The blades cut the sky like a pulse.
Eight years.
Eight years since Rachel had last seen this land — the endless sprawl of amber grass and fences that stretched farther than forgiveness. The Connors Ranch. Over a thousand acres of beauty, silence, and ghosts.
The helicopter shuddered as it descended over the property, its shadow skating across the horse fields below. Rachel sat rigid beside the man she once loved —and likely now hated —trying not to notice how wide-awake he was, how his eyes stayed fixed on her profile rather than the window.
"Stop that," she muttered under her breath.
He didn't answer. Just watched her, the corner of his mouth almost curious.
Her pulse jumped — irritation or something far worse, she couldn't tell. It was anger, she decided. Anger that she was here at all. Anger that her career had been rewritten by a "donation" she hadn't asked for. Anger that she'd let her scalpel touch him three weeks ago, crossing lines she used to draw in steel.
When the helicopter thumped onto the pad, she was already unclipping her harness.
She needed distance — air that didn't smell like antiseptic and memories.
The door swung open, and the dry wind hit her face. It smelled like rain that never came, like hay and cedar and everything she'd buried. She stepped out, boots crunching on the pad's edge, forcing her heartbeat to settle while the rotors slowed above.
Behind her, Ethan Connors was unstrapped and loaded onto the gurney, medical monitors humming in rhythm with the distant drone of cattle and cicadas. His body was still healing — muscle memory gone, reflexes dulled — but his gaze, sharp as ever, tracked her every move.
"Dr. Maren," one of the transport medics called over the noise. "Vitals steady."
Rachel nodded, already scanning the facility that had been built on the east edge of the property — part clinic, part private retreat, part gilded cage. The Connors family called it rehabilitation. She called it containment.
She moved through the checklist like clockwork, clipboard in one hand, her other hand pressed to her temple.
Power grid: dual generators.
Auxiliary system: inspected last week.
Emergency supply cache: full.
Medication log: no discrepancies.
Security rotation: doubled since her last report.
She'd personally vetted every nurse and tech. If she had to play this ethically gray game, she'd damn well play it clean.
By the time the gurney was wheeled off the pad, Rachel was halfway down the gravel path toward the facility, her white coat snapping behind her in the dry wind. She didn't look back — not when the staff called updates, not when the med-droid beeped for her signature, not when the sound of Ethan's gourney rolled closer behind her.
Only when he spoke did she falter.
"Rach."
Her name in his voice stopped her. She froze mid-stride. It wasn't the sound itself — it was the heat that came with it, the echo of a man who had once whispered that same name against her skin.
He reached out as the gurney passed, fingers brushing hers before she could pull away.
The contact was brief, but it was enough — a static spark that went straight through her chest and rooted in every nerve she'd locked away for eight years.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Her throat tightened.
She withdrew her hand and shoved it deep into the pocket of her coat. "Dr. Maren, please. Focus on your recovery, Mr. Connors."
His expression barely changed, but she saw the flicker there — confusion, maybe pain — before the orderlies rolled him through the automatic doors.
Rachel followed at a slower pace, jaw tight. Inside, the facility was cooler, clinical. The faint scent of pine cleaner and sterilized steel replaced the wild air outside. Her staff moved efficiently — quick greetings, nervous eyes, the way subordinates always looked at someone whose reputation preceded her.
"Dr. Maren, he's assigned to the east wing," said the head nurse, handing her a digital slate. "Room Twelve. Private entrance, full cardiac support, 24-hour watch."
Rachel scrolled through the file, brows furrowing. "And the security detail?"
"Two men stationed at every exterior point," the nurse replied. "His parents insisted."
That made her look up.
She hadn't authorized a private guard rotation. And the Connors family's version of security was rarely about protection — more often about control.
"Double the internal monitoring instead," she said flatly. "If they want armed men around their son, they can clear it through me first."
The nurse nodded quickly and retreated.
Rachel exhaled, forcing herself back into the present. Work. Facts. Medicine. Those were safe. Feelings were not.
She did another pass through the east corridor — tested locks, power lines, the generator backup — until she reached the door to Room Twelve. Through the observation window she saw Ethan sitting upright on the bed, monitors tracing the slow rhythm of his pulse. His head turned slightly toward the glass, as though he sensed her there.
Eight years, and he still had that uncanny way of knowing her presence.
Rachel's hand tightened on the slate. She stepped back from the window before his eyes could find hers.
Professional. Detached. Always.
But as she turned away, the sound of his voice — weak, hoarse, impossibly familiar — drifted through the half-open door.
"I didn't think you'd come back."
She stopped, one hand still on the doorframe. For a moment, the world felt smaller, the hum of machines fading under the echo of everything they'd left unsaid.
Then she straightened. "Neither did I."
And without another word, she walked down the hall — the click of her boots steady, measured, and full of every reason she'd sworn never to return. Then she turned on her heel and walked down the corridor, every step echoing with the same practiced calm that had carried her through surgeries, funerals, and the kind of regret that never really healed.
Outside, the evening sun sank low across the ranch, spilling gold over the fields she'd once run through barefoot. The wind carried the faint hum of the generators, steady and alive, as if the land itself remembered everything she tried to forget. She dropped down to her knees in the field, covered her face with both hands, and cried like she hadn't in eight years.