16. Cameron
Cameron
Hospitals are supposed to be predictable. Rounds, check-ins, treatments, diagnoses—structured chaos, you know?
But today? Today feels like anything but.
I should be focused. My morning started early, bouncing between patient rooms, checking charts, and discussing treatment plans with every worried parent on my list. But in between all of it, there’s a distraction.
A very specific, blue-eyed, sharp-witted distraction who has taken up way too much space in my head.
I try to push the thoughts aside as I sit with a young patient and his parents, explaining his next round of chemo. The mom is nodding, her fingers curled around the bed rail, her knuckles turning white. The dad stares blankly at me, like I’m speaking another language.
This is the other part of the job I hate most. Delivering news that no parent should ever have to hear. But I do my best to make it easier, to soften the edges of reality without lying. I’ve been there, and I know how cruel this whole process can be.
By the time I step out of the room, I let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of my neck. My pager buzzes, but before I can check it, my phone vibrates in my pocket too. I already know who it is before I even look.
My Future Wife: How’s saving lives today, Dr. Hayes?
I smirk, shaking my head. I should be paying more attention to my next task, but I find myself leaning against the nurses’ station, typing back.
Cam: Exhausting. I think I deserve a raise.
My Future Wife: Maybe they’ll pay you overtime in free hospital pudding cups?
Cam: I’ll take that. Only if you personally deliver them to me in one of those cute little Halloween nurse outfits.
My Future Wife: Absolutely not.
Cam: Wow. No support for your hardworking friend?
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?”
“This is productive. I’m keeping tabs on your love life.”
I shake my head, and he keeps going.
“Admit it,” he presses. “You two are just tiptoeing around each other at this point. Are you waiting for her to make the first move or something?”
I exhale sharply. “Not everything is a damn game, Wes.”
He studies me for a second before shrugging. “Fair. But you can’t tell me you don’t want her.”
I run a hand through my hair, debating how much I want to say. “Of course I do.”
Wes tilts his head. “So what’s stopping you? Why are you still in the friend zone?”
I shake my head, looking down at my phone screen in Wes’s hand, Gabrielle’s last message still glowing on it. “She is.”
And that’s the truth.
Gabrielle is being cautious. I know she still feels something. I see it in the way she looks at me, in the way we talk to each other, in the way she always texts me back right away, even if she’s pretending not to care. But she’s scared. And I can’t blame her.
Wes groans, stretching as he stands. “You do realize she’s into you, right?”
I raise a brow. “Oh yeah? You got some insider intel on that?”
He snorts. “Please. Women don’t reply that fast and that often unless they actually want to talk to you. Trust me, I’ve been ignored enough to know.”
I chuckle, tilting my head. “Wow, that’s…sad.”
“Whatever, man,” he shrugs. “Point is—she’s interested. Now stop overthinking it and just ask her out on an actual date. Show her you’re serious and maybe she’ll take you seriously.”
* * *
As I walk out of the hospital later that night, I finally pull out my phone, staring at our last conversation.
I hover over the keyboard for a moment before typing.
Cam: So, what’s your schedule like this week?
My Future Wife: Why? Do you need to schedule a meeting?
Cam: Something like that. But less business, more fun.
My Future Wife: Oh, so you’re saying being friends with you is fun now?
Cam: It’s always been fun, Gabrielle. You just forgot how much.
My Future Wife: Mmm. Debatable.
Cam: Let me refresh your memory, then. What day are you free?
I wait, watching those three little dots appear.
My Future Wife: Friday. Why, what do you have in mind, Hayes?
I grin, already picturing the look on her face when she sees what I’ve got in store.
Cam: Wouldn’t you like to know.
My Future Wife: I would like to know. That’s why I asked.
Cam: Guess you’ll just have to trust me.
My Future Wife: That sounds dangerous.
Cam: The best things always are.
I pocket my phone, grinning to myself as I walk to my car.
Wes is right. She’s into this.
And I wanna make sure she knows she has no reason not to want it.