Chapter Text
Mid-December, Abby’s apartment smells like burnt coffee and despair.
Also curry. But mostly despair.
There’s a cold ring on the table from a mug she abandoned an hour ago, a half-eaten granola bar stuck to the edge of a legal pad, and a stack of papers that may or may not be whispering “you will die under us” every time she looks away.
Her laptop screen glows with the same sentence of the same conference abstract she’s been staring at for twelve minutes:
This paper investigates the role of chiaroscuro in
She deletes “investigates.”
Replaces it with “interrogates.”
Deletes that.
Types “considers.”
“Ugh,” she mutters, letting her forehead hit the heel of her hand. “I consider nothing. I’m a fraud.”
Her phone buzzes on the table, skittering dangerously close to the coffee ring. Abby snatches it up, regretting that she’d re-enabled the vibration for notifications after years of full silence. But, well. She had her reasons.
It’s Harper.
Harper: How’s my favorite academic goblin?
Harper: are you alive
Harper: blink twice if you’re trapped under bluebooks
Abby exhales through her nose, half a laugh.
Abby: grading
Abby: i have made some choices re: multiple choice exams that i now regret
Abby: how’s my favorite reformed closet case
She hits send and immediately gets the typing dots.
Harper: Wow hate crime
Harper: I’m thriving actually. I just spent 2 hours in a meeting explaining to a man named Chad that “Brand” is not a deliverable
Harper: also are you free to talk or are you in undergrad purgatory?
Abby glances at the pile, which stares back at her mockingly (in her opinion).
Abby: i can talk
Abby: i need to remember what human voices sound like anyway
Her phone rings almost instantly. Abby slides her glasses up her nose and swipes to answer.
“Abigail,” Harper says, in her faux-serious voice. “How are we coping with the crushing weight of late capitalism and outcome-based assessments?”
“Barely,” Abby says. “I just gave someone a B minus for spelling ‘Rembrandt’ with a Q, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be accused of war crimes for it.”
“Seems fair,” Harper says. “Maybe even generous.”
Abby leans back in her chair, letting Harper’s voice warm the edges of the room. “How’s the land of fancy fonts and existential dread?”
“Honestly?” Harper sighs. “We just rebranded a yogurt. I watched three grown adults argue for thirty minutes about whether the color ‘cool berry’ or ‘frosted blueberry’ felt more approachable to millennials.”
“Did you tell them millennials are forty now?” Abby asks.
“I did,” Harper says. “They ignored me.”
There’s a beat of comfortable silence. Well, as comfortable as it gets when one half of the conversation is surrounded by ungraded exams and the other is probably aligning shapes in a slide deck in her head.
“So,” Harper says, tone shifting just enough to make Abby wary. “Speaking of ignoring good advice…”
“Absolutely not,” Abby says immediately. “Nope. Denied. Conversation over.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say ‘Have you texted Riley,’” Abby says. “You’ve become very predictable in your old age.”
“I am thirty two,” Harper says. “And I was going to say…have you called Riley.”
Abby groans and lets her head fall back. “Why?”
“Because you like her,” Harper says, like it’s the weather. “Because she likes you. Because it’s mid-December and you two have been in a state of long-distance almost-flirting limbo since Thanksgiving and I’m going to get a stress ulcer if you don’t do something.”
“We were supposed to do something,” Abby says, picking at the edge of a sticky note. “Remember? Right after Thanksgiving? I was going to go to Baltimore, and then-”
“And then the Great Flu Plague of the Radiology Department happened,” Harper says. “Not your fault.”
“Yeah, but then the snowstorm,” Abby says. “And then my car died. Literally died. I had to push it out of a parking spot while a nineteen-year-old wearing shorts in December watched and vaped. I think I saw my soul leave my body.”
“And then Riley got stuck on a triple shift because someone tried to deep-fry a turkey indoors,” Harper adds. “I know. She sent pictures.”
Abby’s stomach does a weird little twist at the memory of those texts: Riley in scrubs, hair pulled back, dark circles under her eyes, an exhausted thumbs-up with the caption “Still alive, 4/10 would not recommend Thanksgiving ER.”
It had been…a lot. The wanting to see her. The not being able to.
They haven’t met in person since the Oxwood. Since the back patio. Since the kiss that Abby still thinks about when she’s supposed to be thinking about seventeenth-century Italian ceiling frescoes.
They text. They send memes. Occasionally, when their schedules line up like planets, they call. Riley’s voice, low and rough at the edges from lack of sleep, somehow still manages to light Abby up from the inside.
But seeing her again…that’s different.
“Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something,” Abby says weakly. “Like: don’t contaminate Baltimore with your awkward energy.”
“The universe is trying to tell you that American infrastructure sucks and hospital staffing is a nightmare,” Harper says. “That’s it. That’s the tweet.”
“Poetic,” Abby murmurs.
Harper is quiet for a beat. “Do you want to see her?” she asks, softer.
Abby stares at the coffee ring. At the stack of papers. At the sentence fragment on her laptop that has never felt more irrelevant.
“Yes,” she says, before she can talk herself out of it. “I want to see her.”
“Okay,” Harper says, brisk now, like they’ve flipped into project mode. “Then go see her.”
Abby huffs out a laugh. “It’s not that simple.”
“Is it not?” Harper says. “There are these things called buses. Trains. Your legs.”
“You want me to just…show up?” Abby asks, horrified and a little thrilled. “On foot?!” she adds jokingly.
