writing again

It doesn’t matter that it’s 3 AM on a Tuesday, and the only people in here are the waitress scrolling on her phone and the fry cook banging around in the kitchen. Night owls drift in and out of this place for a hot coffee and lukewarm service. A pick-me-up on the way, the last call after a long night. But it never gets busy. That’s what Jack likes about it. On nights when the shift allows it, this is his break from the chaos.

But he’s never seen you in here before. He would have remembered. Like he would remember this as an otherwise unremarkable night, had not you sauntered in so casually, shrugging off that thick coat, the cold outside air carrying to him as you moved through the room. 

You slide onto a stool just a few seats away from him, pulling the beanie off your head and placing it on the seat beside you.

You could have sat down anywhere in the diner, but you chose to sit between him and the door. The four, no, five empty stools between you loom. Uncomfortably close in an otherwise empty diner, but too far away to strike up a conversation. 

You noticed him, of course you did. Your eyes flicker to his, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth in acknowledgment; it’s like a beam of sunlight hits him. But before Jack can catch his breath, blink against the brilliance, you turn away again.

The crisp outside air lingers for a moment, overpowering the smell of eggs and bacon coming from his plate. He takes a steadying breath. The air turns sweet. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Butter and apple.

Fishing your phone from your dark slacks, leaning forward, resting your elbows on the bar as you order, stretching your spine after a sip of coffee, another wave of that sweet smell assaults him.

Jack doesn’t particularly like sweet. He’s not one for cookies, pastries, and what have you. Chocolate isn’t even very high up on his list. A protein bar, sure, but about it. But you smell like a bakery at dawn, making him hungry in a way he’s not felt in a long time. He turns back to his plate, shaking his head, electing to ignore this sudden pang of… something. Probably nothing. Probably just a long night, a long week, a long year, and a moment of weakness when a pretty girl walked into a diner in the middle of the night smelling like the sweetest thing.

You don’t look at him again, now fully occupied with picking through your own breakfast and scrolling on your phone. 

The local radio station plays old rock songs low in the background, and the lone waitress is popping her gum between her teeth obnoxiously. It’s like any other night he’s been in here. 

Still, Jack’s eyes wander to you again, almost inevitably, to observe you. 

You hold your coffee cup, poised like you’re about to drink, but your eyes remain firmly on the screen as you scroll quickly.

Your hair is braided and twirled into a neat bun at the base of your neck. Little wisps of hair have escaped as you pulled off your beanie. Your plain white t-shirt is pristine, although it’s not particularly flattering. If anything, it looks rather shapeless on you, with sleeves a little too long and a thick crew neck collar a little too high around your throat. His gaze travels further down, almost fatally, grazing along the curve of your ass, black slacks tight in just the right places, as you are sitting leaning on your elbows on the bar, still scrolling on your phone, popping a piece of bacon in your mouth. He looks away. Your shoes are practical, unremarkable, jet black. It must be comfortable, he muses, because who would you be looking to impress at this hour?

From under the hem of your slacks, just above your very responsible footwear, a sliver of a colorful sock peeks out. Soft pink socks dotted with bright red strawberries, absurdly cheerful for this hour.

But they suit you, and it almost brings a smile to his face. A little ray of unapologetic cheer, sunny like your smile, hiding away in plain sight.

Finally, he rolls his shoulders, shrugging quickly, if to rid himself of any lingering thought of you and turns back to his own breakfast. 

Meanwhile, you’re holding your phone in front of your face with feigned casualness, fork precariously loaded with scrambled eggs hovering somewhere halfway between the plate and your mouth, your gaze is pulled to your right with such force that you have to will yourself not to turn your entire head. The stranger is not looking at you anymore. You could have sworn you could feel his stare burn into your skin as you sat down, the prickling heat and a shiver of anticipation creeping up your neck. For a second, you were so flustered just from the intensity of his gaze, you stumbled entirely too far into the diner, and in a hurried, dazed decision, you picked the worst seat in the house. Weirdly close to the only other patron here, but too far away to talk.

Awkward. 

You only met his gaze briefly because you thought you’d choke on the next breath you’d draw if you looked longer. Covertly, you regard the stranger from the corner of your eye. Shoulders hunched, he's tucked into a thick heather hoodie, doing everything not to draw any attention to himself, his gaze firmly planted on the plate before him. 

