Tiny: Yep.
Me: Why Buttercup?
Tiny: Cause you're cute.
I roll my eyes and my entire face gets hot. It doesn’t stop me from smiling.
Me: I think you texted the wrong person.
Tiny: Nope. Definitely meant you, my Buttercup.
Me: That's a ridiculous nickname.
Tiny: Maybe. Still keeping it.
Tiny: How many patients today?
Me: Enough.
Tiny: Very helpful.
Me: I’m trying to maintain professional mystery.
Tiny: I respect that. I also respect snacks. Have you eaten?
I look at the untouched granola bar beside my water bottle. Nobody’s ever checked whether I’d eaten before.
Me: Not yet.
Tiny: Buttercup.
Me: I have a granola bar.
Tiny: Eat it before I tell Scarlett.
I laugh quietly, then eat the granola bar because suddenly not eating it feels like losing an argument. When I tell him I did, he sends back a string of celebratory words that makes me laugh again.
The rest of the shift passes with little messages here and there. He tells me Tessa threatened to bring more soup. I tell him Sophie said he used to eat four grilled cheese sandwiches. He accuses Sophie of exposing classified information. I tell him her secret is safe with me.
By the time I clock out, I feel lighter. In the car, one more message comes through.
Tiny: What are you doing tonight?
My heart races. I’m not ready for him to ask me out. Not yet. But I want to be.
Me: Nothing exciting. Studying for another test.
Tiny: Have a good night, Buttercup. Study hard, eat actual food, and don’t let the anatomy textbook win.
He doesn’t push. He doesn’t assume. Five minutes later another text appears.
Tiny: Sorry. Apparently I’m becoming everybody’s mom.
I laugh out loud in the quiet car, warmth spreading through my chest.
Home is quiet when I walk in, but not peaceful. Mom wipes already-clean counters. Dad looks up from his chair.
“Daniel confirmed Friday,” he says. “He’ll pick you up at six.”
