THREE CALLUM
THREE
CALLUM
Idrum my fingers against the wheel, barely registering the tail end of Dr. Kapoor’s sentence.
“—and if you want this new intubation protocol to stick, Anesthetics and ED need to be on the same page,” Samir’s voice crackles through the speaker.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the day.
Outside, the last streaks of sunlight stretch thin over Townsville.
Castle Hill looms in the distance, its silhouette dark against the backdrop of the coast. The ocean catches the last of the light, shimmering between the gaps of buildings as I turn toward my apartment complex.
I should be paying more attention to this call. Should be fully engaged. This Quality Improvement project for my application has been my entire focus for weeks. But exhaustion frays my concentration, dragging my thoughts elsewhere.
Claudia’s finally home tonight.
It’s been a while since we’ve had more than a handful of waking hours together. Conferences, flights, research deadlines. Every time she’s back, it feels like she’s already halfway out the door again.
I just want to get home, sit down with Claudia, share a meal, and trade stories about our day. Maybe we’ll laugh while doing the dishes, her flicking soap bubbles at me as I pretend to be outraged. I want to hug her, press my lips to the spot behind her ear where she always shivers and—
“Callum, you still there?”
I clear my throat, “Samir, I understand the resistance, but this protocol could cut Rapid Sequence Induction times by almost a third.”
“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. But the Emergency Department hears ‘change’ and assumes Anesthetics wants to micromanage.”
I turn into my apartment’s underground parking and roll to a stop. “Maybe if I get the ED Nurse Manager on board—”
“Might want to fix things there first,” Samir says, dry amusement lacing his voice. “Word is, you’ve got a bit of a PR problem with the nurses.”
“What?!”
“With that casual nurse? The Mitchell Incident?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. It has a name now.
Two weeks ago, Jordie Mitchell—all sharp tongue and zero tolerance for bullshit—threw a hissy fit over documentation with enough sass to cause a small seismic event.
Since then, I’ve been public enemy number one in nursing group chats.
I even got a friendly warning from Trevor to be “more tactful” with nursing staff.
Which, in HR speak, means: stop pissing off the people who keep the hospital from burning down.
“It wasn’t an incident. She overreacted. End of story.”
“Uh-huh.” Samir doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, ED rosters her in resuscitation for deficits, which means she’s going to be part of your QI project.”
“No way!”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Mitchell is—well—everywhere.”
She is everywhere.
Wards. ICU. PACU. Theaters. My theaters. And now, she’s in ED. On my QI project.
It’s not that she’s bad. If she were just a pain in the ass, I could tune her out. But she’s sharp. Too sharp. Thinks you’re wrong? She’ll say it. Thinks the plan’s flawed? She’s already rewritten it. She sees problems before they exist. Anticipates steps I haven’t even thought through.
And the worst part? She’s usually right.
Which, frankly, just rubs me the wrong way.
“That’s the thing with casual nurses,” Samir adds, “they’re basically float staff.
No fixed ward, no fixed roster—just wherever the hospital needs bodies that day to fill staffing deficits.
Plus, she’s got advanced critical care training, so she gets pulled into the high-acuity units.
So, high probability that she’ll be part of your QI project in Resuscitation. ”
I sigh. Pissing off Jordie Mitchell probably meant pissing off the universe because why else would this be happening to me?
“As your colleague,” Samir’s barely holding back a laugh. “I’m advising you to ease up on the superiority flex.”
“I do not flex my superiority.”
“Sure, mate,” Samir says, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “See you tomorrow.”
I groan, letting my forehead drop against the steering wheel. I don’t have the energy for this. Not after relentless meetings, complex cases, the constant expectations from my parents, this bullshit QI project, and now, my apparent nemesis being shoved into my orbit.
All I want is to go upstairs, find Claudia waiting for me, and finally, finally, have quality time together.
The apartment door clicks open into quiet. Claudia’s scent—coconut, sharp and clean—wraps me in certainty. For a moment, my shoulders sag in relief from the fact that she is indeed here. At home.
I step in. Our place is sleek and modern.
Minimalist, but not on purpose. Three months in Townsville and we’ve barely furnished it.
The couch and table were a rushed weekend purchase.
The walls are bare. Bookshelves, empty. The only real signs of life are hers: a folded throw, half-burned candles on the console, and research papers spread across the table like an abstract painting of stress.
I drop my keys and set my bag down. My fingers graze one of her plaques.