He looks stern, or rather, tired. Not a need-for-sleep kind of tired, but… weary. Handsome and rugged features with hazel eyes should be soft and warm, but there’s a sharpness. A discerning gaze. Like he sees right through every practiced step you take. A makes-your-mouth-dry type of intensity that kind of scares you but also intrigues you. You lick your lips automatically. The silver stubble is half a day past a five o'clock shadow, a delightful pale color peppered through his once-dark curls.

You wonder if he travels for work. You wonder about all the places he must have seen. The way his skin softly wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, and the light freckles at his hairline, make you think he must have spent a lot of time in sunny places. What a strange place to end up, you muse, in this diner of all places, in the middle of the night, in a cold and sodden Pittsburgh fall.

When the man suddenly shifts in his seat, you shove your fork into your mouth so quickly, pretending to eat, and half of the eggs you loaded onto it minutes ago plop back onto your plate with a too-loud splat. You pretend not to notice, feigning indifference again, eyes firmly fixed back on your phone.

You last no more than five seconds of eating your breakfast before your eyes start wandering to the right again. He’s not looking at you.

Disappointment settles low in your stomach anyway.

Maybe you’ve been a little lonely; maybe you’ve been feeling it a little bit more lately, alone, in the quiet of the night. Maybe you’ve been feeling it so much that you’d wish for some liquid courage and lean over, scoot closer, bat your eyelashes, and goad the handsome, brooding stranger into a talk, a touch, a kiss.

A lightning-in-a-bottle, flash-in-the-pan, no-questions-asked kind of kiss.

Before you thread that little fantasy further, before you might just do something probably kind of stupid, the alarm on your smartwatch starts beeping intrusively—was it always this loud? Almost in surprise, almost apologetic, you tap the display with your finger, the little croissant emoji blinks out, and you look at the man again. Nervously, checking his reaction. He’s looking back at you, his finger poised over his phone, which, until a second ago, was beeping in sync with yours.

You let out a soft, shuddering breath as he holds your gaze a few seconds too long, but you can’t make yourself look away.

Jack hears the soft trill that passes your lips clearly as you look at him; the sound travels down his spine like a caress. The corners of your mouth curl up into a ghost of what must be another radiant smile, and he wonders if your alarm heralds something good, something better than his, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he slides off the stool, and the moment his boots hit the ground, everything sets back in motion. He tucks the remnants of your brilliant smile and a sliver of that sweet smell that surrounds you into something soft in the corner of his mind. 

Break is over; the ED is calling. 

Jack pulls his backpack off the ground, slinging it over his shoulder, and slips a few bills on the bar. You’re wrapped in that too-big puffer coat already, beanie in your hand, tapping your phone against the payment terminal when he legs it past you, but within seconds, you are hot on his heels, your light, quick footsteps following his long strides out the door.

Jack is in a hurry, but he’s not an asshole. Or maybe he is, because he’s not about to pass up an opportunity to get in your proximity as he holds open the door, nodding at you to let you pass. You smile up at him, politely, almost knowingly, as you brush past him; the front of your unzipped coat skims against his sleeve. It feels purposeful. He takes a breath, a little deeper than necessary—sugar and vanilla. Flaky, warm, buttery pastry. Crisp, juicy apples. Cinnamon and custard. 

Jesus. Christ. 

It’s maddening; it’s so sweet, so out of place on this cold morning, and in stark contrast to the way you hold his gaze, challenging, irreverent, with an almost mischievous energy. Lingering like you’re goading him into saying something. Doing something. Jack doesn’t look away, but neither does he make a move. He feels his fingers tighten on the door handle.

You purse your lips as you look up at him. He’s tall, taller than you would have guessed from the way he was hunched over earlier. Broad shoulders and muscular arms are evident under the dark hoodie, even in his casual stance as he holds the door open for you. Your eyes travel, fleetingly, taking him in—the smell of disinfectant and soap, the light overtones of a lingering cologne, the boots, dark clothes, and the camo backpack. 

No jacket. Is he staying close?

