FIFTEEN
CALLUM
The on-call room is dark, hushed; the only light coming from the spill of the storm-muted window and the cold glow of my phone screen.
I should be sleeping.
Instead, I scroll.
Photo after photo.
Us at Bondi, her hair swept up by the sea breeze, and her eyes squinting at the camera.
Another from a trip to the Hunter Valley—wine glasses in hand, Claudia mid-laugh.
A grainy shot from a late-night grocery run, her balancing a watermelon on one shoulder; me pointing at it like it’s some scientific marvel.
The moments look happy. We look happy.
And yet, something about them feels . . . distant, blurry at the edges.
Which feels unfair because Claudia did change my life. She dragged me out of routines I would’ve mistaken for virtue. Made me say yes more. Loosen up. Travel. Try things. Be less . . . dutiful in the dead-eyed sense.
I swipe away from the photos, back to my messages.
CLAUDIA
I miss you. Let’s talk soon.
CLAUDIA
You okay?
A two-word question that should be easy to answer. But my fingers don’t move. I don’t know what I’d even type.
There’s something wedged in my chest. I’m not sad. Not angry.
It’s just . . . weight. A quiet, persistent heaviness that sits there like sediment.
Maybe we need a reset. Go to the Atherton Tablelands, maybe. Waterfalls, green air, a cabin. A weekend of fresh starts and good intentions.
A reminder of why we’re doing this.
Why we’re still doing this.
The door creaks open.
A sliver of sterile hallway light cuts into the dark. I look up. A head peeks in, hair tousled into loose, unruly waves.
“Hey,” she whispers, tapping her fingers against the doorframe. “Mind if I crash here?”
So much for solitude.
“Why this room?” I ask, setting my phone face down.
“Sally’s snoring like a diesel generator. Ethan’s sleep-talking about Christmas ham.”She shrugs. “I’m down to my last sanctuary.”
“Fair enough.”
Jordie slips inside, shutting the door behind her. She flops onto the second bed with zero grace, stretching out with a groan.
“Why are you still awake?” she asks.
“Too wired to sleep.”
“Mind if I make a quick call, then?”
“Go ahead.”
Jordie turns onto her back, one hand draped over her stomach, the other holding the phone to her ear.
Her voice softens immediately. “Is your hotel okay? Any damage?”
A pause. “Wow, Leith. You’re basically Father Theresa over there.”
Another pause. “You’re a good boss for housing your evac’d staff.”
Then aghast. “They had steak?! Meanwhile, I almost ate questionable mac and cheese. Oh—guess what? Do you know what psychopathic trait I share with our favorite new anesthetist?”
Is she talking about me?
“Sriracha on peanut butter toast. I know. Horrifying.”
Jordie’s eyes flick to mine for half a second, mouth twitching before she looks away again.
Yep. Definitely talking about me.
“He’s still insufferable, but marginally more human than advertised. Plus, he did that thing.”
Huh? What thing?
Whatever Leith says makes her roll her eyes. “Yeah. We can probably bump him a few places down the Global Homicide Index.”
I stare at the dark ceiling and try very hard not to be absurdly pleased that I’m no longer topping her kill chart.
She lets out a long exhale.
“Yes, Leith. I promise. I’m not overdoing it.”
The words land oddly. Something about the way she says it.
“Okay. Stay safe. Call you tomorrow.”
She ends the call with a contented sigh, dropping her phone onto the mattress. But I don’t miss the way she shifts—slow, careful. Or how her fingers linger at her stomach a beat too long before she rolls onto her side, hands tucked under her pillow.
Silence settles.
I close my eyes and shift my legs. But my brain won’t shut up. I turn onto my side. Then my back. Then the other side.
I clear my throat, adjusting my pillow. “Leith’s your best friend, huh?”
“Yeah,” she answers.
I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate.
“That’s it?” I prompt.
She lets out an amused breath. “Do you want a dramatic backstory? Sworn childhood blood-oath?”
I hesitate. “It’s just, you and Leith seem . . . close.”
“You mean a romantic item?” Jordie snorts. “I’ve heard the rumors. And no, we’re not. Kinda hard to fall in love with someone after you’ve watched them willingly lick a mineral block.”
I turn my head toward her. “You mean the ones for livestock?”
“He was ten. Thought it’d be funny. I warned him. But nooo, ‘Jords, it’s just a big salt cube.’” She scoffs. “Two seconds later, he’s like a dog trying to throw up a sock.”
I laugh at that.
A beat of silence. Then, faintly, “Besides, Leith has sworn off romantic love.”
“You mind me asking why?”
“Have you ever heard of the Melissa Pratt Foundation?”
“Yeah. Breast cancer research. Funds free accommodations for families of hospitalized patients. Builds housing networks near hospitals.”
“That’s Leith.”
“Your Leith?”
A small, wry smile pulls at the corner of her lips before she yawns and rubs her nose with her palm. “He prefers the Leith, actually.”
I let out a quiet laugh. Then, much quieter, “So, who was Melissa Pratt?”
Jordie doesn’t answer straight away.
Then, finally—softer than I’ve ever heard her—she says, “Someone he loved.”
She doesn’t elaborate. I don’t ask for more.
It’s strange, this version of her. Less sharp-edged, less fire-and-flash. Jordie, stripped of the armor. In the dark, she feels . . . softer. Human in a way she usually keeps hidden.
The silence stretches, neither of us in a hurry to fill it.
Then she turns, and I catch it—the faintest wince, the way her hand moves, pressing against her stomach before she stops herself.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Tired.” Too fast. Too automatic.
I don’t call her on it, but I don’t believe her either.
I close my eyes, waiting for sleep that doesn’t come.
And then, softly: “Thank you, Callum.”
My head turns. Jordie’s still curled under her blanket, voice barely above the storm.
“For the books,” she says. “And for sticking up for me. Getting me back into critical care.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
She shrugs under the covers. “Because I’ve worked here long enough to know that no one else would’ve done that for me.”
She says it like it’s obvious—a quiet resignation. As though it’s never even occurred to her that someone should have.
I don’t know why that sticks with me.
“It was petty of me to buy that book.” I stare at the ceiling. “I figured you needed something nice that day.”
Jordie doesn’t respond.
The quiet settles again, like something warm.
The sound of torrential rain hums outside.
I turn my head toward the window, watching how the dim light catches on each drop racing each other down the pane.
It’s a quiet thing. Not something you fight to notice, but something that just is.
Jordie’s right. It is beautiful.