Page 81 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

My heart thudded.

He must’ve tucked it in while I wasn’t looking—probably when he delivered the freesia, right before he kissed my forehead like it was a promise and disappeared like smoke.

I ran my thumb along the edge before tearing it open, careful not to rip what felt suddenly sacred.

The paper inside was thick, slightly textured, and smelled faintly like cedarwood and something else I couldn’t name—something that was just… him.

His words were simple. But they reached right through me.

Ruby,

You are the color in my grayscale world. I've spent years keeping things tightly controlled. Predictable. Safe. But you walked into my life like spring after a too-long winter, and suddenly everything felt possible again.

I don’t know where this journey takes us next. I wish I did. I wish I could map it like an artery, cut it open and stitch it closed with absolute certainty. But life doesn’t work like surgery.

All I know is this—I want every step to include you. Even if I have to learn how to hold wildflowers without crushing them.

—D

I didn’t cry right away.

I read it again. Then a third time. And finally, I pressed it to my chest, closing my eyes as a slow breath escaped me.

Damien Cole, the man who had once treated emotion like a foreign language, had written me poetry.

Not rhyming poetry. Not neat or flowery. But raw. Honest.

And heartbreakingly beautiful.

My chest ached with the force of missing him. But it was laced with something sweeter—hope.

Because this wasn’t an ending.

It was a beginning.

The kind that starts not with fireworks, but with a letter slipped quietly into a bag. With a pressed daisy and a man who had learned how to whisper “I love you” in actions long before he said the words out loud.

I curled up on the bed, clutching the note like a lifeline.

The city lights blinked outside my window, cold and unfamiliar. But Damien’s words wrapped around me like a quilt.

Maybe we didn’t know what came next.

Maybe we didn’t need to.

Because some things weren’t meant to be dissected.

Some things were meant to be felt.

And I was done pretending I didn’t feel everything—all at once—for the man who taught me how to bloom with both roots and wings.

—

The ballroom shimmered with gold string lights, the kind that made everything feel dreamlike. Servers drifted past with trays of sparkling cider and hors d’oeuvres that looked too pretty to eat. People clinked glasses, laughed politely, and clutched program brochures that listed names and floral installation descriptions in looping calligraphy.

And I sat frozen, heart doing a jittery dance against my ribs.

Not from nerves. Not from exhaustion either—even though I was running on three hours of sleep and one lukewarm coffee.

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