Too soon, you turn away, sweeping past him, the zipper of your coat dragging over the front of his hoodie as you step into the budding storm outside. Jack isn’t sure why he feels a light sting of disappointment as you move in the opposite direction from him without a word. So he watches you disappear further up the dark street, gait light, like you’re being carried on the freezing wind.

Pulling the hood over his head, Jack glances over his shoulder one more time. He could swear he saw your head turn, as if you had been looking at him until a second ago.

You had been looking. So deathly curious about where the handsome stranger was going, any hint at your brand-new nighttime puzzle? Turning back to look where you’re going, exhaling deeply, cold rain lashing against your face, you enjoy the distraction a little longer, savoring it like a lingering taste.

Back to work.

***

Jack doesn’t see you again for several weeks. It doesn’t stop him from looking, although he's not quite sure if he’d admit that to himself. He's just checking his surroundings, like he always does. He would rather not examine the feeling of anticipation too closely, like he’s expecting you to reappear suddenly when he goes about his daily life. 

Eventually, between hectic night shifts, the extra hands on deck as the snow and the ice turn the city increasingly into a death trap, he almost forgets. Or rather, he just stops thinking about it so much—about you. 

But there are moments.

Wandering past the bakery section in the supermarket, the heady, sugary smell makes him linger uncharacteristically long by the cake display, suddenly hungry for that somewhat lopsided strawberry shortcake. Inevitably, Jack's thoughts wander back to you. The sweet smell that follows you like a sugary cloud, the irreverent, cheeky way you held his gaze, gracing him with such a radiant smile, all the way down to your practical clothes and your stupidly cute, colorful socks.

You’re a nice diversion from his darker days and after long shifts. A sweet little distraction to think about. Where did you disappear to on that dark, cold night? What were you doing in that dinky diner in the middle of the night? 

And just when Jack’s attention starts waning, sometime after Thanksgiving, you appear. Like you knew. Like you could feel it. Infuriatingly, it’s just in passing. You're on your way out the door back into the cold, dark night, the moment he walks in. 

A bright, dazzling smile appears on your face as you brush past him. Not quite touching, you never reach for him: just your unzipped coat dragging along the front of his jacket, the soft scratch the only sound between you. You do it on purpose. 

He waits for you in the cramped doorway, holding it open as you breeze past him. He does it on purpose. 

Jack grins back at you, eyes locked with yours. As you move along, you hold his gaze, looking back over your shoulder, daring him to say something. 

Jack never does.

Neither do you.

You are surprised to see your favorite stranger again, even just in passing, and you can’t keep the excited smile off your face. It’s been weeks since that first night.

Not that you’ve been counting. 

Not that you thought you’d never see him again anyway.

Not that you’ve dedicated an embarrassing amount of time thinking about him, playing a little guessing game. He was probably just traveling. 

It’s not so much that you think that he must be traveling because of how your stranger looks physically, but more so… like he doesn’t quite fit his surroundings—a subtle sense of discomfort, like he’s not where he should be. 

He could be an archaeologist. Like an Indiana Jones-type, you imagine. He certainly has the air for it, that little roguish edge, combined with those rugged good looks. He works with his hands, of that you are pretty sure. Strong arms, worked fingers. He could be an offshore worker or a merchant marine. Or maybe he’s a cowboy: far away from home, wandering. 

Or perhaps you’re just projecting.

It was more to pass the time when you felt particularly lonely and needed something to distract you after a long day. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Finally, you are forced to conclude that, based on your painfully short interaction—was it even an interaction?—it was probably nothing more, nothing less, than an unlucky layover from a red-eye flight, and you’d never see your cowboy again.

So when he’s suddenly in front of you, just as you’re about to walk out the door of the dinky diner after your very early (or very, very late?) breakfast, your face naturally pulls into a wide smile. To your delight, your favorite stranger smiles back at you. You relish in his roguish charm and the way the lightly freckled skin around his eyes crinkles as his face pulls into that somewhat cocky grin. Cocky or not, he has a nice smile. 

But neither makes a move. Neither says a word. 

And then weeks of nothing again. 

Before you know it, it’s rapidly closing in on Christmas. You’re overwhelmed in the busiest time of the year, and your working memory is getting snowed in with orders, recipes, and schedules. Of course, it’s like how the kettle won’t boil when you watch it. The moment you look away, your strange night schedules coincide again.

