Welcome Home

"Yeah," you answered slowly. "I just wasn’t using them anymore."

"Okay…" she hesitated. "But what does that mean?"

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling as if it might hand you the perfect answer.

"I mean… I wasn’t trying to make some big announcement. I just haven’t felt like talking to anyone else."

There was a beat of silence before Mel pounced.

"So… are you and Dr. Abbot together?" she asked, half‑teasing, half‑testing.

"I don’t know."

That was the truth.

It had been a little over 3 months since New Years Eve. It was middle of March.

Your mind drifted back to that night—he way he’d shown up unexpectedly and you’d brought him to the party in Tribeca and tried to play it cool. Your friends hadn’t bought it for a second. They’d pulled you aside one by one, eyebrows raised, champagne flutes in hand, whispering things like "So… who’s the guy?" and "Since when do you bring hot fucking doctors to parties?" and "Is this a thing? Should we be excited?"

The night had been innocent, really. A New Year’s kiss at midnight, and then you invited him back to your place for a 'drink' even though you knew he had booked a hotel. You had intentionally chosen the skimpiest of pajamas, fully aware of the effect it could have on him. That night as you slid into bed beside him, clad in nothing more than your tiny shorts and a loose tank top. You had held your breath, waiting for him to finally take the plunge, to close the space between you and make the night just a little more than friendly. But Jack never did. Despite the unspoken tension that hung in the air, he just chose to wrap an arm around you and pull you close instead. It was maddening and sweet all at once.

The next day, he gave you a soft goodbye kiss at your door before he left for the airport. And, after that, he started texting. Little things at first—jokes, updates, random thoughts he probably didn’t have time to send but sent anyway. You knew how busy he was, which made every message feel so fucking special.

Then the texts turned into phone calls. Late‑night ones during a lull in his shift or early‑morning ones when he was getting off his shift. The kind of calls where you talked about everything and nothing. You found yourself telling him about your own travel schedule, keeping him in the loop without really knowing why. When you were in Miami recently… and okay, maybe you’d sent a bikini picture or two on purpose.

Which clearly worked… because the next time he visited you over a long weekend—he was more than happy to be more than friendly. That weekend, you were certain he had fucked you on every surface of your apartment. That morning before he left, Jack knelt before you, begging for 'breakfast', licking and sucking ruthlessly at your pussy on your dining room table, his tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit, punching moan after moan out of you. You realized that you were obsessed with the sound he made when your release tore through you. It almost seemed as if coming all over his face was more of a gift for him than it was for you.

Phone sex had definitely become a semi-regular occurrence with Jack whispering filth into the phone with your fingers stuffed inside your cunt. But no matter how much you tried (and oh did you fucking try)—your fingers and your toys no longer satisfied you. You were never able to get as deep or make yourself feel as good as Jack did.

The last time you saw him was a couple weeks ago, when he flew in for a conference. You hadn’t expected it to hit you so hard when he left, but it did—because each time he left, it hurt a little more than the time before. No matter how long he stayed, it was never enough. Your moments with him always felt borrowed. Like you were trying to hold on to something that kept slipping through your fingers the second he flew back to Pittsburgh.

"What do you mean you don’t know?" Mel challenged.

"Mel," you sighed, rubbing your forehead. "Because the situation sucks. I live here. He lives 370 miles away."

"Okay, but he clearly likes you. The man is flying back and forth to New York constantly."

"I guess," you muttered.

"You guess?" she shrieked. "That’s your takeaway?"

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. "I dunno, Mel… Maybe this is just casual to him. He only recently just stopped wearing his wedding ring."

Saying it out loud made your stomach twist. The second time he visited you, he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. You hadn’t pointed it out, hadn’t asked. Maybe he’d taken it off without thinking. Maybe he’d taken it off because he was thinking. Sometimes, you felt like 'the other woman' and it was a strange, disorienting kind of jealousy (or maybe it was insecurity), one you hated yourself for feeling. It felt like you were competing with a ghost—someone perfect, untouchable, and frozen in Jack’s memory.

Mel sighed, switching into her 'doctor' tone. "Widowers keeping their wedding rings on as long as he did is extremely common."

"Well… what if I’m just a rebound? Or maybe he’s just sowing his oats or whatever."

Jack had admitted to you that the reason he’d been too nervous to sleep with you on New Year’s was because he hadn’t had sex in five years. He also explained that an accident during his army days had taken his leg below the knee, and even though he spoke about it plainly, you could hear the strain beneath the words. No woman had seen that part of him since his wife and you were the first woman he’d been with since his wife died. The first person he’d let that close.

You swallowed hard. "Maybe I’m just the in‑between person. The temporary chapter until he finds a woman who makes more sense."

"Oh my God, will you listen to yourself for two seconds? He asked you to come stay with him in Pittsburgh next week. For a whole week. Do you know how many men invite a woman they’re 'not serious about' to basically move into their house for seven days?"

You opened your mouth, but she barreled on.

"And I’ve seen him at work," she added. "He rearranged his entire schedule so he could actually spend time with you. Four back‑to‑back days off. Four! And he requested day shifts for the rest of the days you are working remotely. Day shifts! That man loves the night shift."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped. Because she wasn’t wrong. For Jack to give up the night shift—even temporarily—it had to mean something.

Right?

You hated being vulnerable, even with Mel, so you did what you always did when emotions got too loud—you changed the subject.

"Are you excited to see me?" you asked, forcing your voice into something lighter.

"I don’t know," Mel said dramatically. "Will I actually see you, or will you just be having sex with Dr. Abbot the entire time?"

"Mel!" you yelped.

"What? You’re the one who said he’s the best sex you’ve ever had."

He was. No questions asked.

You groaned. "And I should have never told you that, because he’s your attending!"

"I can keep a secret," she teased. "But yes… I am excited to see you. Let’s grab dinner. And, you should swing by the hospital one day while you’re here, maybe come visit me during lunch."

"You won’t be too busy?"

"Oh, I’ll definitely be too busy," she said without missing a beat. “But that just means you’ll have plenty of time to wander around and have sex with Dr. Abbot in some supply closet or on-call room.

"MEL!"

She cackled so loudly you had to pull the phone away from your ear.

One Week Later – Pittsburgh

You were probably in Jack’s house for five minutes before he pounced on you.

Or did you pounce on him?

Honestly, it was all such a blur you couldn’t even remember who moved first. He’d shown up at arrivals holding flowers. Actual flowers. Who even fucking did that anymore?

And he didn’t stop there. After he kissed you hello (twice, because the first one clearly wasn’t enough for him), he insisted on carrying your suitcase and bag, opened the car door for you, and drove you straight to his favorite diner. It was this little hole‑in‑the‑wall place he’d told you about a dozen times. He ordered for you because he "knew what you’d like," and of course, he was right. Then he spent the entire meal looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were sitting across from him.

But the thing that really did it for you was that it was, ironically, the first time you were ever seeing him in scrubs.

They weren’t anything special—just black scrubs—but on Jack they looked unfairly good. The fabric clung in all the right places. The top stretched across his shoulders in a way that made it obvious how much time he spent working out, the seams pulling slightly every time he moved. And underneath, you could see the faint outline of a fitted white undershirt, clinging to the shape of his chest and making everything look even more defined. His forearms were the real distraction—strong and veined. It made you think about how easily he could lift you, pin you, and fuck you into a mattress.

Which was currently exactly what was happening.

"Oh, fuck. That’s it," he mumbled, hips stuttering against you, his name falling from your mouth over and over again as your second (and very violent) orgasm shamelessly ripped through you with tears springing to your eyes. He hummed low in his throat while you clenched tightly around his cock, and he kept fucking you through it while you dropped your head lazily into his pillow.

"Such—a—good—girl," Jack grunted between utterly obscene thrusts, his jaw locking as he closed in on his release. It was an unforgiving tempo—you felt like he was punching the air from your lungs. The thought of him using your cunt like a toy may have set feminism back a couple decades, but you couldn’t find yourself caring because it drove you wild seeing him so lost in his own fucking pleasure. And then, his body stilled abruptly, and he spilled into the condom with a loud, strangled groan.

He collapsed on you with a heavy sigh. Your bodies were sticky with sweat, and you knew you probably looked like an absolute mess and wreck.

"You good?" he asked after he caught his breath.

"Mhmm," you hummed.

He pulled out with a hiss, sliding his softening cock out of you and lifting himself up on his elbows to claim your mouth in a warm kiss, before he sauntered naked through his room to disappear into the bathroom to throw out the condom, and clean up. When he returned, he slid back under the sheets and pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go.

"I like your place," you teased, tracing a lazy line along his shoulder.

He kissed you again then brushed his nose against your cheek. "Ready for an actual tour now?"

"I guess," you sighed dramatically, earning another kiss for your theatrics.

Reluctantly, you both got up and dressed. Jack tugged on his boxers and T‑shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and gave you that sexy smile that always made your stomach flip. He quickly slipped on his prosthetic, and then he took your hand and led you out of the bedroom. His house was calming, and you loved the large glass windows and doors bringing them outdoors into the home which helped create a natural and serene environment. It felt like a "tree house" with lots of light and greenery. Your favorite part was his cozy kitchen which popped out olive-green cabinets and white tile work. You loved how unapologetically not modern the house was. It wasn’t some sprawling, dramatic big-ass house you knew he could easily afford as a trauma surgeon, and that made you love it even more.

"Your house is so beautiful, Jack. I’m pretty sure my apartment is the size of your living room," you said with a laugh. You loved your place in New York—but square footage was… not something you had. At all.

"I moved here about four years ago. My sister-in-law helped a ton. I can’t take the credit."

Four years ago, would’ve meant he moved here about a year after his wife passed. You felt a pang in your chest at the realization. You couldn’t imagine trying to keep living in the same house you’d shared with a spouse, surrounded by memories in every corner. It made sense to you that he had gotten a new space.

You noticed their wedding picture sat on a side table in the living room, framed in simple wood. It was your first time seeing a picture of her. The two of them were caught mid‑laugh, smiling at something just out of frame. He hovered behind you, awkward and unsure, like he didn’t know whether to apologize for the photo or explain why it was there. Of course, he would have pictures of his late wife in his house. You reached for his hand without thinking, giving it a gentle squeeze to let him know it was okay. That you understood. That she was stunning.

He kept your hand in his as he walked you down the hall, opening a small door. "Linen closet," he said, tapping the shelves. "Extra towels, sheets, blankets—whatever you need. And if you can’t find something, just yell."

Then he moved on to the extra bedrooms. One set up as a guest room. One as a work-out room.

Finally, he opened the last door.

"This is the office," he said casually.

But your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just an office.

It was your office?

The same second monitor you used at home. The same oversized headphones you swore by. A desk setup that mirrored yours almost exactly—down to the little laptop stand, the ergonomic chair you spent way too much money on, and the vertical mouse Mel had bullied you into buying to avoid developing carpal tunnel.

Your jaw dropped.

For a second, you just stood there, staring, your brain trying to catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

Jack shrugged a little, like this wasn’t a big deal. "This room’s mostly been empty. I only ever had a desk in here. And I know nothing about corporate America, but everyone keeps telling me people with desk jobs can’t function without a second monitor. So, I made sure to get things set up for you before you got here."

