Six Months Earlier [POV: Abigail]
The restaurant hums with low chatter, soft candlelight flickering between tables, the scent of grilled steak and rosemary filling the air. It’s the kind of place that feels intimate without trying too hard—warm, inviting, a good choice for a first date.
I should be here, fully present, enjoying this moment. I should want to be here.
But my mind is elsewhere.
I stare at my plate, absently twirling my fork through a mound of creamy mashed potatoes. Across the table, Nate talks about something—his latest case, a funny story from his residency, maybe something about his sister’s kids—but his words barely register.
Because all I can think about is him.
Vincent.
The man I loved for seven years. The man who promised me forever. The man who threw me away like I was nothing.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not now. Not when Nate is sitting across from me, waiting, trying. But the memory of Vincent standing outside the hospital earlier today lingers like a ghost, refusing to let go.
I see him too clearly—the way his broad shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of regret, the bouquet of white tulips clutched in his hands, snowflakes melting in his dark hair.
It should have felt like justice. Karma.
He left me for a woman carrying his supposed child, and in the end, it was all a lie. He burned our life to the ground for nothing.
And yet…
If karma was real, why did my chest ache like this?
A soft clink pulls me back. I blink, realizing Nate has set his fork down, watching me.
“So,” he says, his voice even, but there’s something else beneath it—something careful. “Is he your ex?”
I jolt. “W-what?”
“The guy waiting for you earlier,” Nate says simply, studying me with quiet patience. “That was your ex, right? The one who got a stripper pregnant?”
My stomach twists. “How do you know about that?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Abigail, the hospital is a beehive
I exhale, setting my fork down, my appetite long gone. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Do you still love him?”
The question lands between us like a brick, heavy and impossible to ignore.
I want to say no.
I want to say hell no, absolutely not.
I want to remind myself of everything Vincent did—the betrayal, the way he tossed me aside for another woman, the way he barely fought for me. He chose
Except now he
And I hate that a part of me still cares.
Nate doesn’t press. He just watches, waiting, giving me space to decide how honest I want to be.
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “I know I need to move on. It’s just…”
“You don’t know how,” he finishes for me, not unkindly.
I nod, grateful that he understands without me having to explain.
“Aby,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You know you’re more than your past, right? There’s no one who can help you move on but you.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and force a small smile. “I know. Can we just… not talk about it, please?”
“Of course.” Nate leans back, drumming his fingers against the table. There’s a beat of silence before he says, almost casually, “If you only knew how much you could mean to someone.”
The words send a shiver through me. I look up, meeting his gaze, and there’s no hesitation there. No doubt.
“I like you, Aby,” he says simply.
A soft, humorless chuckle escapes me. “Yeah? I’m not sure you’d still feel the same if you knew I’m…” I stop, pressing my lips together, but the words are already lingering in the air between us, unfinished and unavoidable.
Nate tilts his head. “Pregnant?”
My chest tightens. “You know?”
He nods, smiling just a little. “Of course. Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”
I can only stare at him.
He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal to me, Aby. And that’s one thing about me—I know exactly what I want.” His gaze sharpens, steady and unwavering. “Now you can choose to stay and have this dinner with me, or you can go and run back to him.”
The restaurant hums around us, but all I hear is my own heartbeat.
It’s an obvious
Nate is good. He’s stable, kind. He makes me laugh when I least expect it. He sees me.
But…
He’s not Vincent.
My fingers tighten around my napkin. I hate that the thought even crosses my mind, but it’s there, lingering like a ghost of the past I can’t shake.
Nate doesn’t push. Instead, he reaches out, fingers brushing against mine before gently squeezing my hand.
“Or,” he says softly, “you can give this a chance and see where it leads.”
I look at our hands—at the way his thumb skims across my knuckles, careful, patient.
Maybe this is the better choice.
Maybe Nate won’t break me the way Vincent did.
Maybe he could be the one.
I take a breath and let it out slowly. Then, with deliberate movement, I curl my fingers around his.
“Okay,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
Nate smiles, not triumphant, just… warm.
So I stay.
And I try.
Even as I push back the memory of Vincent in my mind.