Jack spots you the second you materialize at the door opening of the diner again, mere minutes after he sat down. He only just took off his coat, brushing the cold off. You’re wearing that same coat and beanie, with an added thick scarf, snow stuck to your lashes, and your lips lightly parted as you exhale the cold air from your lungs. 

Your eyes find him immediately. He’s already looking at you.

He notices the way your lips quirk into a smile of recognition the moment you see him. It’s a much more reserved reaction than last time. As if you’re almost taken aback that he’s there. You move quickly, your footfall so light on the tile floor that by the time Jack blinks, you’ve already slid onto a stool at the bar.

Three seats away from him.

A choice that is certainly no less awkward than last time.

You stare at the menu intently, forcefully clenching your jaw, wanting to face-plant into the bar directly. You don’t get flustered. You don’t stutter, trip over your feet, and panic. Not anymore, anyway. Certainly not because of a man. 

But one intense look from those warm eyes across the dinky diner, and it’s like years of muscle memory suddenly evaporate. 

It annoys you. It intrigues you. It scares you.

So you don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Pursing your lips nervously, too awkward now to glance off to your side, you pluck at the bright blue Band-Aid on your left middle finger. It’s too tight around the pad of your finger, pressing uncomfortably against the raw skin of your first knuckle with every move. The sting is just painful enough to distract you and take your mind off the awkward situation you’ve put yourself into with literally the only other patron in the diner at this impossible hour. 

Again.

“I can help you with that,” Jack says. It’s a statement, neutral, as if the conversation had only just stalled. His shoulders are relaxed, but involuntarily, he nervously flexes his hand into a fist as the words hang between you. It’s only now that he said it out loud that Jack is getting an inkling of how weird that must have sounded. 

You’re looking at him, wide-eyed, comically stock-still, mid-pick on the frustratingly uncomfortable blue piece of plastic on your finger. 

Your favorite stranger has such a soft and deep voice. Despite the no-nonsense statement, he sounds patient. Calm. Magnetic.

It takes you a beat to react, but when he reaches out to you, palm up, you hop off your stool immediately, scooting over to sit next to him and automatically put your hand in his. 

“Yeah—yeah, I’d appreciate that,” you reply lightly, blinking, heart suddenly beating a lot faster as he grasps your finger, looking at it closely. He’s holding your left hand in his right, across the corner of the bar, your body fully turned to him. Your coat and beanie are left, forgotten, a few seats down. You follow his gaze as he turns your hand as he examines it, before he suddenly releases you, leaving your hand floating awkwardly in midair.

You fully expect him to pull out a dog-eared Band-Aid from the pocket of his cargo pants, or maybe, in the better variation, a beat-up little cardboard box with a few forgotten pieces of plaster from the bottom of that camo backpack. It actually kind of makes you wonder why you agreed to this in the first place. However, you are surprised, and increasingly fascinated, when he pulls out a fully equipped tactical first-aid kit.

“So, what happened …?” He trails off, looking at you again with that particular intensity, leaving the rest of the question hanging. You introduce yourself, unable to look away.

“...and I was caught at the wrong end of a microplane.” You add somewhat dismissively, as if it’s an unimportant detail in the grand scheme of things. It’s only a little bit of deflection; you’re only a little bit nervous.

“And what would you be grating in the middle of the night?” Jack asks with a raised eyebrow. He looks away from you for a moment as he grasps your hand again and cuts off the plaster with small scissors. He doesn’t really need to elaborate; you don’t defend yourself—the wound still looks fresh. The way it’s bleeding, it happened under an hour ago.

“Chocolate.” You reply simply, like it makes perfect sense. Jack chuckles at your matter-of-fact answer, looking at you again, trying to gauge your reaction. You don’t flinch when you see the wound or when he presses a piece of gauze against it. Like you’ve done this a million times.

Your fingers are cold. Not icy from the outside air, but pleasantly cool. It’s in stark contrast to his warm skin. The painfully shredded skin on your knuckle weeps angrily, just as he expected. That’s why the band-aid was so bloated around your finger, uncomfortably loose around the wound, painfully pulling around your finger, only worsened by your fidgeting and picking at it. 