Your eyes began to sting, and tears started to blur your vision, so you quickly blinked them away hoping he didn’t notice. Because of course he’d say it casually like that—like he hadn’t just recreated your entire workspace from memory. Like he hadn’t been paying attention to every offhand comment you’d ever made about your very particular setup. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself.

"Jack… this is—this is too much. Seriously…you didn’t have to do this. I was planning on working at a coffee shop!"

He scoffed, stepping closer. "I don’t want you working at a coffee shop. I want you working here. I want you comfortable while you’re here."

"You have to let me pay you back for—"

He cut you off immediately—immediately—with one of those looks. The look he always gave you whenever you so much as reached for your wallet. You’d seen it every time you tried to pay for dinner, every time you tried to order an Uber, every time you so much as suggested splitting something.

You knew Jack made significantly more than you. This probably felt like a drop in the bucket to him. That wasn’t the point. This felt like… a lot. It was a gesture so intimate it made your chest ache.   

"But, Jack," you whined softly, overwhelmed.

"But what?" he said your name back in the exact same tone. You opened your mouth again, ready to argue, ready to insist, ready to list every reason why this was too much. But your shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of you all at once, replaced by something else.

"It’s just…n-no one’s ever done some—something like this for me," you stammered, suddenly feeling unbearable warm.

"Then I’m glad I get to be the first."

"Thank you. It's perfect," you breathed, looking back at your new temporary office set up. He shook his head like you were being ridiculous.

"Nothing to thank me for, sweetheart," he said quietly, before leaning down to give you a delicious kiss.

The next night, you and Jack went out for dinner.

What you loved most about being in Pittsburgh is that you didn’t have to play tourist. You didn’t have to cram in sights or pretend you didn’t already know the city. You’d grown up coming here on a few school field trips, and now, as an adult visiting Mel, the place felt familiar in a way.

You’d been meaning to try this new restaurant ever since you stumbled across a glowing review about it. It had only been open for about six months, but the write‑up made it sound like the kind of place that actually deserved the hype. You’d bookmarked it with a mental note to stop by someday, and tonight finally felt like the perfect excuse to see what all the fuss was about.

Jack opened the door for you as you entered the restaurant. You felt his hand at the small of your back, and his warm breath in your ear when he told you how gorgeous you looked—for the zillionth time. You gave the hostess you name, and the hostess smiled when she found your name on the list, then gestured for the two of you to follow her.  She led you through the softly lit dining room to a table tucked near a window—intimate without feeling hidden, close enough to the main part of the restaurant to feel alive, but private enough that you didn’t have to raise your voices.

Menus were placed in front of you, water poured, and before you could even settle into your seat, Jack leaned in slightly. "Cocktails?" he asked, like he already knew the answer. You ordered a dry martini; he went for something darker, bourbon‑forward. The drinks arrived quickly, and you clinked them together with dopey smiles on your faces.

The waiter appeared just as you were settling into your first sips. He was young—mid‑twenties maybe—with a too‑bright smile and the kind of confidence that suggested he’d been told he was charming one too many times. You noticed Jack’s eyes shift when the waiter rattled off the specials with way more enthusiasm than necessary. And every time he mentioned something particularly decadent, his attention drifted to you instead of Jack. A quick grin. A wink. A lifted brow. The slightest lean your way, like he couldn’t help himself.

You couldn’t help but feel like Jack had a tense expression on his face, but you didn’t think anything of it. Nodding politely, you asked a question about the sauce on the halibut, all while feeling Jack’s stare on you, even though you were turned toward the waiter.

When the waiter finally left, Jack let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

"He was really laying it on thick."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Jack smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Just… I’m a lucky guy, that’s all. I’m sitting here with the most beautiful girl."

You rolled your eyes, but Jack just kept smiling at you.

"I’m serious," he said. "I don’t think you know the effect you have on people. You’re kind of impossible to ignore." You’d never been good at taking compliments—never knew where to look or what to do with your hands when someone said something kind about you. And the way Jack said it, so matter‑of‑fact and sincere, made a warmth creep up your neck before you could stop it.

"Thank you," you replied, your heart fluttering at the sight of his handsome face.

"I’m also so lucky you took a whole week to come visit me."

"Jack, you’ve been to New York three times. It only made sense."

Something in what you said made him pause. His fingers tapped once against his glass before he continued speaking.

"I’m really happy I met you."

Your chest warmed. "Me too, Jack."

He swallowed, like he was working up to something. You frowned as you watched Jack shift uncomfortably in his chair.

"Look… I’m not expecting you to put your dating life on hold… And…I know you live in a different city. I know this is… new. But I just want you to know—if it wasn’t painfully obvious… that I’m not seeing anybody else," he admitted shyly with a red tint to his cheeks.

For a moment, you just looked at him—at the way he was trying so hard to be careful with you, to not assume anything, to not ask for more than he felt he had the right to. You coyly bit your lip, enjoying how bashful he was being. He always had the ability to turn you into mush instantly.

"I’m not seeing anybody else either. I’m only seeing you."

Jack’s eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face. "Really?" he asked, like he honestly needed the confirmation.

"Really. I haven’t even been on a date since I met you," you giggled, and a big smile stretched across his face. "Am I breaking the rules of not being subtle and maybe being a little too honest?"

Jack he reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours before gently curling around your hand. His thumb traced a slow line across your skin.

"So fuck it," he said, as he held your hand a little tighter. "Let’s just break the rules."

Dinner carried on as if nothing had changed. It was as tasty as the review had said. When the check was paid and you both stood to leave, Jack helped you into your coat like he always did. But this time, as he lifted the collar over your shoulders, he didn’t step back. He stayed close. Close enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek. Then, without hesitating, he leaned in, and his mouth hungrily found yours right there by the door, with his hands getting lost in your hair. Your heart did a ridiculous little flip because he wasn’t usually like this when you went out together. Jack tended to be a little more reserved in public.

You panted, tipping your head back to break the kiss.

"Let’s go back to mine," he whispered before he pressed a kiss behind your ear.

You were supposed to go to a jazz bar after dinner. But as you stood there with Jack’s hands still tangled in your hair and your pulse racing from the kiss, that plan felt like it belonged for another night.

"Okay," you exhaled shakily, eyelids fluttering as you continued to fall under the spell of those gorgeous hazel eyes. The pull between your legs was almost uncomfortable at this point, so you squirmed a bit, containing the urge to fucking straddle him.

He noticed.

"Now," he growled.

When you got back to his place, Jack guided you backward, his palm firm against your lower back as he eased you down onto his bed. The mattress creaked beneath your weight, the frame groaning softly as he followed, settling over you. Buttons slipped free one by one, between kisses. His shirt fell first, then yours, each layer peeled away with deliberate care. Suddenly, you were completely naked before him. So was he, and your lips parted as you watched his cock bob free.

You could tell that the conversation back at the restaurant did something to him. It did something to you, too. Who knew that confirming the two of you were only fucking each other could make the both of you so horny?

Jack cupped your breasts, groaning at how perfectly you fit in his palms. His head dipped to your right breast, taking the peak lightly in his mouth. He closed his mouth around the pebbled skin and bit down hard. You gasped, a mixture of pleasure and surprise shooting through you and tugged at his hair with an urgency. Heat radiated from your pussy, intensifying the desire pulsing through your veins. Jack’s mouth was warm and wet, and every flick of his tongue sent shivers straight to your core.

"Jack. Please. I need you," you begged and there was a hazy, dazed look in your eyes. You grabbed his hand and put it on your pussy so that he could feel how embarrassingly wet you were. He groaned against your chest. While you appreciated that Jack usually made you come (multiple times sometimes) with his fingers or tongue before burying himself inside of you, you were desperate for him tonight.

In the blink of an eye, his mouth abandoned your tortured nipple. "Need me that bad, huh?" he teased, with a shit-eating grin. "You want me to fuck that pretty pussy of yours, huh?"

You turned your face sideways, before murmuring out a quiet, 'yes.'

"So desperate for it." he cooed, looking down at you with a sly smile. "What? You sitting on my cock this morning wasn’t enough?" he goaded, staring at your soaked cunt.

You blinked widely at his filthy mouth. You loved it when he talked like this. His tongue working faster than his brain. He was usually so refined and composed.

"Please, Jack," you begged again, urgency colored in your tone. "Fuck me. I need it. Please—"

"Okay, baby," His lips traced a path from your shoulder down to your collarbone and then he slowly kissed a trail down your arm, his fingertips glided along your sides, sending shivers coursing through you. Then, he started reaching inside his bedside table to grab a condom.

You immediately grabbed his waist to keep him close.

"I have an IUD," you reminded him.

"You sure?" he rasped, his eyes dark.

You nodded.

He studied your face for a moment, searching for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, he leaned in closer, brushing his nose against yours. He positioned his thick cock at your entrance, his impressive size pressing gently against you, and coating himself with your arousal. "Tell me again," he commanded. "What do you need?"

"I need you to fuck me," you whined pathetically, hips lifting without thinking. You were aching for him to be inside, cunt pulsing for him to slip his cock in. You continued to be mess of incoherent pleas and Jack chuckled darkly as he watched your cunt clench around nothing. Thankfully, he wasn’t in a mood to tease. With a swift motion, he pushed into you, nice and slowly, filling you completely. A deep guttural sound tore from his chest, while a gasp escaped your lips as he fed you his cock.

"Jesus Christ," he bit out, leaning down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head. "So damn tight." His chin tilted toward the ceiling, and you could tell he was fighting back the urge to aggressively pound into your core.

The stretch ached, and you whimpered at the fullness. It was a tight fit even for how wet you were, but your walls instinctively made space to wrap around him. He was so fucking big. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours, breathing heavily. The muscle in his jaw twitched, the cords in his neck straining. "Dreamt about feeling you like this for so long," he breathed against your lips, before sliding his tongue into your mouth.

That was the thing about Jack. No matter how fun and flirty the sex could be, he had a way of saying things that landed with unexpected tenderness. He rocked and moved and lingered at a steady pace. He was trying to make this last— was very honest and told you that the lack of condom made him feel like he was going to finish too quickly. He’d pause to kiss your forehead softly, then your cheek, and sometimes the corner of your mouth, whispering how beautiful you were. It made your heart race. His scent filled your nostrils. It was so warm and fucking masculine. Seconds stretched into minutes, and Jack’s pace gradually grew more urgent. Your body pulled him in greedily, clinging to the weight and the heat of him.

"Feels so fucking good," you whispered, voice trembling slightly.

He responded without hesitation. "Yeah, baby?" His pelvis started making a delicious loud smack each time it hit yours.

"Jack," you panted. "Need m-more."

He obliged, thrusting harder, and faster and you felt the pressure build deep inside of you. You started using your legs as leverage to meet him thrust for thrust. His eyes stayed trained on yours, his thick brows furrowing in intense concentration as his nostrils flared, watching his cock disappear into your cunt. You were blabbering incoherently as he talked you toward your orgasm with his words.

"Being such a good girl for me."

"That’s it sweetheart."

"You’re so perfect."

"Oh fuck, I’m— I'm c-close," you cried out as you clutched his shoulders, digging your fingernails painfully into his skin.