“No,” Harper says. “Obviously text her first, we’re not in a Nora Ephron movie. But yeah. You have, what, another week of classes?”
“Last week,” Abby admits. “Finals. Then grading. Then I’m free for a few days before the grand return to your parents’ Christmas circus.”
“Perfect,” Harper says. “Text her. Or I will steal your phone over Christmas and do it myself.”
“You wouldn’t,” Abby says.
Harper makes an offended noise. “I absolutely would.”
Abby believes her.
She chews her lip, thinking. Baltimore is…four, four and a half hours by bus, depending on how much the driver fears misdemeanors and/or death. She has a tiny bit of savings. Her schedule after finals is a wasteland of “catch up on sleep” and “panic about the job market.” It’s not like she has better plans.
“I’ll…think about it,” she says.
“Okay,” Harper says, but she hears the smile in it. “Thinking is good. But also doing is good. Maybe consider doing.”
“I regret ever making you emotionally literate,” Abby mutters.
“I know,” Harper says, smug. “You created a monster.”
They say goodbye a few minutes later. Abby hangs up and stares at her phone.
Then, before she can overthink it, she opens her messages.
Her last text with Riley is from the night before.
Riley: Resident just said, “I don’t see why we’re ordering this test, it won’t change management.” who gave them permission to be wise
Abby: wow growth
Abby: proud of your tiny Dr. House
Riley: if he starts limping I’m quitting
Abby: fair
Abby takes a breath.
Abby: hey
Abby: dumb question
Abby: how do you feel about visitors
The dots appear almost immediately. Abby’s heart stutters.
Riley: hi
Riley: define visitors
Riley: like the ghost of christmas past or like you
Abby’s mouth curls.
Abby: me
Abby: although i can also bring seasonal ghost energy if you want
Abby: i was thinking… after finals? maybe
Abby: if you’re not too busy fixing people who assaulted a cheese grater or whatever it is you do
This time the dots linger longer. Abby chews her thumbnail.
Then:
Riley: Abby
Riley: i would like that so much i’m going to pretend i answered with something cool and smooth instead of “AJFJDKSL” out loud in the break room
Riley: finals = when?
Abby: next week
Abby: i’m done wednesday
Abby: then grading but i can do that anywhere
Riley: including Baltimore 👀
Abby: that was the idea yes
Riley: ok.
Riley: schedule is hell but i’m off thursday night and friday night next week
Riley: if you come down thursday i can meet you after my shift
Riley: and we can do the fries thing. Finally. but not only fries. obviously
Abby: 👩🏻🎨🍟
She doesn’t know why she adds the little artist emoji and fries, but it feels right.
Riley: did you just brand our date
Abby: i’ve been hanging out with harper too long
Riley: god help us all
Riley: ok. it’s a plan.
Riley: text me your bus details when you book and i’ll try not to check the tracker obsessively like a weirdo
Abby grins at her screen, a slow, uncontrollable thing.
“Okay,” she says aloud, to the coffee, the papers, the quiet apartment. “Okay.”
She opens a new tab and types “Pittsburgh to Baltimore bus” into the search bar before she can think twice.
---
Two days later, Riley is standing in the trauma bay, hovering over a man whose Christmas tree fell on him, thinking about Abby Holland on a bus.
Not literally on a bus. Not yet. Conceptually.
“Can someone explain to me,” she says, mostly to keep herself awake, “how you manage to get a concussion from a tree.”
“He was on a ladder,” the nurse says, deadpan. “The ladder slipped.”
“He was hanging mistletoe,” the patient’s wife adds from the corner, wringing her hands. “Over the stairs. I told him-”
Riley has to bite the inside of her cheek not to say anything about Darwin. Or about seasonal romantic expectations.
“Okay,” she says instead, gently. “Well, good news is, his scans look okay, and we’re going to keep him for observation for a bit, but he’s very lucky.”
The wife sniffles. “Thank you, Doctor Bennett.”
Riley gives her a quick smile, then steps back as the nurse takes over. She peels off her gloves with a snap and tosses them, rolling her shoulders. She’s been on for thirteen hours. If she sits down, she might evaporate.
“Bennett,” someone calls. One of the residents, Jenkins, jogs up, tablet in hand. “We’ve got the guy from the snowblower in two. You want-”
Riley’s pager buzzes. Her phone buzzes too, in her scrub pocket.
“Jenkins,” she says, pointing at him. “Never say those words to me in that order again.”
He snorts. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Start the workup,” she says. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”
He nods and peels off. Riley steps into the tiny alcove by the supply closet, out of the stream of traffic, and pulls out her phone.
One new message.
Her stomach does a weird flip.
Abby: booked!!
Abby: thursday 1:45 arrival if the bus gods are kind
Abby: please be there so i don’t get sold into an organ-harvesting ring in a baltimore alley
Riley’s face does something that would deeply concern her colleagues if they saw it. She presses the back of the phone to her forehead for a second, grinning like an idiot, before she replies.
Riley: 1) absolutely not, you’re my organs now
Riley: 2) i will be there
Riley: 3) if the chief tries to keep me late i will fake my own death
She hesitates, then adds:
Riley: can’t wait to see you
The three dots pop up almost instantly.
Abby: 😳
Abby: same
Riley slides the phone back into her pocket, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with stress or lack of sleep.
“Okay,” she mutters to herself. “Focus. Tree guy. Snowblower tragedy. Then fries.”
“Talking to yourself again?” a voice says.
