“Honestly thought those flutters were allyou; thegiddiness inside our bubble.” She smiles, trying to find humor. “Andyesterday…with the dizziness, well, I didn’t want to be the reason our bubble popped.”
Maybe those flutters were from the excitement ofus. But I don’t want me or us to be the reason she ignored it.
“Cami,” I say, low and steady. “If something’s wrong, it’s not your fault. And it sure as hell wouldn’t ruin anything. You being okay? That’s what matters. The rest can wait.”
I let the weight of that hang between us. Because this thing we’re doing,whatever it is—it’s already way past temporary.
The door clicks open, and that same nurse steps in, a neutral expression coloring her face.
“Results came back,” she says. “Negative.”
A weight lifts so suddenly, it leaves me shaky. Though, a tiny, traitorous part of me wonders what it would’ve meant if her test results hadn’t come back negative.
Cami exhales hard and sinks deeper into her pillow, a flicker of tension easing from her jaw. She lets out a shaky laugh. “That would’ve been one hell of a plot twist.”
The nurse steps out, and for a beat, we just breathe.
But then, the door opens again.
This time, a doctor enters, mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, a calm presence that says she’s seen every kind of worst-case scenario and still believes in the best ones.
She checks the monitor by the bed, then smiles kindly at Cami. “I’ve reviewed your labs and vitals. Overall, things look reassuring. No signs of anemia, dehydration, or acute cardiac distress.”
Cami starts to sit up a little, her expression hopeful. But the doctor doesn’t hand out a clean bill yet.
“However,” Doc continues, “given your family history of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, we’re not taking any chances. We’re going to admit you overnight. Link you up with acardiologist for observation and schedule an echocardiogram first thing in the morning.”
Cami nods slowly. “Okay.”
“We’re also monitoring your postural vitals. Your heart rate is jumping significantly when you shift positions, so we’ll run a tilt table test after the echo. If the echo is clear, we’re leaning toward POTS: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It’s treatable and might explain what happened.”
“And if the echo’s not clear?” I ask, throat tight.
“Let’s cross that bridge if we get to it,” the doctor says, tone calm.
Her words land like a safety net I don’t quite trust yet. My back stiffens anyway, instinct bracing for the worst-case. When I glance at Cami, fragile, quiet, trusting, I reel myself back in.
“Right now,” the doctor continues, “she’s stable. And in good hands.”
The doctor types something into the monitor. “We’ll transfer you to a room upstairs soon. In the meantime, rest. And try not to google anything.”
The door closes behind her, and the room goes quiet again.
“Soon as they release you, I owe you that bagel and coffee run.” I squeeze her hand, trying like hell to steer us back to something small. Normal. “And this time, I’ll actually make it out the door.”
That sparks a ghost of a smile. “I hate hospitals.”
“Me too,” I say.
She turns to me, soft-eyed. “Knox…”
I give her a half shrug. “But in case you’ve forgotten, you’re worth it.”
Cami’s not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.
Even if neither of us is ready to say anything out loud yet.
Her hand tightens in mine.