"Come for me again," he commanded, through clenched teeth. "I need to feel it. Think you can do that for me, sweetheart?" With one final deep thrust, you felt your body shudder at his words and reached your peak, cunt squeezing tight around him. The sensation consumed you, making you surrender completely to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body with your eyes rolling to the back of your head while your jaw stayed open in bliss. You could hear his praise somewhere underneath the blood rushing to your ears. The aftershocks were intense. You were certain you were having an out of body experience, floating up above yourself, looking down at a crazy sex-induced version of yourself that you didn’t recognize.

Jack groaned out an affirmative noise while he continued losing himself inside your cunt, his eyes burning into you as a string of obscenities flew out of his mouth.

"I’ve thought about this too," you admitted, hoping your words would help speed along his own orgasm. "How good you’d feel with nothing between us."

"Fuck, really?" he grunted, while fresh sweat formed along his forehead.

"Yes," you whined, high pitched and needy, "please come inside me."

"Yeah? Want me to come in this perfect little pussy?" he groaned looking completely wrecked. The raw need in his words sent a fresh wave of arousal washing over you.

"Yes," you gasped, swallowing a mouthful of air, "oh god, yes. Jack. I fucking want it."

Those were all the words he needed before Jack shouted out your name, bracing his hand against the headboard while he pumped you full of his hot spend. After he caught his breath, he draped his body over yours, placing soft kisses on your neck and shoulders. Your legs trembled slightly as you both laid there. You scraped your nails across his silvery curls, causing him to whimper. Slowly, he pulled out of you, making you wince, and you saw his eyes dart south to look at the mix of you and him trailing down your thighs.

After that night, Jack threw out his condoms.

As promised, you stopped by the hospital to visit Mel. It was toward the end of your trip, and Jack was working the day shift today, while you had been working in your 'office.' But you’d carved out time to meet Mel in the cafeteria for lunch today.

She was already there when you arrived, sitting with her elbows tucked in and her chart hugged lightly against her chest the way she did when she needed a moment of calm. The second she spotted you, her whole face brightened.

"You made it!" she said, scooting her tray aside so you could sit.

You sat across from her with a tray in front of you, staring down at what was allegedly chicken stir fry. One bite in and immediately, your expression betrayed you.

Mel’s eyes widened with concern. "Oh no. Is it that bad? I should’ve warned you. I forget sometimes because I’m usually too tired to taste anything."

You swallowed, barely. "Mel… this is—this is a crime."

"Okay, yes, it’s terrible. But look—" She tapped her fork against the plate. "It’s warm. And it’s technically food. And sometimes that’s enough."

"I’m genuinely concerned for your well‑being," you said, poking the chicken, half expecting it to fight back.

Mel laughed. Then, as if remembering something, she perked up. "Oh! I was texting your brother today."

"You were?"

"He was asking about apartments in the area. I didn’t realize he was moving to Pittsburgh."

"Yeah. He got a transfer request. They are being super flexible with his start date since they are desperate to have him here. He’s trying to get fully settled by end of July. But he’s down to sign a lease that starts in May or June."

Mel gave you a look. A very specific look.

"What?" you asked, eyebrows pinched together.

"You know, when you’re not traveling for work, you work from home."

"…Okay, and?"

"Which means you job is mostly remote."

You narrowed your eyes. "Mel."

She tilted her head, all innocence. "Have you ever considered moving here?"

"What? Because of Jack?" you shrieked, louder than intended. A nurse two tables over glanced your way.

Mel didn’t even flinch. "Well, sure, he would be part of the equation. But your brother is moving here. Your parents are in Cleveland. I live here. Not that I’m a reason to move," she added quickly, waving her fork. "And now this really great guy that you met lives here."

"Mel, that’s fucking crazy."

She blinked at you, genuinely confused. "Why is it crazy?"

"Because Jack and I just met! My life is in New York."

"Sure," she said, nodding slowly, like she was ticking off items on a list, "but you’ve always said you didn’t see yourself staying in New York forever. You complain about the rent every time I visit. And you’ve said more than once it’s not exactly the place you want to raise a family."

"Okay, yes, it’s crazy expensive. But not to be rude or anything—Pittsburgh is not exactly high on my list of places I want to end up in."

Mel’s eyebrows lifted, but not in offense—more like she was amused.

"But you’re in love with Jack."

You froze.

Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth. For a moment, your thoughts stalled, and you could only look at her, trying to understand what she’d just said.

"Mel. What are you talking about?"

She didn’t backpedal. She just watched you with those fucking perceptive eyes of hers. That was the thing about Mel—you had never been able to hide the truth from her. Not the big things, not the small things, and definitely not the things you hadn’t even admitted to yourself yet.

"I’m not saying you planned it," she said. "I’m just saying it happened."

You and Mel did your best to finish lunch—well, she finished hers, and you pushed yours around until it looked like you’d made an effort. Then her pager went off. She glanced at it, and you understood without words that this was your cue to leave. You both stood at the same time. She reached for you first, pulling you into a hug that was tighter than usual, like she understood exactly how close you were to unraveling. You held on, trying to breathe, but your eyes burned anyway. One tear slipped free before you could stop it, brushing against her shoulder. She didn’t comment, didn’t make it a thing—just held you until you were ready to let go.

Tomorrow night you’d be gone. The thought pressed against your ribs, heavy and fucking unwelcome. But you were grateful—grateful you’d gotten today with her, grateful for the other night at her place with Becca when you’d all eaten takeout straight from the containers and yelled at reality TV contestants.  

You walked back to Jack’s house afterward. He lived only fifteen minutes from the hospital, and halfway there, your phone buzzed.

A text from Jack: Hey, Dana said she saw you leave the hospital. I didn’t realize you came in. Are you okay?

Of course he’d jump straight to you being hurt. Once in New York, you’d gotten a pretty deep papercut, and he’d reacted like you’d nearly severed a limb. He’d taken your hand so gently, brows drawn together in that worried crease he got, and kissed the tiny cut like it was something that needed soothing. Then he’d insisted on putting a band aid on it himself, smoothing the edges down with this ridiculous tenderness that had made you want to suck his dick off until he passed out.

Grabbed lunch with Mel, you typed back.

His reply came fast: Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve said hi.

I didn’t want to bother you. I assumed you were in surgery

You never bother me. Tell me next time.

Next time.

The words stuck with you long after the screen dimmed. When was the next time you would be in Pittsburgh? Weeks from now? Months? Maybe longer. You felt the sadness start to creep in—but you shook it off. You weren’t going to spend the rest of the day spiraling about what came after. Not when you still had tonight and tomorrow.

So, you made a decision and veered toward the grocery store. Jack had been wining and dining you since the moment you arrived—restaurants, takeout, late-night drinks. You felt bad about it and you didn’t want your last night here to be another meal he paid for. The grocery store was on the way, and you moved through the aisles, grabbing everything you needed for your 'famous' lasagna—the one dish you could make in your sleep, the one everyone always asked for seconds of. By the time you reached Jack’s place, you set the groceries down and got to work.

At one point you went searching for a baking dish, opening cabinets you’d never bothered to look through before. One of them was packed tight, things shoved in without much thought. You reached in to move a stack of mismatched bowls, and something behind them caught your eye—a book with no title, no markings, just a worn, soft cover.

Curiosity tugged at you.

You pulled it out.

At first glance, you didn’t know what it was. But as you flipped through it, you realized it was a recipe book. And not just any recipe book.

It was theirs. Jack and his wife’s.

A recipe for the pasta Jack had cooked on their first date written in Jack’s handwriting, with a note from his wife underneath: You burned the garlic, but I didn’t tell you because you looked so hot.

A recipe for the blueberry pancakes she made for one of his birthdays and Jack’s note in the margin: You always steal the first one off the pan. I let you.

A recipe for the Shepards pie he’d made the night he met her parents—her handwriting looping beneath his: They loved you. I pretended not to notice how nervous you were.

A recipe for the curry they tried to recreate after a trip abroad with Jack’s handwriting cramped at the bottom: We got it wrong, but you said it tasted like us anyway.

A recipe for a soup she made when he got the flu one winter. Her handwriting soft and careful: You fell asleep in bed halfway through eating this. I tucked you in and watched you breathe.

Page after page, memory after memory. Meals tied to moments. Scribbled comments from both of them. Inside jokes you didn’t understand. Pictures slipped between pages—birthdays, anniversaries, quiet nights at home. You didn’t even know that Jack could cook. Had he stopped after his wife passed? You had so many questions.

The reality of his situation hit you hard. Jack had lived an entire life with his wife—long before you ever stepped into the picture. A life with someone beautiful, and that he fucking adored. He didn’t fall out of love with her. It wasn’t like this had been a divorce or a break-up where the relationship went to shit. She didn’t break his heart. There hadn’t been any infidelity or disrespect between them. If a drunk driver hadn’t run her off the road, things would be different. He lost the love of his life because of some asshole. It was so fucking unfair. He would still be with her, and maybe by now they’d have a couple of kids—kids who would’ve been perfect, carrying pieces of both of them.

You tried to push down the intrusive thought as you cried, wiping the tears from your cheeks, but you couldn’t:

How could you ever compete with what they had?

A sob tore out of you as you dropped your face into your hands, your cheeks hot and wet in your palms.

You were in 'your office', finishing the last few lines of an email to your editor, when you heard the front door open, followed by the soft thud of Jack’s shoes hitting the entryway mat. It was currently 6:08 PM. He was earlier than expected.

"Oh my god, it smells so good in here," you heard Jack say.

You froze for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Baby, you upstairs?"

"Yeah. One sec, coming!"

You closed your laptop a little too quickly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You turned in your chair, and your eyes landed on your suitcase you’d packed earlier—sitting by the wall, zipped and ready. On the desk, your phone screen was still lit with the Delta tab you hadn’t bothered to close. PIT  → LGA, 10:32 PM. The rebooked flight email sat open beneath it, the new bolded departure date of tonight staring back at you.

Downstairs, you heard Jack moving through the kitchen—keys hitting the counter. You stood slowly, forcing your expression into something neutral before stepping out of the office. When you stepped down the last stair, you found him standing at the kitchen counter, and in his hands was the recipe book.

He looked up the moment he heard you.

"I’m sorry," you blurted out before he could say anything. "I—I found it when I was cooking. I swear I wasn’t trying to snoop." You gestured vaguely toward the cabinet. "It was shoved all the way in the back, and I just… I don’t know. I figured it shouldn’t be hidden somewhere you can’t find it."

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the sting behind your eyes threatening to return. Jack looked down at the book again, thumb brushing the worn edge of the cover. He didn’t say anything. And after a while, you couldn’t take the silence—not with your pulse thudding in your ears.

"I should… check on the lasagna," you murmured, even though the timer hadn’t gone off yet.

You crossed the kitchen with a stiffness you hoped didn’t show, the heat from the oven washing over your face as you opened the door. A wave of steam rolled out—fogging your vision for a second. The lasagna was bubbling at the edges, cheese browned just enough on top. You grabbed the oven mitts with hands that weren’t entirely steady and slid the dish out, setting it on the stovetop with a soft clatter. You focused on turning off the oven, adjusting the pan so it cooled evenly, brushing a stray bit of sauce from the rim. Anything to keep your back to him. Anything to keep your breathing even.