She turns. Farah, one of the senior nurses, leans against the wall, smirking. Her hair is up in a messy bun that holds about eight pens hostage.
“Practicing my TED Talk,” Riley says.
“On what, the dangers of seasonal decor?” Farah asks. Her eyes narrow. “Who were you smiling at?”
“I don’t smile,” Riley lies. “It’s against hospital policy.”
“Uh-huh.” Farah crosses her arms. “Is this about your ‘friend’ from Pennsylvania?”
Riley bristles. “She is my friend.”
Farah raises an eyebrow. “Right. Because all my friends make me look like I just got cast in a rom-com when they text.”
Riley flips her off half-heartedly. “Don’t you have vitals to chart?”
“Don’t you have a date to panic about?” Farah retorts, pushing off the wall. “I like her already, by the way. Tell her I said hi.”
Riley opens her mouth to argue and realizes she doesn’t actually want to.
“Fine,” she says. “But if you scare her off, I’m blaming you.”
Farah just winks and disappears around the corner.
Riley takes a breath. Then another.
Abby is coming. In four days. To Baltimore. To see her.
It’s…a lot.
A good lot. This is new. Not the initial electric jolt of having a crush on someone you shouldn’t. Not the ache of loving someone who’s too scared to love you back publicly. This is…slow. Intentional. Mutual.
Riley thinks about the last time she saw Abby in person—the cold air on the Oxwood patio, the tentative press of lips, the way Abby had looked at her like she was something worth choosing.
She wants more of that.
She also wants sleep. But one thing at a time.
Her pager buzzes again. Snowblower guy awaits.
“Okay, Bennett,” she mutters. “Save the people. Get the girl. You can do both.”
She hopes.
---
By the time Thursday rolls around, Abby is 70% coffee, 20% anxiety, and 10% Cheez-Its.
Finals are over. Grading is…not. She has a bag full of bluebooks that look like they’ve soaked up her will to live, a backpack with a change of clothes and her laptop, and a nervous knot in her stomach the size of Western Pennsylvania.
The bus station smells like exhaust and pretzels. A tiny TV in the corner is playing some daytime talk show at a volume that should be illegal.
“Baltimore, one forty-five arrival,” the driver says as she climbs on. “If the Turnpike cooperates.”
“Does it ever?” Abby mutters, but she smiles anyway and finds a seat near the middle. She shoves her bag under the seat, shrugs out of her coat, and sits.
She checks her phone.
Riley: good luck with the bus
Riley: remember: if anyone tries to recruit you into a pyramid scheme, tell them you’re already in academia
Abby snorts.
Abby: that’s dark
Abby: i like it
She hesitates, then adds:
Abby: see you soon
Vanilla. Lame. There’s no immediate reply, which she expected. Riley is probably putting someone’s insides back where they belong.
Abby leans her head against the window as the bus rumbles to life. Pittsburgh’s grey streets slide by, then the highway unspools, flat and monotonous.
Her mind, traitorous, immediately goes to worst-case scenarios.
What if it’s weird? What if the kiss was a fluke, a moment of adrenaline and nostalgia and bad patio lighting? What if they’ve built this texting rapport that doesn’t translate in person? What if Riley realizes she’d rather date that wise resident?
What if Abby ruins everything by being…herself?
She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe. In, two, three. Out, two, three.
She thinks about Riley’s texts. About the way she’d typed “I would like that so much” instead of pretending to be cooler than she is. About the way she sends pictures of ridiculous hospital holiday decorations with captions like “Is this Santa or an OSHA violation?”
She thinks about the Oxwood. About the way Riley had said, I can promise to be honest. About how much that had meant.
She falls asleep for a while somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, dreams a disjointed collage of paintings and hospital corridors and Christmas trees that keep collapsing.
When she wakes up, her neck hurts and someone behind her is snoring like a dying chainsaw. Outside, the scenery has shifted from generic highway to something vaguely more urban.
Her phone buzzes.
Riley: 45 min until fries
Riley: and you
Riley: but also fries
Abby’s heart flutters.
Abby: i like your priorities
Riley: i’m nothing if not consistent
Riley: i get off at 1. i’ll be there when you pull in
Riley: you’ll recognize me because i’ll be the one with the tragic under-eye circles
Abby: hot
There’s a pause. Then:
Riley: stop
Riley: no don’t
Riley: ok i have to go yell at a med student
Riley: see you soon
Abby slides the phone into her pocket and presses her hands between her knees to keep them from shaking.
“Okay,” she whispers to herself. “No big deal. Just…going to see the girl you’ve been low-key pining for. In a different state.”
She takes a breath.
The bus pulls into the Baltimore station right on schedule, miraculously. Abby gathers her stuff and follows the trickle of passengers down the narrow aisle and onto the platform.
The air smells different here. Saltier, maybe. Or maybe that’s just bus fumes and optimism.
Her eyes scan the crowd automatically, heart pounding.
She spots her.
Riley stands near one of the concrete pillars, hands shoved into the pockets of a dark peacoat, scrubs peeking out from underneath. Her hair is pulled back into a messy knot, a few strands escaping around her face. There are shadows under her eyes, but her smile when she sees Abby is like a light flipping on.
Abby’s feet move without consulting her brain.
“Hey,” Riley says, when Abby is close enough to hear without yelling. Up close, she’s even more unfairly attractive in the “I haven’t slept in twenty hours” way, which should not be a thing and yet somehow is.
“Hi,” Abby says. Her voice comes out breathier than she intends. “Doctor Bennett.”
