I shouldn't have expected anything. The girl I texted feared being abandoned. Here I was, sitting half-naked on a table, waiting on pins, needles, and the memory of IVs shoved into my veins to see how soon I could ship out and leave her alone.

I wasn't the only man who ever made a choice between his family and country, but G.o.dd.a.m.n if it wasn't both the easiest and hardest decision of my life.

I belonged somewhere, but now I wasn't sure if it was with the SEALs or Shay.

Only one way to find out. I texted her again.

waiting in the doctor's office Nothing. I gave it a minute before tapping the screen. I snapped the photo and sent it.

if u think the gown is s.e.xy, u should see my a.s.s in it. everyone else can My phone buzzed. Can the doctor give you a lobotomy instead?

I grinned. So she did care.

shouldn't b here that long. u should call the office. tell him I'm fit enough to serve you.

A delayed response. I imagined it fl.u.s.tered her. I hoped it did.

I'll call and recommend a castration if you aren't careful.

I took my shot and hoped for the best. that wouldn't make either of us happy An even longer delay. One step too far, or just enough of a push? What would it take to get her to see how f.u.c.king perfect we were together?

Heading into the attorney about the charity. Good luck!

Ah, willful ignorance. Or avoidance. Probably avoidance.

Shay warmed up with the intensity of an M80 and shut down with the force of a cleaver into a cutting board. I had to watch my fingers, toes, and more important areas around her.

d.a.m.n it. I shouldn't have scared her off. I liked talking to her.

I wanted to talk to her.

Christ, I wanted her to be here with me.

How pathetic was that? I was a f.u.c.king Navy SEAL, and I needed someone to hold my hand in a doctor's office?

During my injury, I had more needles in my arms, catheters in my c.o.c.k, and fingers in my brain than I ever told Shay. I didn't need her to f.u.c.king baby me.

I was getting back in the SEALs.

And there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing that would stop me.

Except her.

And she had no idea. All she had to do was say the word.

That scared me more than anything the doctor might have said.

The door opened, and a balding doctor in his late fifties entered. He washed his hands and gave me a cautious glance.

"SEAL, huh?" He asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You guys really do have two modes-living and dead."

"I'm still breathing."

"Lucky for you." He studied me with dark, skeptical eyes. "I had a look at your file, son. I'm sure how you survived."

I gave him a smile. "I'm not complaining, sir."

"Wouldn't expect you to." He tapped my chart. "Your blood work is fine."

"With all due respect sir, the issue wasn't with my blood. I had too much of it spilled."

"Well, you're looking solid now."

"Yes, sir."

He approached, and I straightened as he gripped my right shoulder. "You seem to be in good shape. Exercising every day?"

"At least, sir."

"Not overdoing it?"

I grinned. "No such thing."

He hummed. Squeezed. The shock bit through my shoulder. My nerves set on fire, rampaging down my spine.

"Does that hurt?" He asked.

I'd swallow my tongue. "Uncomfortable."

"You had an injury to your rotator cuff," he said. "They opted not to do surgery and wait."

Probably because they were still st.i.tching my head. "It's getting better without the surgery."

"Right." He had me stand. I gritted my teeth as he moved the gown aside and pressed against my chest. "Broken ribs too?"

"Healed."

"Right."

He didn't f.u.c.king believe me? Holy Christ, when I first woke, the ribs and collapsed lung f.u.c.ked me up more than the head wound.

The doctor had me sit. He examined the scars on my head and exhaled.

"Do you feel you are physically capable of returning to duty?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir."

"Son, you suffered a severe, near-fatal accident only eight months ago. You endured months of intense therapy after weeks of extended hospitalization. Do you understand what that sort of trauma does to a body?"

"I remember it well," I said. "A lesser man might have fallen."

"But not you?"

"No, sir. I guarantee, I'm the strongest son of a b.i.t.c.h you've ever had the pleasure of examining."

"That so?"

"Yes, sir. Just wait until I turn my head and cough."

Finally got a chuckle out of him, but it faded quick. He tapped the chart. "Well, you seem mostly recovered. I'm guessing you're more physically fit now than you were before the accident which is...impressive, given the SEALs expectations."

"I've definitely had more to work for, sir."

"Any family?"

In a sense. I shrugged. "I live for the job."

That wasn't the answer he wanted.

He pulled a chair over and sat, crossing his legs. His gla.s.ses came off, and he rubbed his eyes. He hesitated.

But f.u.c.king why?

"Tell me about the headaches, Zach?"

I revealed f.u.c.king nothing. "What headaches?"

"Son."

"Gotta be more specific, doc."

"You've been prescribed oxycodone and fiorcet for migraines by Dr. Gretchen Halley."

d.a.m.n it. Gretchen tried to force the pills down my throat before. I refused her every time. Didn't stop her from calling a prescription in for me. Son of a b.i.t.c.h.

"I didn't take them," I said.

"So you aren't having headaches?"

I preferred a real mine-field to these questions. "I could handle them."

"How bad are they?"

"Just a headache."

"Do you have one now?"

Yeah, and he was making it worse. "It's not bad. Caused by the travel. Chartered my own jet, but unless I'm strapped in the back of a helo, flying is boring."

He handed me a plastic tool to hold over my eye. He pointed to the chart on the door.

"Read the fourth line."

"Look, the headaches are manageable-"

"Son, read the line."

I couldn't. The words blurred the more I concentrated. I shrugged.

"R-O-3-A-V."

He frowned. "Not even close."

I knew what he was going to say next. I didn't let him talk.

"I can get LASIK. It'll correct my vision. That's not a problem."

His voice hardened. "It's not your eyes."

"They're blurry. Of course it's my eyes."

"Zach, you suffered extensive head trauma. Quite frankly, it's a G.o.dd.a.m.ned miracle you're even standing, walking, talking, exercising, and thinking of re-enlisting in the SEALs."

"Sir-"

"These aren't tension headaches. This is a clear-cut case of Post-Concussion Syndrome. It's serious. You shouldn't be trying to get into the Navy. You need to find a qualified neurologist."

"But-"

"This types of syndromes can kill you, son. The only thing you should be doing is resting and focusing on getting healthy. These headaches may last a lifetime."

"I'll handle them."

"Not if you're under enemy fire in hostile territory. It isn't just your life on the line. Do you want to be the man responsible for killing a member of your squadron?"

Jesus. Like I didn't have that nightmare every night. I clenched my jaw.

"Son, do yourself a favor. Be grateful you're alive. Take care of yourself. Find a pretty girl and settle down."

"I can do this, I just need a chance."

He stood, clapping my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I can't in good conscience clear you for duty. Not when you'd pose a danger to yourself and others. You served your country well, almost gave your life. Be grateful for the opportunity and focus on your continued recovery."

He offered his hand. I reflexively shook it. He nodded.