"I know I don’t talk about her a lot," he suddenly said.

You pressed your lips together for a split second. It was true. He’d only ever shared the high-level details—her name, that they’d met through Robby, how she died. You’d never wanted to push for more. Asking for the details felt like crossing a line you weren’t sure you had the right to cross. You’d never dated a widower before, and you constantly second‑guessed how to navigate that part of his life, afraid of fucking up on accident and offending him.

"It’s not that I don’t want to talk about her," he continued.

Your eyes stayed on the stovetop a moment longer, fussing with the pan even though it didn’t need it. A slow breath left your chest before you finally turned—just a small, reluctant pivot, as if some part of you wasn’t convinced you were ready to face him. You wiped your palms on a dish towel even though they weren’t wet, buying yourself one last second before you lifted your gaze.

You saw the anguish in his eyes.

"It’s just… talking about her still feels really hard sometimes," he swallowed, bottom lip quivering. "I’m sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," you said, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"I have to be honest with you," Jack said, glancing away for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "I’m figuring this out as I go," his eyes turned all watery and wide. "Missing her and wanting you. Half the time I feel so damn guilty for wanting you, and the other half I feel guilty for feeling guilty about moving on." His hand trembled as he picked up the recipe book. "I feel all these things for you. It makes me question everything. And sometimes… sometimes it makes me wonder if maybe—" his voice cracked "—I didn’t love my wife enough."

You looked at him, tears already streaming down your face. "Oh Jack, of course you loved her enough. More than enough. I felt guilty reading it," you pointed at the book. "I know those notes were private. But it was also… really beautiful. It was so… full of love. You weren’t just following her recipes—you were trying to make them perfect for her. The way you wrote about her, it was clear how much she meant to you. How much you both meant to each other." You were growing more and more nervous with every passing second because he still hadn’t said anything, but you continued. "You clearly loved her very deeply. You loved her so much… it’s written into every page."

His chest stilled, breath caught in his throat as he processed your words. Then, his arm darted out to grab your wrist and pull you to him. You were weak and went into his arms as he dug his fingers into your back to hold you against him, resting his cheek on the top of your head, trying to wrap himself around you in every possible way.

You weren’t angry at him. You were angry at yourself. You’d let yourself fall too hard, too fast, for someone who was still unavailable. It wasn’t his past that scared you—you never resented that he had loved someone before you. You knew a piece of his heart would always belong to her. You could live with that.

What you couldn’t live with was that he hadn’t really dealt with losing her. Not fully. Not deeply enough to make room for something new.

And because of that, he didn’t have space for a future with you.

Maybe not for a long time. Maybe not ever.

He heard you sniffle against his scrubs.

"I should go," you said quietly.

"What?" he asked in utter disbelief. He brought his hands up to pull you back and cradle your jaw.

"Yeah, I rebooked my flight to leave tonight."

"Why?"

"You know why," you said, gazing up at him, his hands still gripping your face. "This might be moving too fast, and you’ve been through a lot these last few years."

"Please don't do this," Jack’s grip on your face tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. "I want to be with you," he finally managed, voice breaking on the last word. "You’re all I think about. I wake up thinking about you. I go to bed thinking about you. I’m—I don’t know how to stop," he let out a broken laugh, the sound sharp and painful. "I think about your laugh when my day goes to fucking shit. I think about your face when something good happens. I miss you even when you’re standing right in front of me. I look for you in every room. I feel calmer when you’re near me. I feel… lost when you’re not. Please don’t feel like you need to give me an out. I’m— I—I’m in lo—"

You knew exactly what he was about to say. And hearing it now, in this moment, would shatter you. So you cut him off with the softest whisper.

"Me too."

His froze.

"But, I think I finally understand what people mean when they say something can end without it being a bad thing. Maybe we were only meant to meet to show each other what’s still possible. And maybe…that’s okay."

"Is that what’s happening? Is this ending? It barley even fucking started." Jack pinched the bridge of his nose while he tried to steady his breathing.

"Jack… before you, I’d honestly given up on men. I’ve dealt with so many shitty guys over the years— I was convinced the universe was sending me nothing but walking red flags," Jack made a frustrated sound at your comment. "But then I met you. And suddenly I remembered what it felt like to be cared for. To be listened to. To feel… special. I’m so lucky I met you. You showed me what I deserve. You showed me that I don’t have to settle and marry my bodega guy’s son who needs a green card."

Jack let out a startled laugh—an actual laugh, cracked and wet around the edges. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head as the sound slipped out of him.

"Oh my god," he said, voice muffled against your neck. "Not him."

You let out a watery laugh. "Hey, don’t judge. I could have a free lifetime supply of bacon‑egg‑and‑cheeses."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes shining, and guided your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heartbeat like he wanted you to feel how hard it was racing

"But let’s be real," you said softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. "This isn’t the ideal situation. You’re still… grieving. You're realistically still unavailable. And a long‑distance relationship?" You shook your head, tears gathering again. "Maybe I’m being selfish, but I also need to protect my heart. I don’t think I can handle the pain of the back and forth. And it must be hurting you too. It’s a lot. It’s too much for where we both are right now."

"Maybe in a few months—"

You cut him off before he could finish. "I care about you too much to drag this out. Please… let's not make this harder than it already is."

He dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, wiping at tears he clearly hadn’t meant for you to see. Another slipped free anyway, and he brushed that one away too, almost impatiently, like he was frustrated with himself for crying at all. His breath shook as he exhaled, eyes dropping to where your hand still rested against his chest.

"Okay. If you think this is what’s best."

You nodded weakly, your lips pressed into a thin line.

"Can I at least drive you to the airport?"

"Is it okay if I say no?"

He huffed in frustration.

"I'm sorry," you whimpered, a salty tear trickling down your cheek. You quickly reached up to wipe it away.

"No, don’t be sorry.” he said, but his voice was tense. "It’s fine," he finally said after a few moments, his voice a little shaky as he locked eyes with you.

"I don’t need to order my Uber right this second. If you want… we could eat some lasagna together before I go?"

He shook his head. "I’m not hungry right now."

"Oh." You nodded, even though the answer stung more than you expected. "Okay. Let me grab my suitcase and backpack from the office."

You turned to go, but Jack stepped forward.

"No—let me do it."

Before you could respond, he stroked your cheek with his fingertips, dragging them tenderly to your chin and lifted you to meet his lips for a soft kiss. The kind he’d given you a hundred times without thinking. You weren’t even sure he realized he’d done it. By the time your brain caught up, he was already heading up the staircase. He came back down a minute later, your suitcase rolling behind him and your backpack slung over his shoulder. You stood there, feeling a lump in your throat, and swallowed it thickly as you stared into his beautiful hazel eyes.

"Here," he said quietly, setting your things by the door.

You slipped your shoes on, fingers fumbling with the laces more than they should have. You cleared your throat, grasping for something—anything—that felt normal. "Um… the lasagna. If you get hungry later, just heat it at three-fifty. Twenty minutes should be enough. Maybe twenty‑five if you want the top crispy."

Jack nodded, eyes fixed on your hands as you tied your second shoe. "Okay."

"And, um… cover it with foil first," you added, rubbing your eyes tiredly, "otherwise the cheese will burn."

"Okay," he repeated, stoically.

You stood, brushing your palms against your jeans, feeling nauseous. The phone felt heavier than it should have as it came out of your back pocket. Your fingers trembled over the screen for a moment making the simple act of tapping the app feel clumsy. Whether Jack saw it or not, you couldn’t tell, though it wouldn’t have surprised you if he had. You finally opened the Uber app. Your thumb slipped the first time. You pretended it didn’t. The nausea in your stomach twisted tighter as you scrolled to the VIP option. It cost more, but it meant the car would be here in one minute.

You hit Confirm.

A tiny vibration buzzed in your palm—Pamela is arriving in 1 minute—and for a moment you just stared at the screen, your reflection faint in the glass, eyes red, breath uneven.

You locked your phone and swallowed hard, forcing your hands to still even though they wouldn’t.

One minute. Sixty seconds. That was all the time left.

You reached for your coat on the hook by the door. Slipping your arms into the sleeves felt strange, like your body was moving on autopilot while your mind lagged behind. You sucked in a deep breath and forced yourself to look at him once the coat was on. Neither of you spoke.

A buzz in your pocket broke the moment.

You flinched, pulling out your phone with stiff fingers. The screen lit up.

Pamela is here.

"My Uber is here."

"Text me," Jack offered, but he didn’t move from his spot. "At least..let me know when you’re home safe."

There was a part of you that wondered if he really meant that or if he was just saying it.

Would he actually open the message? Would he read it and respond?

"I will," you whispered. The next words tangled on your tongue, and you had no idea what to say. "Good… um… night," you managed, stumbling over it. He echoed the words back to you. As you opened the door, the cool air from outside brushed against your face, and you walked towards Pamela’s Toyota Camry, opened the door, and slid into the back seat.

You said goodnight? What the fuck was wrong with you.

"Delta Terminal?" she asked.

You nodded. Your voice didn’t feel reliable.

The ride blurred by—streetlights smearing into long streaks, your reflection faint in the window, eyes tired and swollen. You didn’t cry. You didn’t think. You just… existed.

At the terminal, you moved through TSA PreCheck like you’d done it a thousand times. Shoes stayed on, laptop stayed in your bag, and you answered the agent’s questions with a voice that didn’t sound like yours. Everything felt strangely distant, like you were watching yourself from a few feet away.

You were early. So, you found a lounge, scanned your boarding pass, and sank into a chair near a window. The city lights glittered outside, and you stared at them without really seeing anything. You sipped lukewarm tea. Checked the time. Scrolled aimlessly. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to Jack.

Eventually, your flight boarded. You took your seat, buckled in, and closed your eyes the moment the plane lifted off the ground.

Hours later, Laguardia greeted you with its usual chaos. You grabbed an Uber home, watching familiar streets roll by until your building came into view.

Your bodega was still open. It closed at 3 AM. The perks of living in New York City. Without thinking, you ducked inside.

"Hey! I haven’t seen you all week. Another one of your work trips?" your usual guy (perhaps your future father-in-law) behind the counter asked.

"Something like that," you murmured.

You ordered a bacon egg and cheese. The sandwich was warm in your hands as you walked the few steps to your apartment. Inside, you dropped your bags, kicked off your shoes, and sat on the edge of your bed. You snapped a picture of the sandwich and sent it to Jack.

Safe and sound.

The message delivered instantly. But…the little 'read' receipt never appeared.

Days passed.

No reply.

Just silence—exactly what you’d expected, but somehow it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Masterlist | Part 1 l You’re reading Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You sighed, swirling the straw in your half-finished gin and tonic, while around you, the bar hummed with the low buzz of travelers. You weren’t sure why your editor had pushed this assignment on you since your usual column had never been about love—it was about travel. You were the one readers turned to when their flight was canceled at 2 a.m, and they needed to know how to squeeze a meal voucher out of an airline that swore they didn’t owe them one. You wrote about the art of packing two weeks’ worth of outfits into a single carry‑on without looking like you’d slept in your clothes. You guided them through budget adventures, pointing out the best street food stalls in Bangkok or the cheapest train pass that could carry them across Europe. You loved writing about how to navigate a city where the language was unfamiliar, but the adventure was irresistible.

