Chapter Text
Belly
There’s a specific kind of magic that belongs only to Boston in December. It’s in the bite of the icy air off the harbour, the warm golden glow spilling from brownstone windows, and the way the snowfall makes the entire city sound like it’s holding its breath, waiting for this year’s fated Christmas miracle.
People talk about fate like it’s a grand, sweeping thing—a bolt of lightning, a sudden plot twist. But if you ask me, fate is quiet. It’s built out of routines. It’s the small, repetitive choices we make while we’re busy waiting for our real lives to start.
My real life, at present, consists of a drafty one-bedroom apartment, two ridiculously needy cats named Junior Mint and Cocoa, and full-time shifts, six days a week, at the diner on the corner of Tremont and Park—a spot that gives me a perfect, front-row view of the massive Christmas tree twinkling in the middle of the Boston Common, and my favourite place in the whole city this time of year.
I don't have family to buy presents for. My parents passed away years ago, leaving me with a collection of old photo albums and a deep, aching appreciation for the idea of home. Tucked beneath all that, in the quietest back corner of my mind, is the stubborn, lingering whisper of someday—a secret promise that somewhere beyond this city, there's adventure and travel waiting for me. But until that someday arrives, I stay behind while everyone else in the city rushes off to holiday dinners and family reunions, watching the world happen from behind a counter.
"Isabel, mi reina! Open up, por favor! I know you're in there!"
I freeze, one boot half-on, a coat stuffed under my arm, and Junior Mint balancing precariously on my shoulder.
I pull open my front door just a crack. Benito is leaning against the doorframe, wearing an unbuttoned jacket and a smirk that instantly makes me want to lock myself in the bathroom until spring. He’s my landlord’s son, which means he treats the entire building like his personal domain—and me like his personal entertainment.
At the sight of him, Junior Mint lets out a low, indignant hiss, scrambling off my shoulder and scurrying back into the dark safety of the apartment.
"Benito. I’m running late," I say, trying to dodge past him into the hallway.
"Running late to pour coffee?" He steps into my path, flashing a dramatic smile. "Come on, Isabel. It’s the morning before Christmas Eve Eve. My mom made tamales. Come up, watch a movie with me. You shouldn't be alone."
"I’m not alone, I have the cats," I say, maneuvering around his elbow. "And I have a shift. Steven will kill me if I’m late."
"Steven loves you, Taylor loves you, everybody loves you. They will forgive you just this once, no?" Benito calls after me as I hustle down the creaky wooden stairs. "Think about the tamales, Isabel!"
I pull my scarf tight around my neck as I burst out into the frigid air, letting out a heavy breath that turns to steam instantly.
Twenty minutes later, I push through the heavy glass door of the diner. The bells chime softly overhead, immediately drowned out by the warm noise of retro Christmas tunes playing from the jukebox.
"You're three minutes late, Belly," Taylor says without looking up from the register, though her lips twitch into a smile. She’s wearing a sparkly Santa hat that clashes spectacularly with her waitress apron.
"Benito ambushed me at the door again," I offer by way of apology, hanging my coat on the hook behind the counter.
Steven pops his head out from the kitchen window, spatula in hand. "Tell Benito if he keeps harassing my star employee, I’m putting salt in his apple pie next time he comes in."
"He’d probably like that," I laugh, tying my apron behind my back.
Taylor slides a steaming mug of hot cocoa across the counter toward me. "Drink up. It’s brutal out there today. The roads are turning straight to black ice."
I take the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers. I love this place. Steven and Taylor are the closest thing I have to a family, and the diner is my sanctuary. But as I look out the frosted glass window at the snow beginning to fall in fat, silent flakes, that familiar ache tugs at my chest. I want the rest of it. The big, chaotic family dinners. The shared secrets. The kind of love that makes a cold city feel warm.
And then, right on cue, the front door opens.
The brass bell rings, and my heart does its foolish, familiar little flip.
It’s him.
He walks in wrapped in a heavy navy coat, snow dusting his light brown hair. He’s radiant—there’s really no other word for him. He looks like he walked right out of a holiday catalogue, all easy smiles and bright blue-eyed, golden-boy charm.
He comes in every single morning at 7:45 AM like clockwork, ordering a large drip coffee with two sugars. And every single night after whatever glamorous life he leads, he walks past our display window on his way home, giving a polite little wave through the glass if I’m working the night shift.
He doesn't know my name, and I don’t know his. He knows me as "the girl at the counter who makes sure he’s caffeinated." But for six months, he’s been the centre of every secret wish I’ve made.