“Professor Holland,” Riley counters, lips quirking.
For a second, they just stand there, stupidly grinning at each other like they forgot how to person.
Abby shifts the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Um. Hug?” she offers, suddenly feeling twelve.
“Yeah,” Riley says. “Please.”
They step into each other’s space, arms wrapping around shoulders, waists, that awkward initial shuffle that happens when you’re not sure how the other person’s body fits against yours and then—oh.
Abby’s face ends up tucked against Riley’s shoulder. Riley’s chest is warm, solid, rising and falling under Abby’s hands. She smells like hospital soap and a faint thread of something citrusy and familiar.
Riley’s arms tighten, just a fraction, like she’s committing this to memory too.
It’s only a couple of seconds. It feels like a beat pulled out of time.
When they pull back, Abby’s cheeks are hot and Riley’s ears are a little red.
“Hi,” Abby says again, helplessly.
“Hi,” Riley echoes, softer this time.
“You look-” Abby starts, then aborts before she can say “exhausted.” “-good.”
Riley snorts. “I look like someone who just argued with a surgeon about ordering a CT,” she says. “But thank you. You look…” Her eyes flick over Abby’s face, down to her scarf, back up. “You look really good.”
Abby is suddenly very aware that she had exactly twenty-three minutes in her bathroom this morning and made strong, maybe questionable choices about her eyeliner.
“Thank you,” she says, trying not to glow visibly.
Riley jerks her chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s get you out of bus land. I have a car.”
“You…have a car?” Abby teases as they start walking. “Like a whole one? For your own use?”
“Yes,” Riley says loftily. “It’s part of the secret Trauma Doctor Package. Comes with a stethoscope and mild burnout.”
They make their way to the parking lot, trading sarcastic commentary about bus smells and hospital coffee. The normalcy of the conversation steadies Abby, threads of their text banter stretching into three dimensions.
Riley leads her to a compact, slightly battered Subaru with a faded pride sticker and a parking permit hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Wow,” Abby says. “I feel so safe already.”
“Hey,” Riley protests. “This car is a noble steed.”
Abby eyes the dent in the back bumper. “What did you do to it?”
“Me? Nothing,” Riley says. “A snowplow did. Long story. Get in.”
Abby does.
The inside of the car smells faintly like coffee and hand sanitizer. There are a few takeout napkins stuffed in the cup holder and a pair of sneakers in the footwell of the backseat.
Riley starts the engine, rubs a hand over her face briefly, and glances over. “Okay. So the plan is… my place, drop your stuff, then fries?”
“Perfect,” Abby says. “I like that you’re respecting the sanctity of the fry.”
“I’m a professional,” Riley says.
They pull out of the lot and into the Baltimore streets. The sky is a flat winter gray, but there are pockets of color: holiday lights strung between lampposts, store windows painted with snowflakes and aggressively cheerful Santas.
Abby watches the city slide by, really seeing it. She’s only passed through Baltimore. This feels…different. It’s Riley’s city. Somewhere she chose, somewhere she’s built a life.
“How was your shift?” Abby asks, when they hit a red light.
Riley makes a face. “Seasonally chaotic,” she says. “We had three ladder incidents, one snowblower mishap, and a guy who tried to deep-fry a frozen turkey.”
Abby winces. “Yikes. At this time of the month? Why?”
“Yeah,” Riley says. “Don’t worry, he’s okay. His ego might never recover, though.”
“And you?” Abby asks. “Are you okay?”
Riley glances at her, something flickering in her eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “Now I am.”
Abby’s chest does that stupid flutter again.
She turns to the window to hide her smile. Outside, a group of kids in puffy coats race down the sidewalk, one of them trailing tinsel like a comet.
---
Riley’s apartment is on the third floor of a narrow brick building in a neighborhood that’s clearly in the middle of being “up-and-coming,” which Abby understands to mean “there is a nice coffee shop and three unfinished condos.”
Riley holds the door open with her hip as Abby steps in. The hallway smells like someone’s cooking garlic and someone else is burning toast.
“Welcome to my palace,” Riley says, unlocking the door at the end of the hall.
The apartment is small but cozy. The living room/kitchen combo is dominated by a sagging couch, a coffee table with a stack of medical journals and a mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST DOCTOR, and a TV on a hand-me-down stand.
In the corner, near the window, is a Christmas tree.
Calling it a tree is maybe generous. It’s about five feet tall, slightly lopsided, and decorated with exactly six ornaments and one strand of lights that clearly gave up halfway down.
Abby stares at it. Her heart squeezes.
“You didn’t tell me you were a professional decorator,” she says.
Riley drops her bag by the door and shrugs off her coat. “I’ve been…busy,” she says. “My mom guilted me into getting a tree at all. She kept saying, ‘Riley, you can’t spend Christmas in a sterile box,’ like I live in an MRI machine.”
Abby steps closer, inspecting the ornaments: a lumpy ceramic star clearly made by a child, a couple of generic shiny balls, and one tiny plastic skeleton with a Santa hat.
“Is that…an anatomically correct Santa skeleton?” she asks.
“Look,” Riley says defensively. “The ER had an ornament exchange and I panicked.”
Abby laughs, delighted. “I love him.”
“It’s gender-neutral,” Riley says. “Don’t assume.”
Abby turns to look at her. Their eyes meet, and for a second, the air goes thick.
“Can I…put my stuff somewhere?” Abby asks, voice a little too high.