Which was why it felt so strange, almost laughable, that your editor had suddenly decided readers wanted your advice on love (with a travel spin) and how to navigate fucking cuffing season.

You tapped out another attempt:

Is Your Holiday Romance a Direct Flight to Love—or Just a Layover in Lust?

Better. Not perfect, but better.

Ironically, you were currently experiencing a delay yourself. It was the kind of endless waiting that made time feel heavy. When the announcement came—two hours delayed—a collective groan had rippled through the gate area.

Now, typing at the bar near the gate, you noticed him—the same man you’d seen earlier, leaning against the counter, his drink in hand. He was striking, the kind of presence that drew your eye without effort. You recognized him instantly as a fellow passenger on your flight to Pittsburgh. You remembered seeing him, sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose as if the weight of the delay pressed down harder on him than anyone else.

For a moment, you thought about talking to him, but then your eyes caught the glint of a wedding ring. That small detail was enough to hold you back.

The handsome ones were always taken.

So, you kept your thoughts to yourself, sipping your drink and continuing to type. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. A commotion broke out a few seats away—someone had collapsed, and a panicked voice rang out: "Is there a doctor here?" The bar fell into stunned silence, until the man you’d been watching stood up. Without hesitation, he pulled out a badge, his voice steady as he identified himself as "Dr. Abbot" and in an instant, he was at the side of the fallen passenger.

He pressed two fingers against the man’s neck, checking for a pulse, then looked up suddenly.

"You," he barked.

You froze, glancing around, convinced he must be talking to someone else. But his eyes locked on yours.

"M-me?" you stuttered, pointing at yourself.

"Yes, you," he grunted, already shifting his focus back to the man. "I need you to hold down his arm. He’s seizing, and I can’t get a clear line.

Your heart hammered, nerves sparking, but you shut down your laptop, moved closer, and got on your knees. The man on the floor was convulsing, his body jerking uncontrollably. Dr. Abbot had already tilted the man’s head to keep the airway clear, but he needed another set of hands.

"Here," Dr. Abbot guided you quickly, placing your hands on the man’s forearm. "You sure you can handle that?"

You swallowed hard, palms slick with adrenaline, but you did as you were told. He leaned down close enough that his forehead almost met yours.

"Good, keep steady pressure," he instructed, his voice low but commanding. He slipped off his jacket, folded it, and slid it beneath the passenger’s head to cushion the impact of the convulsions. The man’s body jerked violently once more, but Dr. Abbot was already adjusting—loosening the collar of the man’s shirt.

A woman knelt on the other side of the man, her face pale with panic. Dr. Abbot glanced at her.

"Has he ever had a seizure before?" he asked.

She shook her head quickly. "No—never. I don’t—he’s never had anything like this."

Dr. Abbot leaned in close, his fingers pressing firmly against the man’s neck again, just beneath the jawline. His brow furrowed in concentration, shutting out the noise of the bar, even your own ragged breathing.

"There," he murmured, almost to himself. His eyes sharpened, catching the subtle thump against his touch. "I can hear it. The pulse is irregular, but it’s there."

Dr. Abbot glanced up sharply. "A glass of water—quickly," he called to the bartender.

As the bartender scrambled, Dr. Abbot reached into his bag and pulled out a small pouch. "Keep holding firm. He’s almost through it." he instructed you.

From the pouch, he produced a vial of lavender oil and a small packet of powdered magnesium. The bartender returned with the water, and Dr. Abbot tore the packet open, sprinkling a measured pinch into the glass before stirring briskly.

"Natural relaxants..." he explained to you.

He dabbed the lavender oil onto a cloth and held it near the man’s nose, speaking firmly: "Easy now. Breathe."

The convulsions began to slow, the violent jerks tapering into tremors. You felt the tension in the man’s arm ease beneath your grip. When the spasms subsided, Dr. Abbot guided the cup to the man’s lips, helping him take small, careful sips.

"Magnesium helps calm the nervous system," he murmured.

The passenger’s eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unfocused but present.

"You’re alright. You had a seizure, but it’s passed. Just stay still."

The woman who’d been traveling with the man let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest for minutes. Dr. Abbot guided the man slowly onto his side, ensuring his breathing stayed even. After a minute, Dr. Abbot helped him sit upright.

"Easy," he said, steadying the man with a hand on his shoulder.

The man nodded faintly, whispering a shaky "thank you." Around you, the bar’s tension dissolved into murmurs of relief. A few travelers clapped softly, others smiled in gratitude. The woman surged forward in a sudden, instinctive motion and threw her arms around Dr. Abbot. You could tell instantly that the hug caught him off guard—but then he managed a polite return of the embrace. A small, trembling sound escaped her before she finally pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

The woman turned to you next.

Her eyes were still glassy, her breath still uneven, but she reached out and grabbed your hands.

"Thank you," she said, voice thick with relief.

Dr. Abbot finally turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours again—this time softer, less commanding. Suddenly, you felt trapped in a gaze that had a fire licking up your spine.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. So, you did the only thing you could manage. You nodded. A small, awkward, probably-too-fast nod that felt embarrassingly insufficient for everything that had just happened. But your throat was tight, your thoughts scrambled, and you weren’t sure your voice would come out right if you tried to use it. You pretended to brush dust from your jeans, anything to avoid the truth flickering at the edges of your thoughts. Because you didn’t want to admit—even to yourself—that watching Dr. Abbot had done something to you.

Competence shouldn’t have been attractive. Not like that. Not in a moment like this.

But it was…

The passenger, now steady enough, managed to stand with Dr. Abbot’s help. He gave a faint smile and settled into a nearby chair, sipping water while the color slowly returned to his cheeks.

Your hands were still trembling when you slipped back onto your stool at the bar. The adrenaline hadn’t quite burned off, leaving your chest tight and your pulse erratic. You grabbed your glass and drained the rest of your gin and tonic in one long swallow, the sharp burn of alcohol grounding you in the moment.

"Another," you said, your voice hoarse.

The bartender gave you a look—and slid a fresh glass across the counter.

"On the house," he winked.

You managed a weak smile, wrapping your fingers around the cold glass. Before you could take a sip, you felt a gentle pressure on your shoulder. You turned, startled, and found yourself staring into Dr. Abbot’s eyes.

This guy wasn’t just handsome; he was the kind of man who made you forget what words were supposed to do. Up close, you could see the way his hazel eyes caught the light, flecks of gold sparking—they were steady, piercing, and far too beautiful. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his athletic long-sleeve shirt, fabric stretched tight like it was barely containing him. You couldn’t help but notice—exploding out of the shirt was the only way to describe it.

Normally, you didn’t fawn over men with grey hair—it was never your thing. But on him? Holy hell. It was devastating.

And then your gaze dropped again to his wedding ring.

The reminder hit you like a splash of cold water. Married. He was married.

Your thoughts snapped back into place, the attraction suddenly tangled with guilt. What the fuck are you thinking? you scolded yourself, forcing your eyes away from the ring, away from him, back to the drink in your hand.

"You alright?" he asked.

You let out a shaky laugh, more nerves than humor. "That was… crazy," you admitted, shaking your head.

He didn’t move away when you answered. Instead, he pulled out the stool beside you and sat down. The bar noise carried on around you—ice clinking in glasses, muffled announcements over the PA—but it all felt distant.

"You did well," he said.

You shook your head quickly, almost reflexively.

"I didn’t do anything," you muttered, staring down at your drink. You were the one who knew what to do. I was just… holding an arm."

"No. Don’t minimize it. If you hadn’t held him, he could’ve thrashed harder, bitten his tongue, or slammed his arm against the floor. People can break bones during a seizure. You kept him steady enough that I could focus on his airway and his pulse."

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in.

"I didn’t realize…"

"That’s the point," Dr. Abbot said, leaning forward slightly. "Most people don’t. They panic, or they freeze. But you didn’t."

You swallowed hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your chest.

The bartender slid a napkin across the counter, but neither of you moved to take it. Dr. Abbot’s gaze stayed on you, unwavering, until you finally exhaled and nodded faintly.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Maybe I did something."

"You did," his lips curved into a sexy smile (it was just as blinding as it was contagious), though his eyes stayed serious. "And you should remember that."

You mustered a nod, now noticing the green in his eyes.

"So..." he said, voice casual now, almost conversational, while he raked his fingers through his luscious hair. "Is Pittsburgh home?"

You shook your head, realizing he had probably recognized you as one of the passengers on his same flight as well.

"No. I live in Brooklyn. I’m visiting—well, surprising—a friend of mine."

"Surprising?"

"Yeah," you said, a small laugh escaping. "She’s actually a doctor, too. A resident. Her schedule’s absolute shit, and it’s going to stay that way until the new year. But she’s off tomorrow, so I thought… why not spend the day with her?"

"You’re flying out from New York during the holidays… just to see your friend for a single day?" he cocked his head to his side, clearly intrigued.

You shrugged, suddenly aware of how impulsive it sounded when spoken aloud. "I guess so. She’s important to me. And sometimes one day is enough."

His expression shifted—surprise flickering into something more thoughtful. He studied you for a moment longer.

"That’s… rare," he said finally. "Most people wouldn’t bother. Especially not with holiday chaos stacked against them."

"Well, my best friend deserves it. I honestly don’t know how she does it."

"Does what?"

"The doctor thing," you waved your hand toward him. "You guys work all the time. It sounds exhausting."

"It is exhausting. But you get used to it. Or at least you pretend you do."

You nodded, then found yourself spilling more than you’d planned. Maybe it was the gin, maybe it was the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or maybe it was just the fact that he was a stranger, and it felt safe to let the words tumble out.

"My friend… when her mom died, she basically became the primary caretaker for her sister. And then she matched in Pittsburgh, and has had to hire a part-time aid to help cover things while she’s at the hospital. So, she’s either working or taking care of her sister. There’s never really a break for her."

"That’s a lot. For anyone," he said, brows furrowing over his perfect features when he looked at you with genuine concern.

"Yeah. She doesn’t complain, though. She just… keeps going."

"Sounds like she’s lucky to have you. Flying out here, even for one day, even just to remind her she’s not alone—that matters."

"I hope so. I don’t know. I just… wanted to show up. That’s all."

He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry more than just fatigue. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable.

"Sometimes showing up is everything."

Your fingers traced the condensation on your glass, a nervous habit you couldn’t quite stop. "What about you? Is Pittsburgh home?"

"Yeah. I guess Pittsburgh’s home," he said, giving you a small grunt.

"Why were you in New York then?"

He rested one arm on the bar. "A favor, actually. A friend of mine works at Mount Sinai. They had a patient with a complicated case, and he asked me to fly out last night to provide a consult this morning. There’s a chance the patient will need to finish their treatment back in Pittsburgh."

"Sounds like it made sense for you to come in then."

"That’s one way to put it," he chuckled, the sound low and warm. "But it’s worth it. The patient is important to me," His eyes caught yours, steady and deliberate. "And sometimes one day is enough."

The words landed with a weight you hadn’t expected. It took you a beat to realize he was throwing your own line back at you, and when you did, heat rushed to your cheeks—giddiness dripping from your limbs.