Jack pulls your hand closer toward him, holding your palm a bit more tightly, and before you can react, he hits the wound with a spray of antiseptic. Your hand jerks against his hold out of instinct.

“Careful, it stings,” he adds nonchalantly. It hurts less if you don’t expect it. You’re frowning lightly at him, like you’re offended the wound hurts, mouth open in a wordless ow. But you don’t make a sound. 

“For next time,” he begins, his gaze flashing up to you for a second to ensure you’re paying attention. You meet his gaze immediately. “Butterfly the band-aid so it has four sections, and wrap the wings, like so,” He moves with efficiency, wrapping the adhesive parts crisscross around your finger. 

You are following his movements carefully. He’s not gentle; that would be the wrong way to describe how he moves and holds your finger. The way he’s handling you is not hurting you; he’s not in any way impatient or cruel; it’s just a practiced efficiency. Quick, mostly painless, and impressively professional. His touch never lingers.

You wish it did.

 “And so,” he concludes, before adding, “You can buy them pre-made too.” 

“You’ve done this before.” You state plainly. He looks at you as you speak, gaze soft for a moment, before it turns unreadable. Finally, he just smiles at you in confirmation, but he doesn’t reply. 

Jack doesn’t really want to talk about that now. The conversation will inevitably turn dark. And he doesn’t have an appetite for that on the only break he’s realistically going to get tonight. Also, he’s much more interested in what you have to say.

Jack turns your palm, inspecting the way the bright blue sits snugly and neatly against your skin now. Jack knows he doesn’t need to do that; he knows it’s on correctly. Across the pad of your thumb sits a bright white scar, long healed. 

“I’m going to hazard a guess that you have access to plenty of sharp objects.” It’s more of a statement than a question, again. His fingertip grazes against the scar. Your hand twitches under his touch. You have several small scars on your hands, and Jack can see them clearly, even in the dim light. Some are old, almost faded, while others are a little more recent—cuts and burns, nips and slips. Despite that, your skin is soft and delightfully cool. Your nails are short, neatly kept, and clean. Working hands.

“Paring knife,” you reply simply. He looks at you, wordlessly, like he’s fully expecting you to continue. “In my defense, I was just an apprentice, first year, and I was aiming for a particularly slippery strawberry.”

A beat passes, and he’s still not saying anything. 

“I promise I’m better now,” you add jauntily. Finally, a smile breaks through on his face again. Not a smirk, not a cocky grin. Something much more genuine—a dimple forms on his cheek. He suddenly looks so much softer, so much kinder.

“You’re a baker?” Straight to the point, putting all the pieces together quickly—strawberries, an apprenticeship, and that head-turning sweet smell. 

“A chef pâtissier,” you correct him with an air of played-up drama, slightly exaggerating the soft French tones, wiggling the fingers of your free hand playfully. 

“That sounds entirely too fancy to be eating in this diner,” Jack responds pleasantly. He’s not holding your hand; his thumb is merely resting lightly over the scar on yours. But your hand feels just fine in his. Warm, cozy. So you stay.

“Trust me, after enough time around endless pastries, cream, and croissants, you’ll appreciate a good helping of bacon and eggs all the more,” you say it jokingly, lightly, but not in any way dismissive. You don’t boast; you’re not self-important. You’re quietly confident, comfortable in who you are, and your self-deprecation lacks any real edge. Jack regards you carefully, fully aware you still haven’t moved your hand. Not that he particularly minds. He likes the calming coolness of your fingertips against his calloused skin. “And the chef here makes some mean scrambled eggs.” You add casually.

“Fair enough,” Jack agrees easily. You hold his gaze so naturally now, not shying away, not blinking awkwardly, radiant even with just a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. He enjoys that about you. 

“Out of curiosity, how long is ‘enough time’?” He inquires, wanting you not to stop speaking, not to stop looking at him like that.

“Something over a decade and a half now,” you reply easily, your fingers shift like muscle memory, pressing your thumb against his fingers for a fraction of a moment. “I started as an apprentice at 16, studied, and then mostly worked.” 

“You knew so young what you wanted to be?” Jack is fascinated. 

