18. Shep

EIGHTEEN

Shep

11:38 pm

I walk out of Elle's room, and it feels like someone punched me in the gut. Her icy reception cuts deep, and I'm at a loss for what just happened. The short, clipped responses and the anger radiating off her in waves. Fuck.

My mind is racing, and my feet carry me down the familiar hallways towards my office. I'm guessing she's pissed because I haven't been by. But her fucking boyfriend was in town.

Ari waking up, being swamped with surgeries, and trying to keep things normal for Opie—all of it played a role, too. I've had more on my plate lately than Thanksgiving dinner.

As I push open my office door, the weight of everything crashes down on me. I slump into my chair and cradle my head in frustration. Elle's cold demeanor replays in my mind, starkly contrasting the warmth we'd shared just days ago.

My surprise and despair are turning into anger. I'm the one who's been trying to talk to her. I'm the one who put my heart out there, asking her to consider trying to see if this might go somewhere. She's the one who slept with me and then obviously has someone else at home.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through our recent messages. My last text to her seems innocuous enough—just checking in. But maybe it wasn't enough.

Fuck her. Her response wasn't enough. She could have offered more and explained her situation.

The quiet of my office feels oppressive now. I'm upset, yes, but more than that, I'm confused. How did we go from talking about exploring a relationship to this? It's whiplash, and I'm struggling to understand how she expects me to react seeing her holding hands with some dude who was clearly hanging around Birmingham.

Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes, trying to piece together where this went wrong. But the more I think, the more muddled it becomes. I pick up a wireless mouse on my desktop and throw it.

At the same time, Marijka's head pops into my office. "Whoa. You practicing for spring season?"

"Sorry, it wasn't working," I lie. "I got frustrated."

"I have a quick question about Robert Quick, a patient on my floor. The protocol calls for Q-4, but you have Q-6. I want to make sure that's what you want us to do."

She's referring to how often we check stats and give medication. He has a neuromuscular disease that requires specialized care. I appreciate her attention to detail.

I answer automatically, not going into detail about why I switched protocol for him, but letting her know I'm aware I made the change. Usually, I might explain more, but I don't have the energy tonight because my mind is still half on Elle.

Marijka turns to leave but then swings back around. "You okay, Dr. Duncan? You look like someone kicked your puppy."

I hesitate, but something in her motherly gaze breaks my resolve. "I screwed up, Marijka. With Elle."

"The hand surgery patient? You two did seem quite chummy. She's an ex or something from your past, right? What happened?"

I unload it all—seeing the man in Elle's room, assuming it was her boyfriend, avoiding her, a hundred miles an hour to zero. Marijka listens, her eyes narrowing.

"You're acting like a pussy," she says bluntly. "The Dr. D I know doesn't make assumptions and slink away from an unknown cockblock. You don't know who that man was. Could've been her brother, for all you know."

I wince. She's right, of course. And it's the same advice, essentially, that Buster gave me. Obviously, I know it isn't her brother; she doesn't have one. But he could be any number of things, including a lover, sure, but that isn't the only possibility.

I can't figure out my deal with just addressing it with her. It's like I have this fear to ask her. Or, maybe it's a fear about myself, what learning that he is her lover might do to me.

"You owe it to Elle to talk to her," Marijka continues. "Especially after bringing up dating. Don't assume. Communicate."

Marijka has a way with words—blunt, to the point, and usually laced with profanity. You would think a woman in her sixties who has spent her life as a nurse caring for other people would have a little more bedside manner when dealing with people.

"But what if she refuses to talk?" I ask, hating how uncertain I sound. She's right, I'm being a complete pussy.

Marijka fixes me with a stern look. "Then you explain yourself anyway. She deserves that much. Then you're not in your office throwing a perfectly good mouse and sulking around like a love-sick teenager."

I nod, feeling a mix of dread and determination. "You're right. Thanks, Marijka. I needed some of that Mama Bear tough love."

She pats my shoulder. "That's what I'm here for. Now go fix this mess before I have to knock some sense into you."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I walk back towards Elle's room. At this hour, the hospital corridors are eerily quiet, and most of the rooms are dark and still. My footsteps echo softly on the polished floor, each step bringing me closer to a conversation I'm both dreading and desperate to have.

As I approach her door, I notice the TV is off now. It was on just fifteen minutes ago when I last stopped by, so she can't be that far asleep yet. I have to talk to her. If I don't do it now, I may lose my nerve.

My heart pounds against my ribcage, a thunderous rhythm that seems to drown out all other sounds. I wipe my palms on my scrubs, surprised to find them damp with nervous sweat.

I raise my hand to knock, hesitating for a moment. What if she's asleep? What if she doesn't want to see me? The doubts swirl in my mind, but I push them aside.

My knuckles rap softly on the door before I can talk myself out of it. I slide the door open, peering into the mostly black room, illuminated only by the nurse's computer and the machines monitoring her heart and breathing. My mouth feels dry, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak.

"Elle?" I whisper, stepping inside. "Are you awake?"

An old episode of Matlock is on, and the speaker is barely audible.

My heart is racing so fast that I wonder if she can hear it. I feel like a teenager again, nervous and unsure, not the confident surgeon I should be right now. Doctors come into patients' rooms at all hours, checking, monitoring, and waking them. But she isn't a patient, and this isn't a doctor's call.

I walk around to the other side of the bed where Elle has turned. Pulling up the chair— the same one I saw that man sitting in—I lower myself to her eye level. Her eyes are wide open. She is definitely awake. She watches me, and though she doesn't speak, I sense a tiny lifeline in her gaze.