The loudspeaker crackled overhead, pulling you both out of the quiet bubble you’d been sitting in.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the gate agent’s voice rang out, weary but practiced, "we apologize again for the delay. Your aircraft has now arrived at the gate. Boarding will begin shortly."

Around you, the bar shifted—travelers straightening, gathering bags, finishing drinks with hurried gulps. The low hum of conversation turned into the shuffle of movement.

You glanced at Dr. Abbot, and he was already sliding his arm back into his jacket, his expression returning to something more professional. "Guess that’s our cue."

You stood too, tucking your laptop back into your bag.

"Yeah," you muttered, trying to hide your internal struggle with a smile. "Have a safe flight."

"You too," he said, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the gate.

And then he was gone, moving toward the gate, and you watched him disappear into the crowd, realizing with a sudden pang that you two had never actually exchanged names. He knew nothing about you beyond fragments of conversation, and yet it felt like he’d seen more of you than most strangers ever did.

When boarding was finally called, you joined the line, inching forward with the rest of the passengers. As you scanned your boarding pass, you spotted him ahead—his zone called before yours.

Later, as you stepped onto the plane and made your way down the narrow aisle, you caught sight of him again. He was already seated, aisle seat, his bag tucked neatly beneath the chair. For a moment, his gaze lifted, catching yours as you passed. Your heart suddenly felt like it was thumping in your throat.

You offered a small, shy smile. He returned it with the faintest nod, then lowered his eyes back to the book in his hands.

And just like that, you kept walking, sliding into your own seat a few rows back.

Almost automatically, you pulled your laptop back out, the cursor blinking at you like it had earlier. The half-finished headline stared back, daring you to pick up where you’d left off.

You hesitated, glancing down the aisle where he sat, book in hand, already absorbed. Then you forced your focus back to the screen. Fingers hovered over the keys, and you began typing again.

Holiday romances are like flight delays—unexpected, inconvenient, and sometimes revealing more about us than we’d like. The question isn’t whether they’re real, but whether they last once the turbulence settles.

December 27th - Pittsburgh

When you knocked on Mel’s apartment door the day you landed in Pittsburgh, you hadn’t expected the reaction to hit so hard. The moment Mel opened it, her eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face before it broke into something raw. Tears welled instantly, spilling down her cheeks as she pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Her shoulders shook against yours, relief pouring out in waves, and you brushed at her damp cheeks with a soft laugh.

That night, you somehow convinced her to go out. The bar was quiet, unassuming, and she allowed herself one drink—her version of 'drunk.' Sure enough, after a single glass of wine, she was giggling, cheeks flushed, leaning against you like the weight of residency had finally lifted for a moment.

The next day, you two laughed a lot—the kind of laughter that came easy after months of exhaustion. Becca, her sister, also joined you, and the three of you spent the afternoon wandering, eating, talking about everything and nothing. At one point, Mel begged you to come back in a couple of days—her hospital was hosting a holiday party, and she wanted you there.

You promised, even though you knew you’d be driving to Cleveland for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Family obligations pulled you away, but you carved out the time. You spent the 24th and 25th wrapped in the familiar insanity of home, the 26th lingering with family, before packing up again.

Now, back in Pittsburgh, you stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a tight mauve dress, getting dressed up for the holiday party Mel had begged you not to miss. The city outside was cold, streets glittering with leftover Christmas lights.

You slipped on your coat and glanced at Mel as she adjusted her earrings in the hallway mirror. She gave you a quick grin, nerves and excitement tangled together, and you pulled out your phone to hail an Uber. The car arrived within minutes, headlights cutting through the frosty air as you both hurried down the steps, laughter puffing out in little clouds.

After a quick ride, you and Mel stepped into the Andy Warhol Museum. The space had been transformed for the holiday party—strings of twinkling fairy lights draped across the high ceilings, vintage film projections flickered softly on the walls, and a Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its ornaments shimmering in gold and crimson. Soft jazz music played in the background, mingling with the hum of conversation and laughter.

Mel introduced you to her colleagues first—fellow residents, nurses, and some attending physicians. You shook hands, exchanging quick introductions.

Then Mel led you over to her mentor, Dr. Langdon—Frank.

He seemed approachable, if a little 'Ken doll' in appearance, as you’d joked to Mel earlier.

You liked him enough, and compared to the mentors Mel had slogged through at the VA—he felt like a step up. You could tell Frank was probably tough on her—in the way residency demanded, but it was clear he treated her with genuine regard.

"Ah, there you two are," Frank said, his eyes twinkling with recognition. Turning around, you and Mel pivoted to face two men who had just entered the room behind you. You heard Mel begin to speak, her voice friendly and a little excited, as she introduced you.

"These are my attending physicians—Dr. Robby and—"

But before she could finish, your eyes widened, recognition hitting you like a sudden jolt. "Dr. Abbot," you said, the name escaping before you could stop it.

Time seemed to freeze for a heartbeat as your gazes met. He was in a tux, the crisp black fabric framing in a way that made your mouth go dry. Dr. Abbot looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see him. 

Mel glanced between you, confusion knitting her brow, but you couldn’t look away. Big hazel eyes swept over you, lingering on your curves a little too long, the look deliberate and unhurried, before returning to your face. Your eyes were just as greedy as his—the weight of his stare sent a rush of heat through you, your pulse quickening in response.

Then, as if to break the tension, a faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Jack is fine."

Jack. The name echoed in your head.

And the way your name rolled off his tongue after he shook your hand sent a jolt of arousal right to the center of you.

Dr. Robby tilted his head, curiosity sparking, and asked how you knew each other. You explained—briefly, factually—the situation at the airport, the collapsed passenger, the way Jack had stepped in. As you spoke, Mel stood there wide-eyed and not making a signal fucking sound.

It was the look of someone connecting dots, realizing this was the man you’d mentioned the other day—the 'hot guy' from the airport. Her gaze flicked between you and Jack, a silent seriously? My attending? What a small world? written across her face.

Turning his attention back to you, Dr. Robby’s smile widened.

"Are you a doctor too?"

"No," you chuckled softly, shaking your head. "I’m not. I’m a writer—I write a silly column," you replied. "Nothing too special. Nothing like what you guys do." You gave a modest shrug, a little self-deprecating.

Mel frowned while Jack’s brows shot up.

Before anyone could respond, a voice cut through the hum of conversation.

"Robby," Dana (the fabulous nurse you met earlier) called as she approached, she gave the group a quick smile before turning to Dr. Robby. "Gloria’s looking for you—something about a patient, Mr. Thomas Henderson. She said it couldn’t wait. It’s regarding his post-op cardiac case."

Dr. Robby groaned audibly, rolling his eyes.

"I swear to God, if this is related to patient satisfaction scores…" he muttered, half to himself, half to the group.

Dr. Langdon straightened beside him, nodding. "That’s our case," he said, glancing at Mel with a look of recognition. "We should go check in."

Mel gave you a quick squeeze on the arm, a silent be right back, before following Dr. Langdon and Dr. Robby across the room toward Gloria. Dana trailed after them.

And just like that, the circle dissolved, leaving you standing with Jack.

"Dr. King is the friend you’re visiting?"

It was always weird hearing people refer to Mel as 'Dr. King' —it sounded so adult.  

You nodded, the word catching in your throat before you could shape it into something more. "Yeah," you managed, but then your teeth found your lower lip, worry pressing in.

Fuck.

You had unknowingly shared something so intimate and private about Mel’s life with one of her fucking attendings.

Your teeth pressed harder into your lip, nerves spiking. What if he saw her differently now? What if he judged her, thought she was distracted, less capable? What if you’d just made things harder for her?

The thought made your chest tighten—you wanted to rewind, to take it all back, but the words were already out there, probably lodged in his memory.

Jack shifted slightly, adjusting his cuff, the silence stretching between you. Finally, he offered a small, polite smile.

"Looks like you stayed for more than one day," he said, his tone casual, almost forced—like he was trying to be nice, to fill the space with small talk. But the words only made you want to throw up. The guilt surged, sharp and immediate, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, "What I told you about Mel—I didn’t know who you were. I thought you were just… some guy I would never see again. I never would’ve said anything if I’d known." Your voice stumbled over itself, rushed and uneven, nerves spilling out in every syllable. "I shouldn’t have… I mean, it wasn’t my place. I don’t want her to be treated differently because of what I said."

Jack’s expression shifted as he caught the edge of your panic and slowly invaded your personal space just enough for you to smell his cologne.

"Hey," he said, calm but firm. "You don’t need to worry.  What you told me stays with me. I’d never repeat it, not to anyone. Besides, from what I’ve seen, she’s damn good at what she does—nothing you said changes that." Jack’s mouth curved faintly, almost like he was letting you in on a secret. "If anything," he added, "what you told me only makes me respect her more. She’s balancing more than most people could handle, and still showing up at the top of your game. That says a lot."

"It’s kind of crazy seeing you again," you admitted, heat creeping up your neck the moment the words left your mouth.

And suddenly you were rambling—words tumbling out faster than your brain could filter them.

"I mean—I know you live in Pittsburgh, obviously. But you and Mel working together—it’s just—"

You know that feeling on a roller coaster ride when just as you’re about to descend down a sharp hill? That’s how you fucking felt, so you made a helpless gesture, searching for the right word and failing spectacularly.

"—unexpected. In a… statistically improbable kind of way."

"Yeah," he said, letting out one of those noncommittal sounds men made. "It’s… pretty damn random."

A waiter appeared at your side, silver tray balanced effortlessly in his hand, offering you some champagne. You murmured a quiet 'thank you' as you took one, the bubbles fizzing gently against your lip as you sipped. Jack accepted a glass too.

"What kind of column do you write?" he asked.

"I write for Cosmopolitan. It’s nothing Pulitzer Prize–winning."

"Guess I’ll have to cancel my subscription then."

You giggled. "You have a subscription to a women’s lifestyle magazine?"

"Well, not me. My wife does."

The word wife hit you like a sudden drop, your smile faltering as your mind raced. There it is, you thought.

"Or… she did," you heard a crack in his voice. "She passed away a few years ago…" he cleared his throat, "and I never got around to cancelling it."

Your heart dropped into your toes at his reveal.

Fuck.

He was a widower.

You were unsure of what to say— and assumed that Jack probably preferred it that way. Without the need for empty expressions of I’m sorry or that must have been hard from a fucking stranger. You knew he wasn’t asking for sympathy. He was simply stating a fact, as if that was all it needed to be. You forced yourself to breathe, to push past the heaviness that threatened to settle between you. Instead of letting silence swallow the moment, you tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

"So, she’s the reason my rent’s been paid all these years. I wish I could give her a thank-you card."

The words weren’t meant to erase what he’d shared, only to acknowledge it without drowning it in pity.

Jack didn’t laugh outright. He didn’t seem like that kind of man. But his eyes shifted, the tension in them loosening, and the corner of his mouth tugged just enough to suggest the ghost of a smile. It was subtle... but you caught it.

He stared at you with those god damn eyes, and in that silence, you understood: he appreciated that you hadn’t tried to fill the space with platitudes. He lifted his glass in a brief, private salute, then let the moment pass.

"It’s a travel column," you finally said.

"I honestly didn’t know that Cosmo had a travel section," he said in this velvet timbre before taking a sip of his drink.

You swallowed thickly, trying to squash the way his voice made you tremble.