“I- ah,” you hesitate, and for a second, your smile falters. Jack notices, but before he can react, the waitress somewhat gracelessly pushes two plates of the breakfast special between you. You retract your hand from his in an instant, safely planting it on the counter at your plate. Jack drops his hand. A faint, sing-songy ‘enjoy’ barely makes it out of the waitress’s mouth before she is fully turned away again, popping her gum for good measure. 

Jack looks at you, waiting for you to continue. For a moment, you’re looking at your plate, lips ajar like you’re lost in thought. You can feel his eyes on you. It feels a little bit like you’re about to get burned. You can feel the heat of the intense stare radiating on your skin, and part of you wants to shrink back. There was a time when you would just do that. Not anymore. 

When you look up, meeting his gaze, you grin lightly and conclude: “I learned to love it. And it turns out having a cold touch was a talent.”

It’s clear you are omitting more than a few details, but Jack doesn’t press you on it. His eyes narrow for a moment, but then he simply nods. You are thankful for that. Spilling the more painful moments of your life is not really something you like doing over breakfast.

“And how do you feel about it now?”

That question does catch you off guard. You blink. The silence stretches a moment too long. Jack watches the hesitation play out over your face – the way your lips part, like you’re about to speak, but no words come. Finally, you release a breath like you’ve been holding it all this time and shrug with a small smile: “Is it weird if I say it’s complicated?”

“Not at all,” Jack replies softly, sincerely, before taking a bite of his eggs. Your shoulders relax. Is it strange that you want to bottle that soft, warm timbre of his voice so you can feel it reverberate through your insides and you can re-live the way it glides down your spine, over and over again? 

With a wistful smile on your face, you continue, eyes locked with his. “I am glad for all it has brought me: I’ve trained and worked in Paris, I worked in top restaurants in New York, and I was given the opportunity to lead my own bakery here – but fuck,” the last part comes out as a sigh, irritation seeping through, eyebrows knitting together. 

In the next moment, you chuckle humorlessly, shaking your head. The irritation dissipates from your features. Jack leans toward you just a little, curious, taking a sip of coffee. He is intrigued by how you don’t seem to edit your emotions, how naturally your feelings play out on your face, and how candidly you speak. It’s so precious. He’s hanging on to every word from your mouth, longing, just for a moment, to experience the world around him through the lens of your emotional clarity and clear-cut affect. To linger in the moment of comfort of understanding himself and his feelings, as you seem to do so effortlessly.

You shrug, mindlessly stabbing your scrambled eggs. “The pressure, every little thing has to be perfect, every single time, hundreds of times over… and then the yelling,” your voice quiet as you trail off. Jack nods at you, and you nod back in reflex. It’s a moment of understanding, the recognition of an old wound you can only see if you have one yourself. He doesn’t need to say anything. You both feel it. 

“I hated the yelling the most.” You admit softly, looking away. That was a little too vulnerable.

Even now, it feels like an admission of failure. You couldn’t hack it, you couldn’t stand the heat, you were too weak for the greatness that getting screamed at in French by a man twice your age was supposed to bring out in you. It’s ridiculous, rationally, but the remnants of shame linger.

When you gaze back at him, you observe that he looks guarded in that moment, although he hasn’t looked away from you — sitting up a little straighter, looking away at his plate for a beat, his free hand curling into a fist in a moment of reflex. You don’t push your favorite stranger, wanting to show him the same grace he afforded you earlier. 

However, now that you think about it, he still hasn’t introduced himself to you, while you’ve been effectively dumping half your life story over your rapidly cooling breakfast. Right as you open your mouth to ask, he beats you to the punch:

“I thought Hell’s Kitchen was just for TV.” His tone is lightly teasing, like the faintest touch playfully running over your skin. The lopsided grin, the crinkle around his eyes, he so skillfully diffuses the situation between bites. For a moment, you look taken aback by his joke. But to Jack’s relief, you start laughing. 

“Yes and no,” you joke back. “Although that show is an uncomfortable watch for me.”

“And Bake Off?”

“Why do you know so many cooking shows?” You retort, still laughing. Why do you enjoy him asking you about it so much?

“It’s a good way to unwind after a long day – a long night.” Despite his unwavering gaze, his reply is evasive. 

