Page 67 of What Should Have Been Ours

“Oh my gosh—are you asking me on a date, Gabrielle?”

I instantly groan even though I’m still smiling. “I swear, Cam—”

“I accept,” he says smoothly.

I roll my eyes. “Good, I’ll send you all the details. Also, don’t forget to tell me how your check-up goes next week. I want to finally stop worrying about it.”

“Me too,” he murmurs. “But I’ll keep you posted.”

We say our goodbyes, and as I walk into my building, the exhaustion from work and my spiraling thoughts start to hit me.

I really need some sleep.

24

Cameron

The morning has been brutal, like always. Between back-to-back patient consults, coordinating with attendings, and making sure I don’t pass out from exhaustion, I’ve barely had a second to breathe.

I finish up charting notes on my latest patient when I spot Wes leaning against the nurses’ station, sipping on what I know is the coffee I left there.

“When’s your check-up?” he asks, casually, like he didn’t just commit a crime.

I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face. “In an hour. I gotta finish up with my last patient, then I’ll head over.”

Wes nods, watching me for a second. “Text me when you’re done. Let me know what they say.”

I shake my head, reaching over and stealing my coffee back. “You’re worse than Gabrielle.”

“That’s cause I love you more than she does.”

I just smirk. “Doubt it, I don’t think you want to do some of the things she’s told me she wants to do to me. That’s love,” I tell him, pushing off the counter and heading towards my next patient’s room.

“Gross!” Wes calls out to me. “But I would like to hear about those things in detail later.”

“Not a chance,” I call back.

* * *

These are the appointments I hate the most.

She’s young, too young.

Eleven years old and out of options. She’s been in and out of this hospital for the past few years, fighting harder than most adults ever have to. And now, she’s about to be transferred to hospice care.

I school my expression as I step inside, offering her parents a small, reassuring smile. Her mother is sitting on the edge of the bed, running a gentle hand through her daughter’s hair, while her father stands by the window. I can tell he’s trying to hold himself together.

I clear my throat, stepping closer. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The little girl—Samantha—gives me a small, sleepy smile.

“Hey, Dr. Hayes.”

I pull up a chair, careful with my words. “Today is a big day for you.”

She nods, her little fingers tracing patterns on the blanket. “Mom says I’ll be going home.”

I glance at her mom, who’s already fighting back tears. “You are,” I say gently. “And I want you to know how incredibly brave you are, Samantha.”