"You and me both. When I first interviewed for the job, I thought the magazine was all about sex positions and toys and kink."

Jack choked on his sip, lowering his glass and coughing into his fist, eyes wide for a beat before he recovered. You giggled, the sound light and a little breathless, and leaned forward, letting your fingers brush the rim of his glass. "Don’t act so scandalized," you teased, voice soft. "You're a doctor!"

His mouth twitched into a grin, making you huff out a relieved laugh—especially after seeing the apples of his cheeks dust in a shade of pink.

"Honestly, the sex stuff just gets the headlines. The rest is what keeps people reading. I like to think of my job as being a professional tourist with deadlines," you swirled the champagne in your glass, watching the bubbles rise. "Now it doesn’t require as much travel as it once did, which honestly, I’m thankful for. But…" A thought flickered in the back of your mind—you were getting older, the constant flights and jet lag not as glamorous as they once were.

You paused, the words catching.

"But?" Jack asked, voice gruff. 

"I’ve got a master’s in journalism. And sometimes I wonder if I should be reporting on… I don’t know, real stories. Not just writing a column telling you where to drink cocktails in Paris and where not to order sushi in Madrid."

Jack angled his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, as though he were about to cross‑examine you in court.

"What about the hotel stays?" he teased just enough to earn a roll of your eyes, "I thought travel writers lived for the luxury perks."

You snorted, unable to help yourself. "Luxury perks? Half the time, it’s me fighting with a broken coffee machine in my room. But you’re right, I also write hotel reviews, suggested itineraries, and general "I tried it" travel, from yours truly."

Jack studied you for a moment.

"Do you like writing your column?"

You stalled, thinking of the long flights, the endless airport security lines, and the nights you wrote half-delirious in hotel lobbies. The truth was sometimes your career was lonely, exhausting, and fucking chaotic. But even in the worst of it, you’d never stopped wanting to share with your readers about adventures worthy of their PTO— glimpses into new cultures and experiences that reminded them about how vast and varied the world could be.

"Uh… yeah," you hesitated, then nodded. "I love it."

Jack’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, before he gave you a simple shrug. "Then that’s what matters."

You chuckled at his evaluation.

The conversation shifted naturally, and Jack steered things in another direction, asking about how you knew Mel. You explained that she had been your next‑door neighbor growing up, younger than you, someone you’d always felt a quiet responsibility to look out for. Over time, that protectiveness had deepened into something more permanent—she became like family.

You learned he was an army veteran, sharing with you about dusty forward operating bases, long nights on watch, the small, sharp moments that stayed with him.

A medevac that came too late.

The way a sunrise could feel like a small mercy.

The camaraderie that made the worst days bearable.

It was the kind of back-and-forth that let strangers become familiar—you talked about everything. It sorta…felt like a first date. You found yourself laughing at his dry asides, pausing to listen when he grew quieter, offering details you didn’t usually give out. He would smirk with flirty eyes, and it made you feel dizzy inside. You couldn’t shake off the butterfly feeling in your stomach. You couldn’t help but study the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled or the way his dimples deepened in his cheeks.

Then… Mel came back not alone but with someone. Dr. Mohan.

And—she was fucking stunning.

Jack’s attention shifted the second she stepped into the circle, and you watched them orbit each other and felt suddenly very small. You watched them talk, their voices low, their smiles small but real, and a ridiculous thought flashed through your mind: Are they sleeping together? It was intrusive, uninvited, and yet it rooted itself before you could shove it away.

You told yourself it was ridiculous. You didn’t even live here. You’d probably never see him again after tonight. Still, a hot, stupid jealousy flared—sharp and embarrassing—because…because for a moment—God, for a stupid, fleeting moment—you’d let yourself believe he might have been flirting with you this evening.

"Idiot," you grumbled to yourself.

Mel glanced at the clock and groaned, saying she couldn’t believe how late it had gotten.

"Wanna head out?" you asked, already anticipating her answer.

"Yes," she said, but her face betrayed the contradiction. "Yes, but also no—because it means you’re leaving tomorrow."

Jack’s head lifted at the word leaving, his attention snapping back to you with a quiet, startling precision. His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something in it tightened, a flicker of surprise or… disappointment? You couldn’t tell. You didn’t trust yourself to guess anymore.

"Tomorrow?" he asked, his eyes roaming your face freely, pink tongue coming out to wet his full bottom lip.

You nodded, trying to keep it casual, trying not to read into the way his gaze lingered on you. If you were being honest, his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your thighs clench.

"Back to Brooklyn, huh?" he exhaled through his nose.

"Yeah," you said, tucking your bottom lip between teeth to hold back your groan. "Back to reality."

Mel clapped her hands together, the universal signal that she was about to start her rounds of goodbyes. You could practically feel her energy shift, as she leaned in to hug Dr. Mohan first, murmuring something about how she’d text her later. Then she turned to Jack.

"I’ll see you tomorrow night."

She had a night shift with him.

He met your eyes for a beat, and you felt warm—you wondered if it was because of the way his eyes seemed to shine when he looked at you.

"It was nice seeing you again," he murmured, with that sex-on-legs voice of his.

Heat pooled through you.

You heard the politeness in it, the social lubricant of a line people use to close out conversations. You told yourself he was being courteous, that the words were the kind he could have said to anyone. Still, when the words landed, you were unable to stop the shy smile that tugged at your lips. You tried not to agree too eagerly like a fucking lunatic, and definitely failed miserably.

"Yeah," you said, shifting your feet. "It really was."

A smirk flickered on the ends of his lips.

December 30th – Manhattan

Your editor’s office was always too bright—overhead fluorescents humming, the windows letting in the kind of cold December light that made everything look a little washed out. You sat across from his desk, hands folded over your notebook, pretending not to watch the way he skimmed your draft for the third time.

He didn’t speak for a while. He never did. He liked to make you sweat.

"Well," he said, tapping the printed pages with the back of his pen, "It’s not what I asked for."

"I know."

Finally, he leaned back, glasses sliding down his nose as he looked at you over the frames.

"This is good."

"Yeah?" You blinked.

"Yes," he confirmed, then added, "Different than your usual stuff. But I like it. I think your readers will like it too."

A slow warmth crept up your neck. You weren’t sure if it was pride or nerves.

He flipped the pages together, squared them against the desk, and slid them aside. "After a few edits, I think it will be ready to go to print for the January issue." Then he smirked. "You sure you don’t want to start writing about love and relationships? You’ve got a voice for it."

"No way," you said immediately, laughing. "Absolutely not."

"Shame. You’d be good at it."

You rolled your eyes, gathered your things, and stepped out into the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you pulled out your phone and opened Mel’s text—the one from earlier asking for that chicken recipe.

You typed back, Happy almost New Year. Love you. And then, without thinking, you hit the little paperclip icon and attached the recipe your mother had sent you.

Back in Pittsburgh, Mel finally checked her phone during a lull in the night shift, expecting the chicken recipe you’d promised. Instead, she saw a long attachment icon and a preview that definitely did not look like a list of ingredients.

She frowned, thumb hovering, then tapped it open.

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as she read further, and widened again when she realized exactly what she was looking at. By the time she reached the end of the article, she exhaled slowly and lifted her head, still processing what she’d just read.

Across the nurses’ station, Dr. Abbot was leaning over the counter, pen moving across a patient chart. Every so often, he’d pause, tap the pen against the clipboard, then jot something else down. He shifted to the computer next, typing in vitals. The soft glow of the monitor lit the edges of his face, catching the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes. He didn’t notice her staring—not yet. He was already flipping to the next chart, scanning it with a small frown of concentration, reaching for a fresh pen when the first one began to skip. He muttered something under his breath, shook his head, and kept going.

Mel’s phone felt suddenly heavy in her hand.

She looked down at the screen again. Then back at Dr. Abbot. Then down. Then back.

Dr. Abbot finally glanced up, sensing movement more than anything.

Mel snapped her eyes away, too quickly to be casual.

"Hey," he said, pen hovering above the chart, "how did Mr. Lawson do after surgery? Did he wake up okay?"

Mel jolted like he’d caught her doing something she absolutely shouldn’t be doing.

"What? Oh—uh—yes. I mean—yeah. He’s good. Stable. Totally fine."

"You sure?"

“Yep. Great. Perfect.” She cleared her throat, forcing her voice into something steady and professional. "So—uh—yeah. Surgery went well. The laparoscopic approach held up, no complications. His blood pressure stabilized once we got him into recovery, and he’s already responding to fluids."

"Good. That’s good to hear."

Mel looked at her phone again, her pulse ticking visibly at her throat.

Whatever she was thinking—whatever she was about to do—she hadn’t decided yet.

"Dr. King… you sure everything’s alright?" Dr. Abbot turned back to his chart, but only halfway.

She hesitated.

Then took a slow breath.

Then stepped closer.

"Dr. Abbot...I know what I’m about to do is completely unprofessional."

Dr. Abbot looked up. His face twisted, a frown deepening between his brows—and his concern sharpened.

Mel swallowed, eyes flicking down to her phone, then back up to him. "If you need to take me off your service after this?" She exhaled, a humorless little laugh. "Feel free."

Then Mel held out her phone.

Dr. Abbot took the phone from her slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was about to see but understood it mattered. His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his eyes moved over the title—and Mel watched the moment recognition hit him. His brows pulled together, not in confusion, but in a kind of startled focus when he saw your name.

DRAFT Jan 2026 Article: Here’s something I’ve never said in print before—and I’m already cringing because my parents read my column (hi Mom, hi Papa, please avert your eyes):

I’ve never had a one-night stand. I know. I travel for a living. I spend half my life in airports, hotels, and cities where no one knows my name. If anyone were likely to have a casual fling in a foreign place, it should be me.

But I’m just… not wired that way.

It’s hard for me to meet a stranger and immediately think, Oh yeah, let’s get naked. My brain doesn’t work like that. My heart definitely doesn’t.

When I date, I date seriously. Not in a is this my husband panic‑mode way, but in a I like being a girlfriend way. I love the small, everyday rituals that look boring on paper but feel like glue in real life: brushing our teeth side by side, sending each other photos of ridiculous things we see, debating whose turn it is to pick the movie, knowing exactly which snacks to grab for them at the grocery store. I like the comfort of shared routines, the quiet intimacy of folding laundry together, the easy joy of having someone to debrief the day with.

I like being the person who shows up. And I like being shown up for.

So why am I sharing this incredibly personal and perhaps mildly mortifying fact about myself? Well… partly because my editor asked me to. (He claims readers "love vulnerability," which is convenient for him because he’s not the one whose mother will be texting her about this later.)

But also because—I met someone recently.

And no, it wasn’t like that. Not even close. There was no dramatic kiss, no hotel keycard exchange, no cinematic moment where I suddenly became the kind of woman who has a wild holiday fling in a city she doesn’t live in.

It was just… nice.

Nice in a way I didn’t expect. Nice in a way that made me remember what it feels like to talk to someone and actually feel something—that tiny spark of warmth you can’t manufacture or plan for.

He was a stranger, technically. But talking to him didn’t feel strange. It felt easy. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Not because I suddenly believe in fate or holiday magic or whatever nonsense Hallmark has been peddling for decades, but because sometimes a simple, human moment with someone unexpected can shake something inside you.