Dr. Claudia Tsang - Melanoma Research Grant, Townsville Medical Research Institute. Next to it is another plaque: International Speaker, Leeds Oncology Summit. And another: Young Investigator Award - Sydney Cancer Research Network.
More are stacked nearby. Some framed. Some are still in boxes. Her milestones. Proof of everything she’s built. Doctor. Researcher. The kind of brilliance that made cities rearrange themselves for her. Townsville certainly had. I had, too.
I find her in the living room. Her laptop glows across the cushions. She’s curled sideways into the corner of the couch, a glass of red wine beside her notes.
“Hey, you,” Claudia greets, voice warm and her eyes barely leaving the screen.
“Hey, honey,” I say as I loosen my tie. “Long day?”
She hums, scrolling. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. Mine too,” I sigh. “Pretty shit, actually.”
The laptop tilts as she settles in. A quiet click. A slow scroll. I’m waiting for her to ask why.
But it never comes.
I lower myself beside her, close enough for our thighs to brush. Her eyes remain fixed on the screen. Blue light spills across her face, softening her mouth and shadowing everything else.
I glance toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“Yeah,” she hums. “Had some cereal and a banana.”
I look at the untouched glass of wine. “Honey, that’s not dinner.”
“Didn’t have time to cook. Barely have time to breathe,” she murmurs, then—quickly, almost absent—“There should be leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
I reach out, brushing my fingers against her knee.
She moves. Not toward me, but forward, leaning past my hand to grab the stack of papers on the coffee table. She uncaps a highlighter. Marks something. Her brows knit, her lips press in quiet thought.
I watch her for a beat, then letting my hand fall, I ask her, “What are you working on?”
Claudia finally looks up, and for the first time tonight, she smiles. Her eyes catch the light, a flicker of brightness breaking through the fatigue. She sets the highlighter down.
“We’re making real progress with the liquid biopsy study,” her voice sparks to life. “If we can reliably detect melanoma biomarkers in blood, we might catch it before it even appears on the skin.”
I watch her, the way excitement colors her features, the way her hands move when she talks as if she’s pulling thoughts straight from the air and shaping them into something tangible.
“Townsville’s the perfect place for this kind of research,” she continues, shifting to tuck one foot under her leg. “The rates of melanoma in North Queensland are some of the highest in the world. With the demographic mix here, we’re getting incredible data.”
She’s glowing. Passionate. Alive.
My fingers drift to a dark strand of hair that’s fallen loose from her ponytail, tucking it gently behind her ear.
I nudge the laptop aside. “For someone who barely has time to breathe, you’re giving a full TED Talk.”
She laughs low. “Callum—”
I lean in. Kiss her behind her ear. Hand finding her thigh, where her shorts have ridden up, lace brushing against my palm.
“You should take a break,” I murmur, my mouth tracing the line beneath her jaw.
“You’re persuasive when you want to be,” she huffs, tilting her chin up.
I smile against her skin. “Shower with me.”
“I already showered. How about this?” For a second, I think she’ll kiss me. But she pulls back just enough to make me chase. “You eat first. Then shower. By the time you’re done . . .” Her smile curves, teasing. “I’ll be in bed. An hour?”
Her fingers trail down my arm, then slip away.
I lean back, raking a hand through my hair. “When are you presenting this, anyway?”
“Next week,” she says, almost offhand, eyes back on the screen. “In Sydney.”
Oh. She’s flying off again. But at least it’s Sydney.
“Mā and Bà would love to see you, hon. Maybe drop by and say hi to my nephews and nieces? I picked up some knick-knacks for them last week.”
“It’s a work trip, honey,” she replies, not unkind—but final.
“Not even for lunch?” I press. “You could stop by the restaurant. Just for a bit.”
Her fingers pause above the trackpad.
“I’ll try,” she says at last. “If I get a break, I’ll swing by.” Not a promise. Not really.
I nod anyway, forcing a small smile. “I was thinking of sending them something from here. What do you reckon they’d like?”
Claudia’s lips tug upward, the faintest trace of amusement. “Other than you?”
The tightness in my chest loosens just enough to let out a chuckle. “Yeah, other than me.”
She tilts her head, considering. “That local honey? The one infused with eucalyptus?”
I make a mental note. Something from here. Something that says, I’m thinking of you. Since I’m not there. Since I moved for—
I glance at Claudia, the way she’s already back in her work, fingers skimming over her notes, focus sharpened once again.
—for this.