Wild Enough To Heal

POV: Haley

"I'm not doing this right now."

Nathan shuts the apartment door behind him a little harder than usual. "You never want to do it, Haley. That's the problem."

I stand near the window, staring at the traffic below as headlights cut through the rain.

"Nathan."

"What?" He pulls his coat off but doesn't bother hanging it up. "When's the last time you actually talked to me instead of shutting down?"

"I talk to you."

"No, you tell me you're fine until you're angry enough to explode."

I let out a breath and turn away from the window. "You want honesty? Fine. I'm exhausted."

His expression softens for half a second. "Haley—"

"No. Let me finish." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. "I'm tired of every conversation becoming about my health. I'm tired of being watched all the time. Every time I cough, you look at me like something terrible is about to happen."

His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"Neither is being managed."

That lands exactly the way I knew it would.

Nathan looks away first, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before walking farther into the apartment.

"I'm not managing you."

"You refill my prescriptions before I ask. You called my doctor because I missed one appointment." I stop. "You even told your mom I might not make it to Christmas before you asked how I felt about Christmas."

The silence after that feels heavy.

Nathan sets his keys down on the counter and looks at me carefully.

Finally he says, "Tell me what you want from me, then."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because the truth sitting in my chest is ugly and impossible to explain without hurting him.

I grab my jacket off the chair instead.

"Running away doesn't—"

"I can't deal with this." I'm already at the door, and I walk out before he can finish the sentence.

---

I walk with no real destination, hands shoved into my pockets while the city moves around me. Somebody laughs too loudly across the street. A delivery bike cuts between traffic like it has a death wish.

Everything around feels normal except me.

By the time I stop walking, I'm standing outside a coffee shop I've never noticed before. The sign says BREWED in faded gold letters, and something about it tugs at a memory. My father used to take me to a place similar when I was younger. He would order two hot chocolates even though he only drank black coffee, because he said the whipped cream was the best part of being a kid and he wasn't going to let me miss out.

I haven't been there since the funeral.

The lights inside the shop are warm. It's crowded enough to disappear into for a while.

I go in.

Conversations blur together under soft music and the hiss of espresso machines. Nobody looks up when I walk in, and right now that feels like mercy.

I head straight for the bathroom at the back, and the second the door closes behind me, I grip the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.

Nathan's voice circles back into my head.

Tell me what you want.

I laugh quietly at myself because the answer hits immediately.

I want to stop planning my life around bad days.

I want to make a plan for next year and actually believe it.

I want one conversation that isn't about medication or symptoms or rest.

I want to feel twenty-two instead of temporary.

I want—

My throat tightens suddenly.

I look away from the mirror fast, blinking hard before the tears can properly fall. My hands press harder into the porcelain like I can force it back under control.

Not here. Pull it together.

The bathroom door opens and I straighten immediately and wipe under my eyes with the heel of my hand.

A guy stands in the doorway.

Tall with dark hair falling into his eyes a little. One hand still on the door handle like he already knows he walked in at the wrong moment.

"Wrong door," I say.

His eyes flick across my face. "It's not gendered."

"I'm using it."

"Yeah. I can see that."

There's no pity in his voice. No awkwardness either. Somehow that makes me defensive faster.

"Can you leave?"

"You okay?"

"Perfectly fine."

He leans slightly against the doorframe, studying me for a second too long. "Right."

I clench my teeth. "What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"You said 'right' like you don't believe me."

"I don't."

The honesty catches me off guard.

"You don't even know me."

"No," he says easily. Then his gaze drops briefly before returning to mine. "But your hands are shaking."

I look down automatically.

My fingers are trembling against the edge of the sink.

I pull them back and fold my arms across my chest. "Please get out."

He nods once. "Sorry."

He steps back, then pauses.

"There's a side exit behind the building if you don't want to walk back through the café."

"I'm fine."

"Okay."

He leaves, and I keep my eyes on the closed door for a moment too long.

---

I end up taking the side exit anyway.

The alley behind the café is quiet except for dripping rainwater and distant car horns.

He's standing a little farther down, scrolling through his phone beneath the streetlight.

When the door shuts behind me, he glances up.

"I told you I didn't need the side exit."

"And yet."

I stay standing there while cold air creeps through my jacket sleeves. Up close he looks calmer than most people. Not overly polite. Not cautious. Just... steady.

"You always bother strangers in bathrooms?"

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "Only the dramatic ones."

"Wow."

"You were crying."

"I wasn't."

"You were trying not to."

The casual certainty in his voice irritates me more than concern would have.

I turn my face away. "I'm okay now. You can go."

"I know."

"Then what are you still doing here?"

He slips his phone into his pocket.

"Whatever's happening with you… it looks heavy."

Before I can respond, he turns and walks away—no goodbye, no looking back.

And for some stupid reason, I stand there wishing he would.

---

Nathan is asleep on the couch when I get home, one arm stretched over his face, awkward, like he meant to stay awake and failed.

I don't like the feeling that follows because this is Nathan. Kind, dependable Nathan who stayed through the worst parts of my illness, who never asked me to be anything other than what I was. And I spent the last twenty minutes thinking about a stranger behind a coffee shop.

The apartment door clicks softly, and Nathan stirs, lowering his arm. "Hey."

"Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't really sleeping." His voice is rough with exhaustion. "You okay?"

I nod once and slip my jacket off. "Yeah."

He studies my face for a moment like he's checking for damage he can't see.

Then he quietly says, "I hate fighting with you."

The guilt hits fast enough to make me look away.

"I know."

Nathan sits up fully and reaches for my hand, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. Familiar. Easy. Two years of muscle memory.

"I push too hard sometimes," he admits.

"You care too hard sometimes."

A tired smile pulls at his mouth. "That too."

For a second, the tension eases enough that I almost believe we're okay again.

Then Nathan says, "I forgot to tell you earlier. Kai's back in town."

"Who?"

"My best friend, Kai Remington. I told you about him before, remember?" He smiles wider now. "I want you to meet him. I think you'll—" He stops. Tilts his head. "Actually, I know you'll like him."

"You say that about everyone."

"I say it about people I think you'll get along with. There's a difference." He laughs softly. "We're all getting dinner tomorrow night. You in?"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm in."

---

Later that night, I lie awake beside Nathan staring at the ceiling.

Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice again.

Your hands are shaking.