The ones who live hidden in plain sight (A discovery of witches story)

15 Where I belong

It was going to be a long shift.

Two hours into it, and Camille already felt like going home. Her legs were heavy, her head buzzing slightly. She munched on her cereal bar more out of necessity than appetite, just long enough for the dizziness to pass.

Marcus entered the break room. He spotted her immediately.

— Are you all right?" he asked, his gaze scrutinizing.

— Yes, just a little dizzy. It's already over," she clarified immediately. I'm not doing what I did at the beginning of my pregnancy again," she added with a half—smile, anticipating the concerns she knew he had.

He frowned.

— You look... tired.

— Oh, thanks," she replied, sarcastically. That's exactly what women want to hear.

He smiled ruefully, but insisted.

— Seriously, if you need it, you can be replaced. We can manage without you.

She tilted her chin up and said in a firm voice:

— No. I'm not going to let fatigue get the better of me.

— Camille...

— No," she cut in again, her gaze harder. I know you mean well, Marcus. But this isn't a field I'd advise you to go into.

He shrugged his hands gently in peace, adding nothing more. She knew he wouldn't insist. And that's what made her both grateful... and a little defensive.

And that's what made her both grateful... and a little defensive.

She tucked the remains of her bar into her bag, put her blouse back on and closed her locker with a metallic clack. Back to the front.

The next few hours stretched out in a continuous ballet of patients, diagnoses and precise, mechanical gestures. But the more time passed, the more her back throbbed. The weight of her belly became more present, painful even, despite the support belt discreetly hidden under her blouse.

Finally, she found a break. A real one.

She settled into a chair for a few minutes, glanced at the tracking board. For once, everyone seemed to be waiting for results or unloading. She stretched a little, her fingers brushing the small of her back, sighing with relief.

Marcus returned, folder in hand. His gaze slid over her, discreet but insistent. Since the start of the shift, he'd been watching her, she was sure of it.

She stared at him, one eyebrow raised:

— Do you have something to say, Marcus, or are you just going to keep watching me?

He didn't back down.

— That's not what I'm doing. I'm just being careful around me," he said, calmly consulting the board. Your cases are calming down a bit, aren't they?

— Yes... well, for the moment.

He paused for a moment, feigning neutrality, then said:

— If you want to go and lie down in the on—call room, it's quiet. You could recuperate a bit.

Camille hesitated. Her first instinct was to say no. But her body was begging for a truce. Finally, she nodded.

— Just a little. It doesn't mean you've won.

She lay back in the rest room with a grateful sigh, her hands resting on her belly. Sleep overtook her almost immediately, deep and restorative.

When she awoke, she felt better. Not completely fresh, but better. She put her gown back on, hung her stethoscope around her neck and went outside. As she approached the reception desk, she noticed a small crowd... and a box of pastries.