“Yeah,” Riley says. “Sorry. Guest—uh, my room. I don’t have a guest room. Or a guest anything. You can put your bag in my room for now, and we’ll figure out sleeping arrangements later.”
Abby nods, suddenly very aware that this arrangement will eventually require decisions about where they physically exist in relation to each other when horizontal and unconscious.
She follows Riley down the short hallway, past a tiny bathroom, into a bedroom that is…exactly what she expected and also more.
There’s a double bed with a plain gray duvet, a dresser half-covered in folded scrubs, and a nightstand with a lamp and a small stack of novels. A laundry basket overflows in the corner, because some things are universal.
“I cleaned,” Riley says, a little defensive. “I promise. This is…so much better than it was.”
“It’s great,” Abby says honestly. “Way cleaner than my place. My floor currently has three geological layers of clothes.”
“Impressive,” Riley says.
Abby drops her bag near the dresser, trying not to look at the bed like it’s a wild animal she might spook.
When they go back to the living room, Riley claps her hands lightly. “Okay. Fries. There’s a place a few blocks away that has, like, objectively terrible decor and transcendent fried food.”
“Sold,” Abby says. “I trust your culinary expertise.”
“You shouldn’t,” Riley says. “But in this one instance, you’re safe.”
They bundle up and head back out into the gray afternoon.
---
The bar Riley takes her to is exactly as advertised: dim, sticky, and perfect.
The sign outside says O’Malley’s in flickering green neon. Inside, the floor is uneven, the lighting is somewhere between “witness protection” and “dive-chic,” and there’s a Christmas tree in one corner that looks like it’s seen some things.
Riley leads them to a corner booth, nodding at the bartender like a regular.
“You come here often?” Abby teases, sliding into the vinyl seat.
“When I remember I’m a human who needs social time,” Riley says. “And fried potatoes.”
The bartender, a woman in her fifties with a Santa hat perched precariously on her head, ambles over. “Hey, doc,” she says. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” Riley says, then glances at Abby. “Unless you want to look at the menu and pretend you’re not going to end up ordering the same thing.”
Abby eyes the greasy laminated menu for exactly three seconds before saying, “I trust you. Lead me to the starch.”
“Two baskets of loaded fries, one with jalapeños,” Riley tells the bartender. “And two ciders, please.”
“You got it,” the woman says, scribbling something and wandering away.
Abby raises an eyebrow. “Ordering for me, huh?”
“I live dangerously,” Riley says. “Also, I remember you like cider.”
Abby’s stomach does that little swoop again. “You have a good memory.”
Riley shrugs, suddenly looking a little shy. “Some things stick.”
There’s a lull. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but heavy with all the things they haven’t said yet.
“How’s Pittsburgh?” Riley asks finally, picking at the edge of the napkin dispenser. “Aside from the undergrads and the car battery conspiracy.”
“Cold,” Abby says. “Gray. Full of youths who write about Michelangelo like he invented the concept of round things.”
Riley snorts. “Rude to spheres everywhere.”
“I know,” Abby says. “Other than that…good. My advisor hasn’t emailed me in three weeks, which means either my chapter was fine or she’s run away to join the circus.”
“You okay with the…job stuff?” Riley asks carefully.
Abby shuts her eyes briefly. “Define ‘okay.’”
Riley makes a sympathetic noise. “That bad?”
“It’s just…a lot,” Abby says. “Everyone keeps saying ‘the market’ like it’s a vengeful deity. I spend a lot of time reformatting my résumé and feeling like I’m screaming into the void. But I like my students. Mostly. And I like my research.”
“Do you ever regret it?” Riley asks.
“Art history?” Abby shrugs. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve picked something more…practical. But then I remember that the other option was probably law, and I’d have spontaneously combusted by now. What about you? Any regrets about voluntarily entering the blood-and-guts industry?”
“Only on days ending in Y,” Riley says lightly. Then she sighs. “No, I…I don’t regret it. I like feeling useful. I like being able to actually…help. But the hours suck. The system sucks. Sometimes I feel like I live at the hospital.”
“Do you?” Abby asks. “Live there?”
“Emotionally? Yes,” Riley says. “Physically…only every third night.”
Their ciders arrive, clinking against the table. They both latch onto them as if they need something to occupy their hands.
“To…long-delayed fries,” Abby says, raising her glass.
“To stubborn professors who finally get on buses,” Riley counters.
Their glasses meet with a soft thunk.
---
By the time the fries arrive—two heaping baskets of golden, greasy goodness smothered in cheese, scallions, and various other heart-stopping elements—they’ve settled into the easy back-and-forth that Abby craved.
They talk about Harper’s new job, the way she says “brand alignment” now like it’s a love language. They talk about Jane’s latest project (a queer speculative fiction novel that Abby is convinced is two drafts away from being entirely about a sentient fern and three drafts away from being brilliant).
“Does my mom still send you pictures of Mr. Darcy in seasonal outfits?” Riley groans, reaching for a fry.
“Yes,” Abby says, stealing the one Riley was aiming for. “Today it was a tiny elf hat. Yesterday he was wearing a ‘Bah Humbug’ sweater.”
“I’m so sorry,” Riley says. “If it’s any consolation, she’s started sending them to my boss too.”
“Oh my God,” Abby wheezes. “Does he…respond?”
“He sends back pictures of his Corgi in bow ties,” Riley says. “It’s a whole thing. I’ve created a monster.”
They eat. Abby takes a bite of the jalapeño-topped fry and nearly levitates.
“Oh my God,” she says, around a mouthful. “Riley. Why is this so good?”