“A long night of what, cowboy?” You immediately follow up, the nickname naturally clicking into place. It might make you sound overeager. You don’t really care about that right now because you are reveling in his reaction — his eyebrows shoot up, you’ve genuinely caught him off guard, and even in the dim yellow-ish light, you are quite sure you can see a faint blush dusting the tips of his ears.

“Emergency room.” He replies quite plainly. Despite his somewhat flustered expression, his voice doesn’t betray a single tremor he might have felt.

“Oh.” You breathe, needing a moment to process that information. Annoyingly, your favorite stranger seems to be reading you like a book.

“Not what you expected?” The grin is back. You bite back your own.

“I had some theories…doctor was not on the list.” You play it cool. 

“I’d like to hear those theories,” he challenges you.

“No, no –” You laugh, wagging your finger at him. The way his sharp eyes shoot to your moving digit immediately before boring back into you is giving you butterflies. “I think it’s about your turn to tell me something about you — you are an emergency room doctor and…,” You trail off, raising your eyebrows, expecting him to finish your sentence.

“What makes you think there is an ‘and’?” Jack retorts easily, grinning, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a practiced deflection, a reflex he hasn’t been able to shake. Or one he hasn’t been willing to shake. A carefully crafted side-step to keep the world at a comfortable arm's length. 

But it doesn’t seem to work very well on you, as you shoot him a pointed look while staying silent. And you wait. Where most people would have backpedaled, offered him a graceful out, you are patient. Jack chuckles, in resignation more than anything. You bat your eyelashes dramatically, signaling you are still waiting for him to speak.

“It’s hardly something to talk about over breakfast,” He finally tells you. He keeps his tone light, friendly, warm, but from the way you are still looking at him, Jack knows you are not buying his transparent dismissal. 

“I have a pretty strong stomach,” You assure him, matching his feigned friendly tone. If you were curious before, you are dying to know now. You can see how the glimmer in your favorite stranger’s eyes suddenly dims.

“You don’t have the appetite for this, Sunshine.” He counters without flourish, eyes tight. There’s an edge to tone, just creeping in on the periphery. Discomfort. Fear, perhaps. Definitely sadness. But there is no defensiveness; the sudden nickname is not patronizing. It’s a plea for mercy.

It feels a bit too raw to Jack. Too dark. It’s not something he could come back from to the warm back and forth you’re having. And he wants to hold on to this strangely cozy moment, punctuated by the sweet smell that clings to your hair and skin. His fingertips tap a nervous rhythm against the white coffee cup. Jack feels a pang of disappointment as he watches the corners of your mouth fall. 

For a moment, his toes curl in his boots on both feet. 

Jack knows it’s impossible, and he hates how real the sensation of his toes scraping against the hard sole feels, the top of his foot pressed against the padded boot, the cotton sock moving against his skin. He hates the burning urge to look at his right foot. Just to confirm. Just to be sure. Instead, he retreads his mantra.

Left and right. Left no right. Only left. Left. Left.

You regard him carefully, finally nodding. You didn’t mean to put your cowboy on the spot like that. Throughout the whole conversation, he so skillfully evaded sharing anything about himself, to the point that he still hasn’t told you his name, that you had to challenge him on that.

And even then. He still didn’t really tell you anything – not with words, at least. His face remained impassive, but you could see how the tension suddenly surged through him, the flex of his hand like he was grasping for something that used to be there, the little jerk of his shoulders, the warm light in his eyes suddenly dimmed. For a second there, you were sure your favorite stranger wasn’t in the room with you anymore.

It’s all gone as quickly as it started. 

Jack blinks. He looks at you again, instead of through you. 

The conversation doesn’t resume immediately. You both take a beat to recover, focusing on quietly eating your breakfast for a few minutes. Just two strangers, sitting together in the middle of the night. It’s still snowing outside. From the radio, softly, crackling a little bit, Mariah Carey’s trademark harmonizing heralds the approaching festive season. 

The frustration that escapes you between bites as the song starts comes out a little too loud. For a few minutes, you just really didn’t want to think about Christmas. It always leaves a strange pit in your stomach.

“Honestly, same,” Jack agrees immediately with a chuckle. You laugh softly. “Not looking forward to Christmas, or does this song just provoke a particularly strong reaction from you?”

“I like Christmas,” You amend between bites. You like the idea of Christmas. “But I’ll probably just show my face at the company party, and then spend actual Christmas sleeping, watching movies, and eating takeout.”