"Hey! Just a quick coffee to go, please," He says, pulling his wallet out as he approaches the counter. His blue eyes lock onto mine, bright and warm. "Brutal today, huh?"
"Yeah," I say, my voice coming out a little softer than I intend. "The ice is terrible. Be careful out there."
"Will do," he smiles, handing over a five-dollar bill. "Thanks. Have a good day!"
"You too," I whisper.
I watch him grab his cup, turn, and push his way back out into the freezing morning air. Through the front glass window, I track his figure disappear into the morning rush.
Just once, I think to myself, leaning against the counter, I wish something extraordinary would happen.
A shoulder bumps gently against mine. I jump, nearly knocking over a stack of napkins as Taylor leans her elbows on the counter next to me, staring out the window at his retreating figure.
"Six months, Belly," Taylor says, raising a single eyebrow. "Six months of staring, sighing, and perfect coffee orders. I’m pretty sure you’re legally allowed to ask his name at this point."
I let out a huff, feeling my cheeks flush hot. I grab a rag and aggressively begin wiping down an already immaculate spot on the counter. "I don't need his name. The mystery is part of the appeal."
"Right. Keep telling yourself that while you pine over Mister Large Drip Two Sugars," Taylor laughs, snatching the rag out of my hand before I scrub a hole through the laminate. "Go restock the milk. The morning rush is about to hit."
The rest of the morning dissolves into a blur of clattering dishes, steaming espresso wands, and bundled-up Bostonians seeking refuge from the cold. But even as I pour endless cups of coffee and wipe down tables, my mind keeps drifting back to him. In my head, he’s the leading man in a story I haven't written yet—the kind of guy who takes you on spontaneous winter walks and actually remembers your favourite dessert.
I catch myself getting lost in full-blown daydreams: boarding overnight trains through snowy European cities with him, building a home together, getting married, and maybe one day having a quiet, beautiful little family of our own.
By nine o'clock that evening, the heavy snow has scared off most of the dinner crowd. The diner is quiet, saved only by the soft jazz playing from the jukebox.
"Are you sure you’ve got this, Belly?" Steven asks, pulling his heavy winter coat on as he comes out of the kitchen. Taylor is right behind him, wrapping a plaid scarf around her neck and slipping her hand into his. "We can stay until closing if it gets busy."
"Steven, there are three people in here and two of them are asleep," I smile, gesturing around the cozy, dim diner. "Go enjoy your date night. You guys earned it. I’ll lock up."
"You're an angel, B," Taylor says, giving my arm a squeeze. "Don't let any snow drifts swallow you on the walk home."
I wave them off through the window, watching them walk hand-in-hand down the snowy sidewalk.
As the hour ticks closer to ten and the diner empties, I find myself glancing at the clock, then out at the dark street. He's usually already walked past by now on his way home from wherever he goes. I wonder what he’s doing tonight. Maybe he's out on a date of his own, laughing with some gorgeous girl in a fancy restaurant, completely oblivious to the girl on Tremont Street watching the snow fall.
A wave of quiet longing hits me. I shake it off, picking up a tray to wipe down the glass display case.
Ding.
The brass bell above the door rings. I turn around, expecting a lost tourist, but stop dead in my tracks.
It’s him.
He steps inside, shaking the fresh powder from his hair. He looks exhausted—his shoulders are slightly slumped, and there are dark smudges under his blue eyes—but the second he catches me looking, that bright, easy smile breaks across his face.
"Hey," he says, his voice a little raspy as he walks up to the counter. "I know you guys are basically closed, but tell me you have one slice of cherry pie left."
"Yeah, sure," I say, pulling a plate from beneath the counter. I slide the pie onto a takeaway container and pour him a fresh cup of coffee. "Long day?"
"You have no idea," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He reaches out to take the coffee, his fingers brushing against mine for a split second. "I'm Jeremiah, by the way. I realised tonight I’ve been coming in here for half a year and I never actually introduced myself."
My heart does a dramatic flip. Jeremiah. It suits him.
"Isabel," I say, giving him a genuine smile.
"Isabel," he repeats, testing the word like he's trying to remember it. "It's nice to officially meet you. Thanks for the emergency pie."
"Anytime, Jeremiah."
He drops a ten on the counter, grabs the pie container and his coffee, and gives me a warm smile before turning toward the exit. "Have a good night."
"You too," I whisper, leaning against the register as he pushes through the door into the freezing dark.