Riley looks unreasonably pleased with herself. “I told you,” she says. “Transcendent.”
“I would marry this fry,” Abby says.
“I will tell it you said that,” Riley replies. “But I will warn you, it belongs to the streets.”
Abby laughs, warmth spreading through her that has nothing to do with the food.
It’s…easy. Being here with Riley. Easier than she expected. There’s still a current under everything, a hum of awareness, but it’s threaded with comfort.
“So,” Riley says, after a while, when the baskets are half demolished. “We should…probably talk about the thing.”
“The thing,” Abby repeats, cautious. “Lots of things. Narrow it down?”
“The…Oxwood patio thing,” Riley says, eyes flicking to Abby’s face, then away. “The kissing thing.”
“Oh,” Abby says.
Her heart kicks.
“Unless you don’t want to,” Riley adds quickly. “We can just eat fries and pretend we are two unrelated entities who engage in normal, platonic potato consumption.”
“I want to,” Abby blurts. “Talk about it, I mean. And the potato consumption. I can multitask.”
Riley huffs a tiny laugh, then sobers.
“Okay,” she says. “Um. I liked it.”
Abby’s face heats. “Me too.”
“And I like you,” Riley continues, each word measured, careful. “Not just in a ‘wow we trauma bonded at your ex’s family Christmas’ way. In a…want to see you, want to text you, want to…be around you way.”
Abby’s throat tightens. “I like you too,” she says, because if she doesn’t say it now she might never manage it. “Like, in a…this scares me but in a good way…way.”
Riley’s shoulders drop a fraction, like she’d been braced for impact. “Okay,” she says, a little breathless. “Okay. That’s good. That’s…great.”
Abby fiddles with a napkin. “I’m just…bad at this.”
“At what?” Riley asks gently.
“At…this,” Abby says, gesturing vaguely between them. “At…not overthinking every step. At not being…loyal to the idea that I should be fine alone forever because trying again is terrifying.”
Riley watches her, eyes warm.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I get that.”
“I know you do,” Abby says. “Which is…part of why I’m scared. Because I don’t want to hurt you. Or me. Again.”
Riley is silent for a moment. The music in the bar shifts to some old rock song, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation filling the background.
“I can’t promise we won’t ever hurt each other,” Riley says finally. “I’m not a perfect person, Hoobastank reference not intended. I work too much. I shut down when I’m stressed. I deflect with humor at inappropriate times.”
“Same,” Abby says weakly.
“But I can promise I won’t lie to you to make things easier for me,” Riley continues. “I can promise that if I’m scared, I’ll say I’m scared instead of pretending I’m fine. And I can promise that whatever this is, I won’t treat it like a backup plan or a consolation prize. You deserve better than that.”
Abby’s eyes sting.
“That’s…a really good sales pitch,” she says, voice wobbly.
Riley smiles, crooked. “I had help,” she says. “For a hundred and fifty bucks a session.”
Abby laughs wetly. “Therapy really is your side quest, huh.”
“Oh yeah,” Riley says. “Grinding for emotional intelligence points.”
Abby takes a breath. “Okay,” she says. “Then…I’d like to try. To…see where this goes. Carefully. Slowly. With fries.”
“Fries are an important part of any relationship,” Riley says seriously.
Abby smiles. “Deal.”
They look at each other. The air between them feels different now. Not lighter, exactly, but clearer.
Riley reaches out, hesitates, then covers Abby’s hand on the table with her own.
Abby’s breath catches. Riley’s hand is warm, calloused, steady.
“Okay,” Riley says, thumb brushing a small, unconscious arc over Abby’s knuckles. “We’re doing this.”
“Terrifying,” Abby says softly.
“Yeah,” Riley agrees. “But, like…in a rollercoaster way. Not in a Christmas-in-the-closet way.”
Abby’s chest squeezes. “You know I’m not…still there, right?” she asks. “In the closet. With Harper. In that…place.”
Riley’s expression softens. “I know,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were.”
“Good,” Abby says, exhaling. “Because I was worried you might think I’m still emotionally hiding with a Roomba.”
Riley squeezes her hand. “You’re good,” she says. “I promise.”
The fries cool between them. Neither of them seems to mind.
---
They walk back to Riley’s apartment as evening settles, the gray sky darkening to deep blue. Holiday lights glow in the windows of row houses, wreaths hang on doors, and somewhere, faintly, someone is playing a slightly off-key version of “Silent Night” on what might be a saxophone.
“It’s so…city,” Abby says, sticking her hands into her coat pockets. “I feel like I should be carrying a tote bag full of fresh bread.”
“You can if you want,” Riley says. “It’s a free country.”
“Is it, though?” Abby says. “Have you seen the job market?”
Riley laughs, breath puffing in the cold.
They pass a small park where someone has strung lights through the bare trees. Kids are trying to build a snowman out of what is clearly mostly dirt.
Abby nudges Riley’s arm gently. “So. Are you doing anything for Christmas itself? With your family?”
“Yeah,” Riley says. “I’m off Christmas Eve and Day this year, which is a miracle after Thanksgiving. I’m driving up to my parents’ place. My mom has already threatened to disown me if I don’t arrive in time for the ‘Annual Bennett Cocoa-Off.’”
“That sounds intense,” Abby says.
“It is,” Riley says. “Last year my dad tried to put chili powder in his and we didn’t speak for two hours.”
Abby smiles. “Harper’s mom is doing some kind of benefit thing,” she says. “I’m supposed to be there to lend an air of ‘we support the arts’ by my mere existence.”
