It was their last week in Singapore.
I could finally stand longer than five minutes without needing support. The color was back in my face. My appetite had returned, albeit gently.
Physically—I was healing.
But emotionally... there was a heaviness still sitting in the room between me and Tedd.
He still showed up every day.
Still measured my vitals, prepped my meds, took me on short walks to the rooftop garden.
But something in him had shifted.
His laughter was quieter.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhmGiooy1TN
His gaze wandered more.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUD5dyLAX6P
And sometimes, I caught him staring at me like he was memorizing the way I breathed. Like he was preparing himself to let go.
"Tedd," I said one morning, sitting beside him on the bench near the koi pond. "What are you not telling me?"
He blinked, startled. "What?"
"You've been acting like you're trying not to feel something."
He swallowed. "I don't know what you mean."
But he did.
Because silence says more when the heart is full.
It wasn't until the night before my final evaluation that he finally cracked.
It was raining. Not a storm. Just a quiet, cold rain that made the windows of the recovery suite fog.
I stood barefoot on the small balcony, letting the wind kiss my cheeks.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCr36OovNb3
And then I heard his voice behind me.
"Jaimie."
I turned.
He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff—with no more strength to pretend he didn't want to jump.
"I didn't mean to," he said quietly. "I didn't expect it. You were my patient. You're still... recovering."
I stepped closer, confused and heart-pounding. "What are you talking about?"
"I—" he exhaled shakily. "I loved you the first moment I cared for you. The first time you threw up and still said thank you. The first time you played Moon River and laughed because you missed a note."
I froze.
"But I'm scared," he continued. "Because I was married. I'm—separated. My wife... left. And I never told you because I thought if I did, you'd see me as another broken man in your life."
"Tedd..."
"I didn't want to hurt you. Or confuse you. And I sure as hell didn't want to fall in love while you were still learning how to breathe again."
By now, the rain was stronger, dampening his shirt, making his glasses fog.
I stepped into it, closing the space between us.
My voice cracked.
"You idiot."
His brows furrowed.
"You think I haven't been scared too? You think I didn't see you holding back every time we sat too close? Every time I asked what's wrong and you said 'nothing' with your mouth but screamed everything with your eyes?"
He looked at me like he couldn't believe I was real.
And then I cried—not because I was sad, or angry, but because this was the first time in a long time that someone said I love you and meant it with his hands, his silence, his presence.
Tedd reached out, cupping my face.
And I let him.
I let myself feel, finally.
And as the rain poured harder, I leaned in, heart trembling—
And kissed him.
It wasn't perfect.
It was wet. Messy. Hungry.
But it was real.
And it wasn't just lips colliding. It was two tired souls finally finding a rhythm that didn't ask for performance.
I pulled back, breathless. "You don't have to be afraid."
He whispered, "Neither do you."
We stood there, soaked, hearts pounding in unison.
And when we went back inside—we didn't go back as patient and nurse.
We went back as two people who finally said what they needed to say.
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