I watch him walk out, a goofy, unstoppable smile spreading across my face. Jeremiah. And now he knows my name too.
Through the glass, I track his shadow moving down the sidewalk under the glow of the streetlights. He takes a wide turn around the curb near the diner's entrance—and that's when his boot hits a sheet of invisible black ice beneath the fresh powder.
In a fraction of a second, his feet fly out from under him.
The coffee and pie go airborne. Jeremiah hits the pavement hard, his head bouncing off the icy concrete with a sickening crack, before sliding helplessly toward the slushy edge of the street—just as the bright headlights of an oncoming delivery truck sweep around the corner.
My heart drops straight into my stomach.
"Jeremiah!"
I don't think. I don't grab my coat. I hurl my weight against the diner door and leap straight out into the freezing night.
.｡❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎⋆⍋*∞*❅｡.
The world turns into a blur of flashing red lights and screaming sirens.
One second I'm kneeling in the slush, holding an icy wad of napkins to the back of Jeremiah’s head, and the next, two paramedics are lifting his gurney into the back of an ambulance.
I don't even have my coat. I just flag down a cab, throwing my last twenty-dollar bill at the driver and begging him to follow the flashing red lights to Massachusetts General.
The emergency room is a zoo. The sharp smell of antiseptic stings my nose, and doctors in blue scrubs sprint past crowded waiting chairs while Christmas carols bleed quietly from a small radio at the nurses' station.
"I'm sorry, honey, but if you're not family, I can't let you back there," the receptionist says for the third time. She doesn't even look up from her computer screen, her acrylic nails clacking against the keyboard. "Hospital policy. Only immediate family."
"I brought him in," I plead, leaning against the cold high counter, my hands shaking from cold and leftover adrenaline. "He slipped outside my work. He hit his head really hard and—and he was bleeding, I just need to know if he's okay."
"Unless you're a wife, a sister, or a mother, you have to take a seat in the waiting area," she says firmly, pointing toward a sea of vinyl chairs filled with coughing patients.
I step back, my heart sinking all the way to my boots. I stand at the edge of the hallway, staring down the quiet, sterile corridor where they rolled Jeremiah's gurney minutes ago. I feel so small. So utterly irrelevant. He’s lying in a cold hospital room completely alone, and I’m just... the girl who poured his coffee.
I look up at the ceiling, swallowing down a sudden, ridiculous prickle of tears in my eyes.
"I can't believe this," I mutter under my breath, my voice barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent lights. "I was going to marry him."
A sharp beat of silence falls.
The nurse in front of me freezes. She blinks, looking at me, then down at her paperwork, then back at me with wide, sympathetic eyes.
"Oh, sweetheart," the nurse breathes, her entire demeanor instantly shifting from stern wall to warm maternal embrace. She places a hand on my trembling shoulder. "Why didn't you just say so? Come on. I'll take you right to him."
Before I can even process what just happened, she’s swipe-carding us through the heavy double doors of the ICU.
"He's right through here" she whispers gently, guiding me down the corridor. "He's stable, but he took a nasty bump. He's unconscious. We're waiting on his test results."
She pushes open the door to Room 109, and my breath hitches.
Jeremiah looks so small in the hospital bed. The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor fills the quiet room. His golden hair is damp, resting against a pale white pillow, and a white bandage is wrapped around his forehead.
"Take a seat, honey," the nurse says softly. "I'll let you have a few minutes with him."
"Wait, I—" I start, but the door clicks shut, leaving me standing in the center of the room.
I stand there for what feels like hours, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. I feel like an intruder. I reach out, my fingers hovering over his blanketed shoulder, wanting so badly to offer some kind of comfort, but I draw my hand back. You don't belong here, Belly, I tell myself. You need to tell them the truth and leave.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door bursts open, hitting the rubber wall-stopper with a loud bang.
"Jeremiah!"
A woman in an exquisite cashmere coat storms in, her hair perfectly styled despite the sheer panic on her face. A tall, distinguished-looking man in a tailored wool suit follows right behind her, looking severely shaken.
"Oh, my baby boy," the woman cries, rushing straight to the side of the bed. She buries her face near Jeremiah's shoulder, taking his hand in hers. "Adam, look at him. Oh God, is he going to be okay?"
"The doctor said he's stable, Susannah," the man—Adam—says, placing a steadying hand on his wife's shoulder, though his own jaw is set tight with worry.
