Page 329 of Rogue Riders Duet

What could I be if I’m not the girl chasing revenge?

If I’m not Allen Crews with something to prove?

“Letting go of one thing doesn’t mean losing everything,” she adds. “It’s actually choosing what deserves to stay.”

I close my eyes and think of Luc and Mason’s laughter echoing across the BMX track. Of Finn picking wildflowers with pizza grease still on his fingers. Of Dane, always watching out for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Of Piper, being my first real girlfriend. Otis and Toulouse, Jim and Élise, even Dad.

And I realize that’s what I want to stay.

Them.

This.

A version of my life that isn’t built on ruin. I don’t have to burn it all down to feel whole again, and maybe I’ve already started rebuilding without even knowing it.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Dr. Mira’s voice softens even more. “Is there anything else that’s worrying you?”

I swallow. “Yeah. I’m still afraid of what happens when the meds stop working.”

“Alaina…” she says, firmer now, “… they won’t stop working. We will make sure you are always medicated correctly until you’re able to try pain therapy or another surgery. Like we already said, we have a solution. You just need the time to get there. There is no need to worry about that.”

I nod slowly, even though she can’t see me. “Okay.”

“Thank you for showing up this morning. I’ll hear from you in a couple of days, but reach out if you need me sooner.”

“I will,” I murmur. “Thanks.”

She hangs up, and I let my phone slide off the pillow and flop back into the bed with a long, uneven breath. My eyes burn, and it’s not grief this time, more like relief. Therapy sessions are hard, but they’re getting easier.

Just like life is getting easier.

Piece by piece.

Breath by breath.

There’s a soft knock at the door, barely more than a tap, and I sit up at the sound. Who could be up this early? Luc? Mason? Maybe Finn?

“Come in.”

Dane pokes his head in, his hair a sleep-mussed mess. “You’re up early.”

“Forgot about the time difference to France.”

Dane steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “Therapy session?”

I nod, shrugging. “Yeah.”

He walks closer, lingering at the foot of the bed. “How was it?”

I exhale through my nose, not sure what to call it. “Good. I think it was good. Why are you up?”

“Jetlag.” He hovers for a second longer, then asks, “Can I?”

I snort. “Since when do you ask if you can sit on my bed?”

“Since I’m not sure anymore what you’re doing in those beds,” he mutters, but there’s a small, crooked smile on his face when I glance up.