Page 43 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

The reply arrives fast.

Nate: Perfect. See you then.

8

ATHENA

The pediatric floor at Hawthorne always feels different in the morning.

Lights are dimmer, carts roll out of storage, and the nurses’ station fills with the quiet shuffle of charts, tablets, and half-finished coffee cups. Someone down the hall is already arguing with the supply cabinet while a little boy in dinosaur pajamas tries to race an IV pole past his mother.

I step into Room 214 with a fresh pair of gloves tucked into my pocket.

Theo sits upright in bed, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape while he lines up plastic dinosaurs across the tray table. His mother looks exhausted but relieved, the kind of tired that only comes after a long night where the numbers finally started behaving.

“Morning,” I say, setting the chart on the counter. “How’s my favorite paleontologist?”

Theo lifts a bright green T-rex and holds it out to me. “He’s the boss.”

“Good,” I reply, pressing the stethoscope to Theo’s chest while he watches me with intense concentration. “Someone around here needs to be.”

His breathing sounds clear, strong. I pull the earpieces out and scribble a quick note on the tablet.

“Looks like you’re going home today,” I tell him.

Theo’s mother lets out a soft breath and presses her hand over her mouth. Theo pumps the dinosaur into the air like he just scored a winning goal.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“Don’t thank me,” I reply, peeling off the gloves and dropping them in the bin. “Thank the antibiotics and the fact that Theo here is apparently indestructible.”

Theo beams.

When I step back into the hallway, the station is already humming.

Maya stands behind the counter flipping through medication sheets while one of the interns tries to balance a stack of patient folders against his hip.

“You’re smiling,” Maya says immediately.

“I always smile.”

She raises an eyebrow without looking up. “You’re glowing.”

I cock my head at her. “That’s a stretch.”

Maya slides the chart into a file tray and leans forward on the counter. “Late dinner last night?”

I pick up my coffee and take a slow sip while pretending to review the patient board. “Something like that.”

“Uh huh.” Her grin widens and she taps the desk twice before turning toward the medication room.

“Just remember,” she calls over her shoulder, “gossip spreads faster than infections in this place.”

“Good thing I’m vaccinated,” I reply, although I’m kind of grinning myself.

The morning moves quickly after that.

Two discharge orders. One nervous father who needs reassurance three separate times that his daughter’s fever is normal. A toddler who refuses to keep his pulse monitor on unless it gets a sticker.