“Wow,” Riley says. “You’re an installation piece.”
“Exactly,” Abby says. “I’m thinking of standing very still and occasionally sighing.”
They climb the stairs to Riley’s floor, breath misting. Riley unlocks the door and lets them in.
The apartment feels different now that night has fallen. Cozier. The overhead light is too harsh, so Riley turns on the lamp by the couch instead. The lopsided tree glows faintly in the corner, its mismatched ornaments casting tiny shadows.
“Do you want tea?” Riley asks, heading to the kitchen area. “Or…uh. I have wine. Or hot chocolate. Or all three if we want to test my skills as a doctor.”
“Tea is great,” Abby says, dropping onto the couch. “If I drink wine right now I’ll fall asleep and drool on your throw pillows.”
“Hot,” Riley calls over the sound of the kettle. “Truly irresistible.”
Abby smiles to herself, toeing off her shoes and tucking her feet up under her. Her body is tired from the bus, but her brain is humming.
She’s here. In Riley’s apartment. After everything.
Riley brings two mismatched mugs—one says I CAN’T, I’M ON CALL, the other has a faded picture of a crab—and sits down at the other end of the couch, facing her.
“Okay,” she says. “Serious question.”
Abby braces. “Okay.”
“Do you want to…decorate the tree?” Riley asks, nodding toward the sorry little pine. “I bought more ornaments and then ran out of will to live.”
Abby follows her gaze. On the coffee table, there’s a plastic bag from a drugstore brimming with cheap ornaments and a tangled mess of tinsel.
Her heart does that stupid swoopy thing again.
“Yes,” she says, setting her tea down. “I would love nothing more than to perform holiday triage on your tree.”
“Holiday triage,” Riley repeats. “Wow. Medical puns are really bringing us together.”
They move to the tree. It’s even more pathetic up close, but Abby loves it immediately.
They start unwrapping ornaments—shiny balls in red and gold, a couple of snowflakes, a tiny plastic ambulance Riley swears she didn’t buy on purpose.
“Are you sure you didn’t steal this from the hospital?” Abby asks, holding it up.
“I plead the fifth,” Riley says.
They hang ornaments, passing them back and forth, occasionally bumping shoulders. At one point, they both reach for the same branch and Abby’s fingers brush Riley’s. Neither of them moves away for a second too long.
“You know,” Abby says, to cover the weird crackle in the air, “when I imagined my life at thirty-two, I did not picture decorating a crooked tree in Baltimore with a trauma doctor while contemplating my feelings.”
“What did you imagine?” Riley asks softly.
“I don’t know,” Abby says. “Probably something involving tenure and a dog. Maybe a tasteful girlfriend who wears turtlenecks.”
“Turtlenecks are overrated,” Riley says. “They’re just chest socks.”
Abby chokes on a laugh. “Oh my God.”
“What about you?” she asks, once she recovers. “Did you imagine this?”
Riley hooks a silver ball onto a branch, considering. “I imagined the hospital,” she says. “And…I imagined something not like Harper. But I didn’t know what that looked like. I didn’t know if I’d get it. This feels…better than I imagined.”
Abby’s throat tightens again.
“For me too,” she says quietly.
They step back to admire their work. The tree is still a little crooked, but now it’s full, lights twinkling, ornaments glinting, ambulance wedged proudly in the middle.
“It’s beautiful,” Abby says.
“It’s definitely something,” Riley says. “It looks like it would try to sell you greens powder on Instagram.”
Abby laughs, leaning lightly into her shoulder. “But, like, in a charming way.”
They stand like that for a second, side by side, close enough that Abby can feel Riley’s warmth along her arm.
“Abby?” Riley says, voice low.
“Yeah?” Abby turns her head, and suddenly they’re much closer than she realized.
Riley’s eyes flick to her mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. “Can I…?” she begins.
Abby doesn’t let her finish.
She closes the last inch of space between them and kisses her.
It’s different from the Oxwood kiss, and also the same.
There’s no cold patio air, no distant roar of a bar. Just the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint tinkling of the tree lights, the taste of tea and salt and something that is just…Riley.
Riley makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, surprised but not unhappy. Her hands come up to Abby’s waist, fingers splaying through the fabric of her sweater, grounding. Abby’s hands find Riley’s shoulders, then the back of her neck, the small hairs there soft against her palms.
The kiss deepens slowly. No rush, no frantic edge. Just exploration. Reacquaintance. Hello again, but with lips.
Abby feels like her skin is buzzing, but her brain, for once, isn’t spinning out. It feels…right.
Eventually, they pull back, breathing a little harder.
Riley’s pupils are blown wide, her cheeks flushed. She looks at Abby like she’s trying to memorize her.
“Okay,” she says hoarsely. “That was…good.”
“Very,” Abby agrees, slightly dazed.
They stand there, foreheads almost touching, for a long moment.
Then Riley steps back, scrubs a hand over her face, and lets out a slightly hysterical little laugh. “Wow,” she says. “Cool. Great. I suddenly forgot how to exist.”
“Same,” Abby says.
“Do you…want to sit?” Riley asks. “Like. On the couch. Like people. Instead of…standing here making out in front of my sentient MLM tree.”
“Yes,” Abby says. “I think sitting is good.”
They migrate back to the couch, a little awkward now, a little shy. They sit closer than before, their knees brushing.
Abby tucks a leg under herself and picks up her tea again, more for something to do with her hands than anything else.