Behind them, a teenage girl with a mass of reddish-brown curls framing a sharp, expressive face walks in, taking off her snow-dusted scarf and looking at—who must be—her brother with a mixture of shock and quiet concern.
They don't even see me. I'm practically pressed against the wall behind the door, rooted to the spot, holding my breath so hard my ribs ache. I should speak up. I should say Excuse me, I'm just leaving.
Then, the teenage girl's eyes sweep across the room—and land directly on me.
She blinks. "Um... Mom? Dad?"
Susannah turns around, wiping a tear from her cheek, and Adam frowns, finally noticing the girl standing in the corner wearing a grease-stained apron, canvas sneakers, and a sweater that’s far too thin for the weather outside.
Before I can open my mouth to explain, the door swings open again. The nurse from earlier steps inside holding a fresh chart.
"Oh, good, the family is here," the nurse says cheerfully, giving me a warm smile. "I was just making sure your son's fiancée was doing alright. She’s been by his side since the ambulance brought him in."
A silence so thick you could cut it with a butter knife drops over the room.
"His... what?" Adam asks, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes dart between the nurse and me.
"His fiancée," the nurse repeats calmly. "She's also the brave young woman who saved his life out on the street."
The younger sister snorts, her eyes gleaming with absolute amusement. "Jeremiah? Engaged? Since when?"
"Jeremiah never mentioned a fiancée..." Adam mutters, looking utterly bewildered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to clear a migraine. "Are you sure you have the right room?"
"I—I'm so sorry, there's been a huge—" I try to stammer out, stepping forward, my face burning.
"Oh, my sweet girl!"
Susannah doesn't let me finish. She gasps, her eyes lighting up with sudden, overwhelming warmth. In two quick strides, she closes the distance between us and throws her arms around me.
The scent of expensive jasmine perfume fills my nostrils. Her hug is so soft, so fierce, and so completely full of unconditional love that the breath is knocked right out of my lungs.
"You saved him," Susannah cries softly against my shoulder, holding me tight. "You saved my boy. Oh, thank God for you. Thank God he had you out there."
I freeze in her embrace, my hands hovering awkwardly in the air. The warmth radiating off her is intoxicating. It’s the kind of hug I haven't felt since my own mother passed away—a mother's hug. My throat tightens, a lump forming so fast it aches. I can't speak. I can't push her away.
Over Susannah's shoulder, I see the door open once more.
A tall man with kind eyes and a grey-dusted beard walks in, wearing a heavy tweed coat. He takes in the scene—Susannah clinging to me, Adam looking utterly lost, the younger sister trying not to laugh, and Jeremiah unconscious in the bed.
"Susannah, Adam," the man says softly, his voice rich and steady. "I got here as fast as I could. I saw the doctor in the hall."
"Cleveland!" Susannah turns, keeping one arm wrapped firmly around my waist, pulling me close to her side. "Cleveland, look! Jeremiah is going to be okay. And she saved his life! This is… this is his…"
Susannah pauses, looking down at me expectantly, waiting for the missing piece.
"I’m—umm, I'm his Isabel," I stammer out, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Belly. You can call me Belly."
"Belly is his fiancée!" Susannah whimpers tearfully.
Cleveland stops. His eyes lock onto mine. He takes in my wide, terrified expression and the sheer panic vibrating off me.
"Is that so? Well, we’re surely relieved to meet you, Belly," Cleveland says gently. Then he looks toward the doorway behind him, his expression shifting to something more solemn. "Where’s Conrad?"
"He was finalising a job in Salem," Adam says, sighing heavily as he rubs the bridge of his nose. "I left him a message."
My heart does a terrifying, erratic thud against my ribs. Great, another family member to lie to.
"I—I really should get going," I say quickly, taking a small step back toward the door and gesturing vaguely behind me. "I really don't want to be in the way—"
"Nonsense!" Susannah says, having absolutely none of it. She sweeps her eyes over my shivering frame, gasping softly, and immediately whips her own coat off her shoulders. Before I can object, she drapes it over my back like a heavy, warm blanket. "Darling, you must be freezing! You are not going anywhere. Agnes, go down to the cafeteria and get us some coffee, please."
"On it," Agnes says, giving me one last amused grin before slipping out into the hall.
Susannah wraps her arms around me again, pulling me tight against her side as we both stare at Jeremiah's quiet, sleeping face.
I look at the heavy door, now firmly closed behind Agnes, and swallow down the lump in my throat. The exit has been completely sealed.
I am officially, impossibly, trapped.