“That’s not very festive.” He teases you softly, and it just makes you smile more.

“I started getting custom Christmas orders sometime in early October,” You start, shrugging, choosing the focus on the practical. “And don’t get me wrong, that’s a good thing. Those Christmas parties and galas kept us from taking a loss last year, and will push us into the green this season.” You share levelly, tone confident. 

You know it’s not the whole truth. And the way that your cowboy is looking at you, you suspect he knows too. 

Even before you started working, you don’t think you’ve ever had a Christmas that you liked. One that was happy.

“And I’m happy for it,” you conclude, as much to him as yourself. He nods. “But it’s a lot of Christmas. Since I started working, really. When you’re in it for so long, it just stops feeling festive, I suppose…” You trail off, shrugging again.

“No plans with family?” It’s an innocent enough question. To Jack, the omission of any personal relationships in your story is glaringly clear. People don’t just not mention their family for no reason. So he can’t help but wonder why – no parents? No siblings? Cousins, aunts, uncles? Boyfriend? Husband?

You shake your head, in what you hope comes off as nonchalance. “They all live far from here.” 

Or rather, you live far from them. By design. Although you are sure they don’t mind.

“What about you, Cowboy?” You ask quickly, before he can follow up with another question. 

“Working.” He replies simply. You are not surprised he’s not elaborating.

“That’s not very festive.” You deadpan. That earns you a chuckle. 

“I see it as giving my co-workers a chance to spend time with their families.” He says matter-of-factly. This is just how it’s done. 

“That’s very sweet,” you reply softly. He nods, but tenses his shoulders for a second, almost like your praise is making him uncomfortable. “What about your family?” 

“We always celebrate before or after, whenever we can. Between shifts, on calls, and time zones – I don’t actually remember the last time we got together on actual Christmas,” Jack reminisces fondly. From the corner of his eye, he can see you lean in, resting your chin on your hand, quietly sharing in his memory. “In the end, it’s just a date on the calendar. Family makes time.”

“That’s a really nice sentiment, I -” You trail off, not sure if you want to verbalize the tinge of envy you feel, the creep of sadness pinching at the nape of your neck. You get saved by the bell - quite literally, when your smart watch starts buzzing again. 

“The croissants are calling,” You smile by way of explanation, as you flag down the waitress who is doing a stellar job of not noticing you. Your breakfast is barely half eaten, and you take a quick swig of your now-cold coffee before sliding down your stool to grab your coat and beanie, which you left a few seats down. 

Jack watches as you move swiftly, and if it weren’t for the rustling of your thick, padded coat, he could have sworn you were floating. Sitting next to you, the sweet smell settled. The moment you get up, it’s like you leave a trail. Sugar and vanilla. Flakey pastry and honeycrisp apple. Cinnamon and custard.

“I got this,” the words leave Jack’s mouth before you can fully turn away to get the waitress’s attention. You stop mid-turn, beanie scruned up in your hands, and you are clearly about to protest. Jack won’t let you: “Don’t worry about it, Sunshine, go attend your croissants.” 

When you smile broadly and so happily, it’s like space itself warps around you into joy. “I’ll get the next one… -” You trail off almost theatrically, still smiling. “It’s going to be really awkward if you don’t tell me your name now,” You add jauntily.

“Jack Abbot.” He acquiesces quickly. 

“Then the next one is on me, Jack,” You repeat, emphasizing his name. He nods. 

“Promise me something?” Jack asks it casually, but it makes your heart jump nonetheless. “Take care around sharp objects, Sunshine. I’d hate to see you in my ER over Christmas.”

You laugh, wrapping yourself in your jacket. You drink in the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, the way his shoulders shake with laughter — his warm hands on yours, the steady movements, the calm tones.

“The new year it is, cowboy.”

went to the other side of the world and crawled into a hole:

and i found a beer place

Oh yeah and I learned boundaries, quit the job the moment it got toxic (manager, do not call me outside of office hours because you can’t get your shit together), transferred to a new role (yay collective agreement!), spent some time on other hobbies, Christmas cookies, and now I’m waiting for the post-Christmas sale to hit so I can buy a new laptop and finally get some of those ideas out of my head.