It’s been a little over a month since that night at Le Petit Jardin, and some days, it feels like a lifetime ago. Other days, it’s like no time has passed at all, the pain still fresh, lurking just beneath the surface.
At first, I didn’t think I’d make it through. The mornings were the hardest — waking up and remembering that my life wasn’t the same, that Vincent was gone, that everything we’d planned was over. But with Evie’s support, I started to find my footing again.
“You don’t need him,” Evie said to me one evening as we sat in her cozy living room, surrounded by the comforting scent of chamomile tea. “You’ve got this, and I’ll be here every step of the way.”
She was right. I didn’t need Vincent. I could raise this baby on my own, and I’d do whatever it took to give them a happy, stable life. The realization didn’t come all at once, but it was there, growing stronger with each passing day.
Back at the hospital, life slowly started to feel normal again — busy schedules, patients, paperwork.
The morning light streams through the hospital windows as I adjust my white coat, straightening my name badge: Dr. Abigail Jones, Obstetrics & Gynecology. No engagement ring catching the light anymore.
Just me, my unborn child, and a future I never planned for.
The hospital corridors feel different at dawn. Quieter. Like they’re holding their breath. I pause at the nurses’ station, one hand unconsciously resting on my still—flat stomach beneath my scrubs.
Twelve weeks. The secret grows inside me, alongside the wreckage of what Vincent and I once were.
“Earth to Abigail.” Evie waves a coffee cup in front of my face. Decaf, because she remembers even when I forget. “You’re doing that thousand—yard stare again.”
“Just tired.” The lie comes easily now.
“Tired, or avoiding the gorgeous new attending who can’t take his eyes off you?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not interested in—”
As if summoned by her words, Dr. Nathaniel Wood, a new obstetrician, appears around the corner.
“Dr. Jones.” His voice carries down the hallway. “Got a minute?”
My heart stutters, which is ridiculous. I’m a professional. A doctor. Not some lovesick teenager.
But when he falls into step beside me, the scent of his cologne mixing with hospital antiseptic, something inside me awakens.
His handshake is warm, confident. Nothing like Vincent’s… No. I won’t go there.
“There’s a complex case I’d like your opinion on,” he says, but his eyes linger on mine a moment too long.
We review patient files together, our shoulders nearly touching in the small consultation room. His fingers brush mine as he passes charts, and each contact sends electricity through my skin.
He was introduced during one morning staff meeting: tall, dark—haired, with a disarming smile that seemed to light up the room.
“I’m Nate Wood,” he said, his voice warm and confident. “It’s great to be here. I look forward to working with all of you.”
I didn’t think much of him at first. He was two years younger than me, and I was too focused on staying professional and keeping my personal life tucked away where it couldn’t interfere. But over the weeks, Nate surprised me.
He had a way of putting everyone at ease, whether it was with a quick joke in the break room or the way he spoke to nervous patients, his tone always kind and reassuring. The nurses adored him, but he remained strictly professional, never letting things get too personal.
We bonded over pottery, of all things. One day, as I was finishing up a consultation, he stopped by my office, spotting a clay mug on my desk.
“Did you make that?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting in genuine interest.
I nodded, smiling despite myself. “It’s a hobby. Something to clear my mind.”
“I dabble in pottery too,” he said, grinning. “Though, I’ll admit, most of my pieces end up looking like lopsided bowls.”
From that moment on, our conversations grew more frequent, slipping into an easy rhythm. We talked about everything from our favorite glazes to the best techniques for centering clay on the wheel.
Nate was charming, no doubt about it. But I couldn’t ignore the growing affection in the way he spoke to me or how his gaze lingered just a little longer than necessary. At first, I told myself I was imagining it. When he started showing subtle signs of interest — compliments, casual touches, small gestures — I tried to ignore them.
I couldn’t afford to get distracted. Not now. And there was my pregnancy to consider. He didn’t know, and I was certain it would scare him off if he found out anyway.
Still, I couldn’t help but enjoy our interactions. His presence was comforting, his laughter infectious. He made me feel… normal again.
After weeks of carefully skirting around the growing tension between us, Nate casually invited me to dinner.
“It’s not work—related,” he said with a teasing grin that made my chest ache in the most confusing way. “Just dinner. No pressure.”
I said yes before I could overthink it.
The restaurant he chose was charming and warm, with flickering candles on the tables and soft music humming in the background. It felt more personal than I expected, and for a moment, I hesitated at the door.
But when I saw Nate waiting at the table, his easy smile chasing away any second thoughts, I found myself walking toward him with a surprising sense of calm.
He looked different out of his scrubs — more relaxed, yet somehow even more put together. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and his normally tousled hair looked neatly combed.
“Glad you made it,” he said, standing as I approached. He pulled out my chair, his hands briefly brushing the back of mine as I sat down.
“Fancy place,” I joked, trying to mask my nerves.
“I figured you deserved something nice.” His eyes softened, and for a moment, I thought he might say more, but he simply handed me a menu.
The conversation flowed easily, filled with the kind of lighthearted banter I hadn’t had in months.
“So, you’re telling me you failed anatomy class in university?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.
“Twice,” Nate admitted with a sheepish grin. “The professor said I had ‘unrealized potential,’ but I think she just wanted me out of her class.”
I laughed — really laughed — for the first time in what felt like forever. The sound startled me, almost as if it had come from someone else.
Nate leaned forward, his gaze warm and steady. “I like it when you laugh,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re so beautiful when your smile reaches your eyes.”
His words stopped me in my tracks. My instinct was to deflect, to push the compliment aside, but something in the way he said it — earnest, without expectation — made me pause.
“Thank you,” I murmured, my cheeks warming.
As the night wore on, I found myself sharing more than I intended. Nate had a way of listening that made me feel seen, his questions thoughtful but never intrusive.
When he joked about how many hours I spent obsessing over patients’ charts, I teased him right back. When he shared stories about his family, I listened, grateful for the chance to focus on someone else’s life for a change.
The walls I’d built around myself over the past few months began to soften, little by little.
By the time dessert arrived, I realized something I hadn’t dared to before: I felt happy.
And maybe, just maybe, I could let myself feel that way again.