She doesn't say no, so I jump in, worried that if I don't do it now, I never will have the guts again.

"Elle," I say softly. "Can you give me two minutes to speak? If you still want me to leave after that, I will."

She doesn't respond verbally, but her eyes don't leave mine. I take a deep breath, knowing I'm on borrowed time.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by in the last few days," I begin. "I came to see you at the end of the day you woke up and saw a man here with you. I... I felt jealous and angry. I assumed he was your boyfriend or lover or whatever. It doesn't matter. I reverted to some wounded version of myself and handled it poorly."

Still nothing, so I keep going.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of my next words. "There's been a situation with Ari, Opie's mom. As I'm sure you remember, she's been missing. While you were in a coma, I found out she was in the hospital in Houston, also in a coma. The house she was staying in had an oak tree fall on it during the storm, and it landed on her. On her head."

"Oh, God," she finally responds. I should have led with this story.

"I think it was the day after you woke up that she had brain activity for the first time, so it has been an emotional week or so, mainly because I don't want Opie to lose his mom."

"Of course. I'm so glad for him."

"I've also been in contact with the hospital team there, trying to help interpret her scans and consulting. All of this to say, it's been intense. That's not an excuse for not coming to see you, but it's part of why I've been so scattered."

Her eyes seem to have shifted somewhat. They were hostile and piercing when I first sat down, but now they seem softer. She still hasn't said anything except reacting to the news about Ari. The constant beeping from her heart monitor is the only sound besides our breathing.

I lean in slightly, my voice low and earnest. "I should have asked you if you were involved with someone before all this. You know what they say happens when you assume. Of course, it's okay if you are. It's just... with all the emotions from you waking up from the coma, the stress of that, our conversation earlier that day about possibly dating, and everything else going on in my life... I wasn't able to make unemotional decisions. I didn't act like a mature adult, and I'm sorry."

I pause, searching her face for any reaction. "I know I messed up, Elle. I hope you can forgive me. If nothing else, I don't want to lose you. I don't want you absent from my life again."

I sit in silence, the weight of my words hanging in the air. The room feels impossibly small, the beeping of Elle's heart monitor suddenly deafening in the quiet. The pale green walls seem to close in, and the harsh fluorescent light casts strange shadows across Elle's face.

My heart pounds as I wait for her response. Each second feels like an eternity. The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, marking the passage of time that seems to stretch on forever. I can hear my own breathing, shallow and quick.

After what must have been only a minute but felt like hours, I started to stand slowly. My legs feel weak and unsteady. "I appreciate you letting me explain," I say softly. "Again, I'm sorry for everything and for the late hour. I'll let you rest."

Elle's hand shoots out as I begin to rise, grabbing mine. The touch sends a jolt through me, and I freeze.

"Shep," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Wait."

I sink back into the chair, my eyes locked on hers.

"I was so angry," she begins, her voice trembling slightly. "I thought... I thought you'd left me again without a second glance or thought about me. It brought all that old pain right back." She takes a shaky breath. "I was opening myself up after everything, and then you just disappeared. I was angry and hurt."

Her words hit me like a physical blow. I squeeze her hand gently, feeling the weight of our shared history and the pain I've caused her.

I gently wipe away the tear rolling down Elle's cheek, my heart aching at the sight of her pain. Her skin is soft under my fingertips, and I resist the urge to cup her face in my hands.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you again."

Elle takes a shaky breath, her eyes meeting mine. "The man you saw... he was my boyfriend. In the past." She emphasizes the last part, and I feel a weight lift from my chest. "We've been broken up for months now."

I nod, encouraging her to continue.

"When he heard about the coma, he drove up here unsolicited. At the time, I still hadn't woken up." Elle's voice is soft, tinged with gratitude and regret. "He's a good guy, Shep. He truly cares about me."

I swallow hard, pushing down the lingering jealousy. "I understand. Anyone who cares about you would have done the same."

Elle squeezes my hand. "But we aren't together anymore. That's settled. It has been for a while now."

Relief washes over me, followed quickly by guilt for feeling relieved. I take a deep breath, trying to sort through the jumble of emotions coursing through me.

"I should have asked you," I admit. "Instead of assuming and pulling away. With everything in my life, it was like I found it safer not to acknowledge the painful things than confront them, so I retreated. I'm sorry for that, Elle. You deserve better."

I lean down, unable to resist the magnetic pull between us any longer. My lips meet Elle's in a passionate kiss, years of pent-up emotion pouring out. Her hand finds its way to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I'm lost in the sensation.

My heart races, pounding so hard I swear Elle must feel it. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and I'm hyper-aware of her touch, her taste, and her scent. It's intoxicating and overwhelming in the best possible way. I cup her face gently, marveling at how perfectly she fits against me like we were always meant to be this close.

My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions: relief that she's okay, guilt for doubting her, and joy at this unexpected second chance or third chance, or whatever this is.

But mostly, I'm struck by how right this feels—like coming home after years of wandering.

I deepen the kiss, savoring every moment. My body responds instinctively, leaning in closer, craving more contact. A warmth spreads through me, from my core to the tips of my fingers. It's desire, yes, but also something deeper—a sense of completeness I haven't felt in years.

As we kiss, the world fades away. The beeping machines, the sterile hospital smell, the weight of our complicated past—it all disappears. There's only Elle, only this moment, only us.