Page 107 of Dr. Fellow

Jewelry has never been my thing, so when he first showed it to me, I was confused. The delicate gold chain and simple ring at the center didn’t seem like something I would wear, but as soon as he locked it onto my neck and kept the key, everything made sense.

I actually prefer it to my wedding ring now because the cool metal sits flush against my neck, and I know that I won’t lose it if I have to scrub my body after a long shift. I don’t even notice it anymore, but I love that it’s become a part of me and serves as a constant reminder of our dedication to one another.

Marisa pulls me into the quiet corner where we keep our rolling equipment. “So this patient . . .”

I groan dramatically. “Please don’t tell me that you’re giving them to me because nobody else can handle it. You do remember what happened last time, right?”

Just because a nurse can handle something, doesn’t mean they should always—I don’t know how many times I have to tell our managers that.

“This patient specifically asked for you, actually. Can you, uh, go now?” she asks, voice going up an octave.

The fuck?

I feel the wheels in my head start to turn as I try to determine who the hell knows me well enough to ask for me by name. I don’t usually take the frequent flyers, mostly because my tolerance for their bullshit is slim, and I always get “fired.”

I glance over at an open workstation across from us. “What room? I’ll pull up the chart and then go.”

Her eyes dart around quickly, looking anywhere but at me. “They’re not in the system but they’re in eight.”

“Okay, weirdo,” I reply with a concerned laugh. “Well, can you please give these socks to Cass? She asked for them, like, ten minutes ago.”

My bestie was busy running around in search of the vein finder and caught me while I was charting. Since we match our schedules to work the same days, we’ve gotten good at reading each other. I could tell she was stressed, so I asked what I could do to help. Even though grabbing socks for a patient is pretty much the easiest thing, little assists like that help you focus on the bigger stuff.

I hand the socks to our charge nurse and make my way to the room, not entirely sure how to prepare for what I’m about to walk into. It could be anything from a lady with a potato stuck inside her pussy, to a dude about to code from septic shock—you never know what you’re going to get in this place.

My mouth falls open when I slip into the small room, because what I actually see stuns me into silence.

Weston Southerland is sitting in a chair across the room with a baby in his arms—a real-life baby that looks almost identical to Cassidy with white blonde hair and hazel eyes. I don’t know much about childhood development, but the little dude isn’t a newborn and he isn’t a toddler.

What in the actual fuck?

“Morgan,” he says my name with a calm, relaxed tone that instantly pulls me out of my daze. “I need you to do a few things for me. Starting with keeping this quiet.”

“Sorry,” I reply, though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. “What, uh, whose baby is that?”

I can’t take my eyes off the child. He’s like a miniature version of my best friend. My mind feels like it’s going ninety miles an hour down the freeway, and before Weston can respond, I blurt, “It’s not Cassidy’s, is it?”

He legitimately laughs, though it’s tinged with tangible stress. “No, he isn’t Cassidy’s baby. He’s mine.”

Duh, you dumbass. Don’t you think you would have noticed if she was pregnant?

My heart slows slightly in relief as I step forward and crouch in front of the kid.

“What happened?”

“I was changing him and walked across the room for a second to get a new packet of wipes. He’s a stubborn little man, and I think he wanted to see what I was doing. When I turned back around he had fallen off the table. I feel like a piece of shit and have no fucking clue what I’m doing, but I’m pretty sure he broke his clavicle.”

I know he and Cass have a complicated history, and there was all that stuff with Parker, but it’s hard to dislike this guy. His hazel eyes are soft and warm, and I can tell he’s terrified inside, but he’s schooled at controlling his emotions like all surgeons are. I would have helped him regardless, but now I genuinely want to.

I reach out and stroke the baby’s soft forehead. He doesn’t look distressed—not the way I would be if I had a broken bone.

“Did you check his vitals?”

“They’re normal.”

“Why not take him to the children’s hospital?”

I’m not trying to be judgmental, I’m just genuinely confused because I’m not sure why he would come here when we have several pediatric hospitals in Atlanta. Technically, we’re all certified in pediatric advanced cardiac life support, but I can’t tell you the last time I saw a baby here. I also have no idea why he would ask for me. Not only is my best friend way better with kids than I am, but she’s the one with a relationship to him . . .well, an ex-relationship.

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