“So,” she says, blowing on the surface. “Sleeping arrangements.”
Riley chokes on her own sip.
“Smooth,” she coughs. “Very casual.”
“I just mean,” Abby says quickly, ears hot. “You said you don’t have a guest room, and obviously I can get a hotel if that’s easier, I didn’t want to assume-”
“Oh my God, no,” Riley interrupts. “You are not getting a hotel. You’re staying here.”
Abby’s heart does that thing again. “Okay,” she says. “Then…where do you sleep?”
“In my bed,” Riley says, then makes a face at herself. “I mean. I usually sleep in my bed. When I’m here. And not, like, at the hospital. Or on a chair. Or in my car—”
“Riley,” Abby says gently. “Breathe.”
Riley inhales, exhales. “Right,” she says. “Sorry. I’m…weirdly nervous.”
“That makes two of us,” Abby says, giving her a small, wry smile. “We can be nervous together.”
Riley relaxes a fraction. “Okay,” she says. “So. Practical options. Option one: I take the couch, you take the bed. Option two: we share the bed, if you’re comfortable with that. Nothing has to happen. I have excellent blanket-sharing etiquette.”
“You strike me as someone who hogs the covers,” Abby says.
“I am deeply offended,” Riley says.
Abby chews her lip, thinking. The idea of sleeping in Riley’s bed alone feels…weird. The idea of sharing it feels…also weird, but in a way that makes her stomach flip in a not-unpleasant way.
“I’m okay sharing,” she hears herself say. “If you are.”
Riley’s eyes flare slightly. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Okay,” Abby says, feeling the word settle in her chest like a small, bright stone. “Sharing it is.”
They lapse into softer conversation after that. They talk about nothing and everything—Riley’s favorite terrible hospital coffee machine, Abby’s most ridiculous student excuses, the time Jane accidentally joined a cult MLM and tried to recruit them both at Thanksgiving.
At some point, Abby’s head ends up resting on Riley’s shoulder. Riley’s arm ends up along the back of the couch, hand lightly touching Abby’s upper arm.
The tree glows quietly. The city hums outside.
Abby’s eyes drift closed.
She wakes up to the feeling of being gently shaken.
“Hey,” Riley’s voice murmurs, low and soft near her ear. “Abby. You fell asleep.”
Abby blinks, disoriented. The room is darker now. Her neck is slightly stiff, but she’s warm, cocooned.
“Sorry,” she says, words sluggish. “Long bus. Fry coma.”
“Don’t apologize,” Riley says. “It was cute.”
Abby frowns blearily. “No one looks cute when they drool.”
“You didn’t drool,” Riley says. “You did snore a little, though. I respect it.”
Abby groans. “God.”
“Come on,” Riley says, standing and holding out a hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
Abby takes her hand.
---
Riley’s room looks different in the low lamplight. Softer, less clinical, more…inviting.
Abby stands there, feeling suddenly too tall, too awkward, while Riley rummages in a drawer.
“Thanks,” she says. “For…everything. Today.”
Riley’s eyes meet hers. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “Really.”
Abby swallows. “You’re not going to, like, regret this tomorrow and decide you actually want to date your wise resident instead, right?”
Riley makes a face like she bit a lemon. “Ew,” she says. “He unironically uses the phrase ‘medical content creator.’”
“Say no more,” Abby says. “Horrifying.”
“I like you,” Riley says firmly. “You. Abby Holland. Whose dissertation I understand absolutely none of and yet would probably listen to you talk about for hours.”
Abby’s heart does the thing again, but softer this time. Familiar. Settling.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Good.”
Riley clears her throat. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” she says. “I’ll change out here so we don’t have to do the whole…uh...naked logistics yet.”
Abby snorts, heat creeping up her neck. “Appreciated.”
They execute the logistical ballet of two people who are attracted to each other and desperately trying not to make it weird. Abby changes in the bathroom.
She looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair is mussed, eyeliner smudged, cheeks flushed. She looks…happy. Terror-adjacent, but happy.
When she comes back to the bedroom, Riley is already in bed, sitting up against the headboard in a plain tank top and sweatpants, flipping idly through something on her phone. She looks up, and her gaze does a quick once-over of Abby in her clothes.
“Cute,” she says, voice a little rough.
Abby’s face heats. She crosses the room and slides under the covers on the other side, careful not to jostle too much.
The bed is warm. The space between them is not very large.
Riley clicks her phone off and puts it on the nightstand. The room goes softer, just the lamplight casting a warm glow.
“Is this okay?” Riley asks, turning her head on the pillow to look at Abby.
“Yeah,” Abby says. “Is it okay for you?”
“Yeah,” Riley says. “I…like having you here.”
Abby smiles, small and private. “Me too.”
They stare at each other in the low light for a moment, like teenagers at a sleepover who have accidentally confessed something huge and are now waiting for the fallout.
“Abby?” Riley says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Can I…” Riley reaches out under the covers, hesitates, then finds Abby’s hand. Laces their fingers together. “Is this okay?”
Abby’s throat feels tight. “Yeah,” she says. “It is.”
Riley exhales. Her grip is gentle but sure.
“And this?” Riley adds, coming closer until her lips hover just above Abby’s.
“So beyond okay,” Abby responds, her lips already brushing Riley’s with each word.
For the first time in a long time, Abby’s dreams are not of closeted Christmases or looming deadlines or falling trees.
They’re of lights on a crooked little Baltimore pine, and the feeling of saying yes.