressed in a worn-out purple sweatshirt that’s too big for her—which she stole from me—and black leggings. Messy hair bound in a tight braid, with small wisps dancing across her temples, she looks impossibly young. My gaze sweeps over the high forehead, the sharp nose, and the lush mouth, making sure I didn’t misremember any detail.

I didn’t.

She’s so beautiful that it hurts to look at her and not claim her as my own. Her slim fingers are wrapped around a paper cup of coffee that keeps sloshing every time her head lolls back and she rights herself.

There’s a burning in my eyes that’s half grittiness from no sleep and half tears. The relief that hits me is like a tidal wave, threatening to tow me under. My knees quake, and for a second, I wonder if the better option is to sink to them willingly.

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