Page 84 of Dr. Fellow

“Ready.”

I reach for her hand, and she nuzzles into me as we head to the car together.

While I drive, she chats about her day, filling me in on everything from the rodent situation, to the most recent book she’s reading. I already told her that I would help her break her lease, and made it clear that she’s more than welcome to stay with me if she decides that’s the route that she wants to go. But I doubt she’ll take me up on it since she’s frustratingly independent, but the offer stands. The offer will always stand.

“And then,” she continues, tossing her feet up on the dashboard. “The main character put a knife in her ass, handle first obviously, and fucked her. He had little stab wounds all over his pelvis.”

I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the road. “I really hope people don’t read that and experiment in real life.”

“Me too, because we would totally know what happened if they came in for stitches,” she giggles, pulling out her phone as we approach a red light. “Oh my god, speaking of that. Look at this X-ray from the other day. You’ll never guess what this dude had in his ass.”

I glance over, holding my tongue on the blatant HIPAA violation. “You know, most couples talk about their plans for the weekend, not scans of shit that people stick inside themselves.”

Her eyes sparkle with delight. “We’re not most couples, Walkie.”

The light turns green, and I refocus on the road, but her words linger in my mind. She’s right—we’re not most couples. Our relationship has always been unconventional, but it’s what makes us work so well together. The banter, the dark humor, the way we understand each other’s worlds—it’s ours.

As we pull into the strip mall parking lot, I park and turn off the engine. “You still haven’t told me what was in the X-ray.”

She unbuckles her seatbelt, looking over at me with a smile. “A flashlight. I’m not even kidding. And guess what the best part was?”

“What?”

“It was still on when we removed it.”

I shake my head. “Gives new meaning to the term fleshlight.”

Morgan’s smile turns into a grin as she erupts into a fit of uncontrolled laughter, and I can’t help but watch her, feeling a sense of pure contentment wash through me.

For so long, my entire world felt colorless and clinical. I was simply trying to get through life, focused on each new professional goal as the years wore on. But suddenly it feels like none of that matters. Because with Morgan, everything feels brighter, like daybreak has finally come after a long night.

“Who would’ve guessed that Walker Chastain had jokes,” she teases, wiping a tear off her cheek. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

I let out a single laugh, leaning over the center console to press a kiss on her forehead. “Ready for another one?”

***

When I was trying to determine where to take Morgan on our first date, I knew without a doubt that I wanted to go to a bookstore. She talks about reading nonstop, and it’s something we bonded over, so it just seemed like a better fit than going to a movie or some other bullshit.

I was expecting to have to visit a chain, but a quick internet search helped me find this spot—Blind Love Books, a west side bookstore that specializes in romance. Their website said that they weren’t opening for another week, but I reached out to the owners, and they agreed to let us stop by tonight while they stocked the shelves.

Morgan freaked out when she realized where we were. Apparently, she’s been following them on social media for months and was planning on visiting once it opened to the public.

She spent an hour gushing over her favorite authors, making suggestions for merchandise, and darting from shelf to shelf like a kid on Christmas morning. Her reaction was worth every bit of effort that went into planning, along with every charge racked up on my credit card. She was glowing, especially when she realized that several exclusive editions were available. I have no idea why that matters to her, but if it makes her smile, I’ll buy her all of the exclusive editions in the world—she deserves it.

Since the west side has exploded over the past few years, there are a ton of new restaurants, bars, and shopping in the area, so after we finished at the bookstore, I had planned to take her to a popular Mexican spot. I know she loves margaritas, and I figured we could grab a bite to eat before we headed home. But while we were walking to the car to set her armful of purchases down, she batted her thick lashes and asked if we could change our plans.

My girl wasn’t hungry anymore—she wanted to go home and play.

As we’re driving down 14th Street on the way back to my place, my phone rings. I glance at the screen and wince when I read the caller ID. It’s seven in the evening, and I’m not on call. There’s absolutely no reason I should be speaking to the hospital unless there is a serious problem.

“This is Dr. Chastain,” I answer, putting the phone on speaker so that I can keep one hand on the wheel and the other on Morgan’s thigh.

A raspy voice that I immediately recognize as my mentor, Dr. Weaver, asks, “Ever seen a rotationplasty?”

Morgan shifts in her seat beside me, her ears suddenly perking up.

“Uh,” I hesitate, thrown off by the question. “No, not in person.”

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