Page 46 of What Should Have Been Ours

My Future Wife: My support is moral, not…whatever that was.

Cam: Moral support doesn’t cure my exhaustion.

My Future Wife: You sound like you need a nap.

Cam: Sounds like I need a drink.

I’m smiling like an idiot when I hear a throat clear behind me.

Dr. Patel is standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“Who’s got you so distracted from work?”

I glance up, unfazed. “I’m just answering a text, Patel. Mind your business.”

Patel chuckles. “You’ve had that big dumb grin on your face for a solid five minutes. That’s gotta be one really good text.”

I shake my head, pocketing my phone and looking at my watch. “Look at that, I gotta go save some lives.”

“Uh-huh,” Patel calls after me.

It’s been a week since I last saw Gabrielle in person, but we’ve been talking and texting…a lot.

At first, the texts were simple—safe. Checking in, catching up, and talking about work. But then the playful jabs came back. The inside jokes. The flirty undertones we both keep pretending aren’t there.

It’s like walking a tightrope, both of us staying in this carefully crafted space where we’re just friends, but we know damn well it’s more than that, and the fall back to each other is inevitable.

I push through the next few hours of my shift, bouncing between patients, their families, and the oncology team. But every time my phone buzzes, I feel that stupid pull in my chest, like I can’t wait to see what she’ll say next.

My Future Wife: If you were a good friend, you’d FaceTime me so I could judge how tired you look in real-time.

Cam: You just want an excuse to see my face.

My Future Wife: Trust me, I could live without it.

Cam: Liar.

My Future Wife: Shut up and go save lives.

Cam: Yes, ma’am.

The corner of my mouth lifts before I slide my phone back in my pocket.

* * *

I don’t realize how exhausted I am until I finally sit down for a quick break.

The residents’ lounge is quieter than usual. Just a couple of interns slumped over their textbooks in the corner. I lean back, closing my eyes for just a second, letting the tension ease from my shoulders.

Then Wes drops into the chair across from me, kicking his feet up on the table. My phone buzzes on the table, and he snatches it up immediately.

“Do the texts ever stop, lover boy?” he teases, sipping his coffee. “How far up Gabrielle’s ass have you been today?”

I crack an eye open, not amused. “I’m not answering that.”

Wes grins. “That much, huh?”

I ignore him, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Shouldn’t you be doing something productive?”