Not lust. Not infatuation. Just… possibility.

So, my advice this New Year? Just go for it.

Maybe that guy from work is interested. Maybe the stranger from that bar thinks you’re the most amazing person they’ve ever met. Maybe someone you talked to for five minutes is still thinking about you on their commute home. And look—if you feel a spark with someone at an airport or a holiday party or in line for that $7 overpriced latte—say hi, flirt a little, see what happens.

You know what… maybe even go have that one-night stand.

Also: be smart about it. My best friend is a doctor and would materialize mid‑sentence to remind you to use protection, get consent, and look after your health. She’d also happily hand you a chart of STD stats— because that’s her and she cares.

But the point is: Lean into the moment instead of talking yourself out of it.

Because here’s what I should have told that guy.

You’re a total catch. I think you’re smart, charming, and genuinely funny, and talking to you felt… really, really good. And yes—you’re extremely attractive, too.

I didn’t say any of that at the time. Not because it wasn’t true, but because the moment slipped past me while I was busy being practical… and maybe a little scared. Scared of misreading things. Scared of wanting something I couldn’t have. Scared of stepping into a connection I didn’t expect with someone who carries his past with a kind of quiet dignity that made me realize he once loved someone deeply.

Maybe this New Year, we all give ourselves permission to feel something—even if it’s small, even if it’s fleeting, even if it’s just a spark for a moment and then becomes a story we tell later.

So go for it. Say the thing. Take the chance.

And who knows—maybe next time, with the next guy, I will too.

December 31st – Park Slope, Brooklyn

Your favorite coffee shop was already buzzing by the time you slipped inside—claiming your usual corner table by the window, the one with the slightly wobbly leg and the perfect view of the street

You weren’t working. But you were kind of working—you had already been assigned your February issue article. You toggled to another tab—your favorite vintage shop in Greenpoint, because tonight you were going to a New Year’s party in Tribeca. It was one of those loft spaces with exposed brick, overpriced champagne, and people who pretended not to care about midnight kisses even though everyone absolutely did.

Pulling your sweater tighter around your shoulders, you found a dress on their website that looked promising—and in stock. You would hop on the G after you finished your coffee to go to the vintage shop. Of course, you were trying to buy a dress today. You were halfway through convincing yourself that buying it on New Year’s Eve wasn’t irresponsible but festive, when a voice drifted over the low hum of the café.

A man’s voice. Familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten before your brain even caught up.

"Just go for it, huh?"

You froze.

Suddenly, the dress didn’t matter. The coffee shop didn’t matter. The entire city outside the window could’ve gone silent for all you noticed.

Because you knew that voice.

You looked up.

And there Jack was, his delicate five o'clock shadow peeking through.

He looked unfairly good for someone who’d just walked in from the cold. He somehow looked even better than the last time you saw him, a bad habit you were quickly learning that he had. A charcoal wool coat hung open over a navy sweater—soft, fitted, the kind that hinted at the shape of him without trying. His sleeves were pushed up just enough to show the strong lines of his forearms. His hair was slightly wind‑tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, warmer.

"D-Dr. Ab—bot," It came out as a stutter, and suddenly you were feeling sixteen again.

"Jack," he corrected. Confidence smoldered in his stare before his teeth came out in a blinding smile. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I forgot to ask you something at the holiday party," he said, settling his hands on the table.

"W-what was that?"

"What are you doing tonight for New Year's Eve?"

"I—New Year’s?" you echoed, trying to play off how flustered you were, but the slight shake in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Jack. You felt like your brain was still catching up to the sight of him, a light flush of red swept up his neck and along his cheeks from the cold.

"Yeah. It’s my day off. I’m here until tomorrow night."

"You… have a day off," you said slowly, "and you decided to spend it in New York?"

He leaned in just a little, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping into something softer—something that felt like it was meant only for you.

"Sometimes," he winked, "one day is enough."

The smile that spread across your face could not be contained.

Every passed test, every ounce of mounting evidence that he was gentle enough to handle your heart had yet to permeate the walls that guarded you. The last man allowed into your bed had set it on fire and left you for dead and your system built defenses accordingly, damned and determined to protect you from experiencing that ever again.

Your head fell back onto his shoulder, heavy with frustration and cloudy with warring voices telling you to do something before you lost him. Feeling the bulge pressing into your lower back flooded you with even more guilt, here was this beautiful man that wants nothing but to love you and deserves the same, maybe tenfold, in return. But there was something you just couldn't seem to get past.

You wanted him too, genuinely, despite the crossed wires between your mind and body. You always responded to his initial affection, chest fluttering with excitement as blood rushed to awaken your arousal, but the moment would always come when your desire stopped cold, as sudden as flipping a light switch. The first time it happened, fear filled his face, unaware of what it was he'd done to cross a boundary as you physically pushed him off of you. He relented instinctively, adding distance between your bodies and speaking calmly to you in a soft, comforting timbre while he backed away. It was gut wrenchingly virtuous, telling in it's own right of his true nature and owing him an explanation, you shakily explained yourself.

He witnessed your pain without judgement, the after math of a significantly lesser man but even still, armed with knowledge and a myriad of gentle approaches, your hard stop recurred.

Frustration pooled tears in your half lidded stare, trailing silently down your face as they eventually spilled. With the faintest touch, he swiped one from your skin, tracing his knuckles up the tracks glistening on your cheek to dry it away. Gingerly your chin was tipped up at his hand, craning your neck further to gaze at him but as a defeated apology attempted to materialize he spoke instead.

"How about we take sex off the table for a bit,"

Your relieved exhale proved affirming, and you reached for his hips behind you in a vaguely appreciative gesture.

"And maybe for now, we can try just taking off the armor?" he asked, plucking at the hem of your blouse as you contemplated his request. You clamped your eyes shut and nodded faintly until you felt a tender kiss pressed to your forehead.

A smile tugged at your lips, born of gratitude for his patience and persistence, and his own mirrored seeing you soften. The arms around your waist tightened before they unraveled from you and coasted up the sides of your body.

"You're safe," he whispered sweetly against the skin of your shoulder, bared by his fingers swift undoing of your top button. As quickly as he popped the first, the urgency stalled for him to dust every inch of your exposed flesh with tender kisses. His teeth scraped faintly over the receptive spots on your neck that he had taken care to memorize and the volume of your breathy feedback mirrored the gentle crescendo of his intensity in kind.

Two more buttons popped in quick succession and his fingertips mapped the lacy edge of your undergarment, trailing over the swell of your breasts.

"Still okay?" he asked softly and with a hushed whimper you nodded, more emphatically than before. You peeled your head from his shoulder to watch as his massive hands unlatched the rest of the tiny round buttons and fished the tails of your shirt out from where they were tucked. With your hold still on his hips, you gripped tighter when his palms flattened to your bare stomach. You let his unthreatening touch warm you and leaned into his support, clocking a distinct lack of tightness in your frame.

He was onto something.

You released his hips, palms smoothing down the length of the arms that held you to rest your hands atop his instead. Before he could even vocalize the question, you assured him, guiding his hands back up to your breasts to knead softly. His thumbs brushed over your hardened peaks through the lace cups and your breath caught in your throat, body arching slightly so that your bottom flared back against his groin.

Peeling the fabric from your shoulders, Gustaf freed you of your top completely and maximized the moment of disconnection required to shed his own.

A sigh rich with oxytocin escaped from both of you as he secured you against his bare chest again and despite the warmth from his body heat you endured a shiver when his lips returned to the hollow of your neck.

His fingers tested the waters, slyly dancing along the waistband of your skirt until he felt you nod against him. But just as he reached for the zipper at the small of your back you spun in his arms, palms flattening to his expansive chest.

"Will you go first?" you begged innocently, pressing your forehead to sternum and sealing your request with a kiss between his ribs.

"As long as you promise to watch carefully," he qualified with a wink that made your cheeks grow hot.

A meek but decisive nod set him to his task and your eyes followed as he snapped the button on his trousers loose. He undressed himself with the finesse usually reserved for a lover, palming his hardness straining against the fabric before unzipping all the way. His gaze stayed fixed to you and yours stayed fixed to his body, fulfilling his request obediently as he shimmied the slacks down his legs and kicked them off to the side.

With a single garment left to lose, he stopped to steal a kiss, his warm hands cradling your head even as your lips broke apart to speak.

"Remember, watch closely," he instructed again and the inkling of a smirk tempted your mouth. The line he'd drawn in the sand had disarmed you, removed the pressure and the threat from this moment of entanglement, just like he'd hoped it would.

Your teeth bore down into your lip as he revealed himself to you, guiding the waistband of his briefs over his hardness and discarding it down his legs to step out of them. Taking on the vulnerability first, he stood completely bare before you, suppressing a wicked grin at how transfixed your eyes remained to his body.

"I'm ready," you squeaked, shuffling forward into him and securing your arms around his nude figure. Feeling oddly eager, you let your nails sink into his skin and held on tightly as he reached behind you to tackle your zipper. The fabric crumpled around your feet and just as he'd done, you kicked it aside and waited in your undergarments for his gentle instruction.

"C'mere," he whispered, guiding you by the waist forward again until your body was flush to his. His hands explored freely, fingertips raking gently across your sacrum and down to palm the softness of your backside. Your body remained pliable, at ease, and it allowed his desire to flare, gripping your ass with a bit more ferocity and the erection pressed into your lower belly twitched in response.

"Do you want to keep this on?" he rerouted to tame his hunger, smoothing his hand up your back and over the band of your bra as you settled into him.

Lifting your head from his pec you beamed up at him, shook your head in a clear 'no' and let the smile tear into your cheeks as he ducked to kiss your nose.

You unhooked the back, leaving the rest for him to remove and he slipped the straps from your shoulders to free your breasts.

Gustaf leaned forward, catching cartilage in his teeth before murmuring straight into your ear

"Can I touch you?" he asked, chuckling softly at your immediate and enthusiastic nod. Emboldened by your consent, he reached for you, cupping your bare breasts in his hearty palms and massaging gently to earn himself a satisfying hum from your throat.

In a smoother motion than you expected from such a lofty man, Gustaf melted to his knees before you, grabbing you by the ribs and pressing a kiss straight over your heart. Your hand fell to the back of his head to encourage him to take freely from you and he sighed reflexively, warming your chest with his breath.

His fingertips dragged down your sides, releasing his hold on your torso to palm the fleshy part of your hip where the waistband of your underwear remained. Gripping you solidly, he lifted his stare to yours and to the kindest pair of ocean blue eyes you nodded again, yes.

His fingers curled into the elastic band, peeling the fabric from your hips and easing them down your legs with unwavering eye contact that somehow felt effortless. Bracing against his shoulders for balance, you stepped from them one foot at a time and Gustaf discarded your final scrap of clothing somewhere unseen. Both entirely bare, he crashed into you, roping his arms securely around your back and pasting his cheek to your chest. You clung to him just as fiercely, one arm slung around his shoulders and the other cradling the back of his head.

Nothing more would happen that night, though you were never allowed too far from his touch. Even as he led you to his bed, it was innocent conversation and tangled limbs that would usher you into the hours well beyond midnight. And when you woke the next day, draped in linens, you sought out his skin under the sheets without hesitation. No armor required.

**