Page 22 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

“Can I ask you something?” she suddenly inquires.

“You just did,” I tease, hastily swallowing a piece of bread soaked in Gorgonzola sauce.

“There's been rumors for weeks that you're leaving New York,” she whispers.

“For weeks?”

“Well, I might have asked about you a few times before we started talking,” she admits, blushing.

“Boston's offering better pay,” I confess.

“So you're leaving?”

“I told them no. I'm staying in New York.”

“Is it because of the coffee at Watson Memorial?”

“And because of a certain brilliant doctor who makes nurses cry but saves seven-year-old girls' lives and isn't afraid of snowstorms,” I acknowledge with a wink.

“I don't make nurses cry.”

“But you are kind of strict, and they're sometimes afraid of you. Well, often.”

“You're impossible. You've left me speechless. I don't even know what to say.”

“I hope you'll at least say you want to try this with me because otherwise, I'm making a bad business decision staying,” I joke, shrugging.

The kiss she gives me is interrupted by Marco again, bringing us the house's famous tiramisu, which we also didn't order, insisting on taking a photo with us for the restaurant's Instagram.

Hand in hand as we walk toward her apartment, Manhattan's streets seem different. It's strange how everything changes when you're with someone who matters.

“This is it,” she announces, stopping in front of a red-brick building. “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”

“Is that what they're calling it these days?”

“You're quite the comedian tonight. You're starting to sound like Arya. But truthfully, I'd like you to spend the night,” she confesses, her voice lowering as a slight blush colors her cheeks.

Her apartment is exactly as I expected — meticulously organized, minimalist, yet somehow warm and inviting. Several medical journals rest in neat stacks on the dining table, and a framed photo hangs on one wall. The same one from her office, but larger. Laura and her as children.

“Sorry if it's a bit messy,” she apologizes. “Nobody usually comes in here,” she admits, vaguely gesturing around with her finger.

“Messy? Wow! You should see my apartment. That's what I call messy.”

Sitting on the couch, fingers intertwined between kisses and gentle caresses, we talk about everything and nothing. Our families, our dreams. Our fears too. Alexia tells me about her childhood in Connecticut, about the pressure to succeed, about the emotional distance she turned into her shield. I describe growing up in a small Brooklyn house with five brothers, all boys. About the pain of losing my only sister, about the peace I find when I'm flying.

As the night progresses, our conversation becomes more intimate. We discuss our fears, the vulnerabilities we try to hide. Alexia confesses her fear of failure, of not being good enough because of the insecurities her mother instilled in her since childhood. I admit my fear of losing someone else,of not being able to protect them. It's strange how easy it is to be honest with her, to lower my guard and show her the parts of myself I usually keep hidden.

I acknowledge I came up to her apartment thinking about sex, but somehow, this is even more intimate. And as we drift off to sleep, her head resting on my chest, I'm starting to be certain that I've finally found the perfect place to land.

Chapter 13

Alexia

“Blood pressure's dropping dangerously, 85/50,” Miguel announces while we work on repairing the aortic valve of our patient — just a child, really. Her skin is pale as winter moonlight under the harsh operating room lights.

“Come on, Katie,” I whisper, my gloved fingers steady despite the tension coiling in my chest. “Just a little longer. Your mom's waiting to show you the snow.”

“Dr. Winters?” One of the residents catches my attention, his voice trembling with concern. “Should we consider putting her back on cardiopulmonary bypass?”