Page 44 of A Prescription to My Heart

But when I opened the door and saw them—Talia curled around my daughter, her arms holding Marigold close, both of them fast asleep—it did something to me.

Something I don’t have a name for.

I should have left. Should have turned right back around and gone to bed. But instead, I stepped closer, drawn in by forces I couldn’t explain. Talia’s hair was tangled against the pillow, blonde waves spilling over Marigold’s tiny hand. One stray tress rested against her cheek, and before I could think about what I was doing, my fingers moved, brushing it away.

She’d startled awake at once.

"I thought you left," she whispered, voice thick with sleep.

I had a million things I could’ve said. A hundred excuses. Instead, I said the dumbest thing imaginable.

"I came back."

And then I left.

Not my finest moment.

Now, it’s morning, and I’m pacing my office like a man who’s lost his mind. Because I don’t know how tobearound her now. I thought this whole fake marriage thing was awkward before, but this? This is next-level, skin-crawling, ground-swallow-me-now awkward.

What am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t happen? Make a joke about it?

I groan and run a hand down my face.

Talia left before we woke up. Slipped out of the house quietly, like she wasn’t even there. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. And what’s worse? I can’t stop thinking about her. Not in the way I should be thinking about myfakewife.

I think about the way Talia laughs—how it’s full-bodied, unrestrained, like she feels joy in her bones. I think about how she looked last night, playing with Marigold, her eyes bright and face soft, as if she was made for moments like that. And I hate it. I hate that I’m noticing these things about her.

Because I’m not attracted to Talia.

Right?

I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts. This is just residual tension. That’s all. We’re in a situation neither of us expected, and we’ve been spending more time together. It’s normal to get confused.

I just need to act normal. Professional. Like last night didn’t happen.

Easier said than done.

Because as I step out of my office, heading toward my morning rounds, the thought of running into her makes my stomach twist. I can already feel the impending awkwardness, the stilted conversation, the avoidance of eye contact.

Great. Just great.I’m a grown man, a father, a doctor. And yet, somehow, I’m acting like a teenage boy with a crush. I need to get a grip. But no matter how much I try to push it away, one thought lingers: What then happens if she keeps getting under my skin?

I tell myself it’s necessary. That what happened last night—seeing her curled up in Marigold’s bed, watching her breathe in sync with my daughter—was nothing. That the way her skin felt beneath my fingers, the way she startled at my touch, means nothing.

But the moment I step into Pediatrics, I know I’m lying to myself.

I don’t even know Talia’s there at first. I’m going through patient charts, checking pre-op patients, until I hear laughter—light, warm, familiar.

I glance up, and there she is.

Talia’s kneeling by a little girl’s bed, fixing a paper crown onto the child’s head. The girl, barely five, giggles as Talia adjusts the crooked edges.

"There," Talia says, satisfied. "Now you’re officially the queen of the ward."

"Princess," the girl corrects.

"Apologies, Your Highness."

I should look away. But now I’m noticing the way her uniform fits snug around her waist. The way her hands move—gentle, patient. The way her presence brightens the entire room.

---