Waking in a cold bed without Ella was unacceptable, but I didn’t have a say in the matter. Somehow, I’d wrapped my arm around her pillow, and I suspected that was her doing. It was like last night was a fantasy come to life, only for morning’s harsh light to illuminate the truth of the matter.
She was my fantasy. I wasn’t hers.
I shook my head at myself while staring over the beach from the balcony. The connection between us was too strong for her to have pretended, and I knew for certain she hadn’t faked her orgasms, so why did she leave me without a word?
I didn’t understand.
And without her phone number, I never would.
At least she had left her scent behind on the sheets. Vanilla, sugar, and her. I’d never smell cookies or cake the same way again.
Perhaps this was all she wanted from me—a night of passion after a bad breakup. Something to soothe the hurt I heard in her voice when she spoke of her ex-boyfriend, the bastard. I hoped I gave her what she needed. She had certainly done that for me.
I should have been glad for the experience, and I was, but I had wanted more.
Truly, no matter how much waking up alone stung, it wasn’t personal. We hadn’t gotten to know each other well enough for this to be personal. She got what she wanted, and so did I. To an extent.
Until this morning. I had hoped for another round or two this morning. But I supposed it was not meant to be. We had spent my last night here together, which would have to be enough.
It had been a long time since I’d slept next to someone. The comfort found in the arms of another person was unique to that person, but still a comfort all the same. It didn’t matter that we had been strangers, and to a degree, we still were. Spooning Ella had soothed something raw inside of me. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it did.
Packing my suitcase was a mechanical process, my movements automatic as the vibrant memories of the night replayed in my mind. Her laughter, the way she quaked under me. Laying in bed and talking about life or talking about nothing at all. The silent seconds of merely touching, before we started up again. Every moment with Ella had been special.
The tropical paradise that had seemed so inviting now felt empty, a sandy stage for a play that had ended too soon. The palm trees swayed outside my window, their silhouettes a stark contrast against the midmorning sky. This picturesque scene now felt like mockery.
I was both glad for my night with Ella and also glad to be leaving. I wouldn’t feel grounded again until I was home.
But in New York, the city slammed into me like a steel door—horns blaring, crowds pressing in, the chaos too loud and too fast. Same old streets. Same old skyline. But everything felt…off. My high-rise apartment, once a badge of success, now felt like a glass box. A gilded cage.
I set my bags down and stared at the skyline. Concrete. Steel. Miles of cold indifference.
Nothing grounded me here—not when I could still feel Ella’s warmth pressed into my skin.
I shouldn’t have thought of my hometown that way, but it was hard not to. Perhaps not a cage, but a maze, and somewhere in the labyrinth was a woman who vexed me. The poet chef who gave into every one of my base instincts. Not merely gave into them, but enjoyed them as much as I did.
I would never meet another woman like her. It wasn’t possible. Last night was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Better to have that memory than to have nothing at all. Wasn’t it?
I slept fitfully and woke up with my arm over the second pillow, a hollow imitation of the day before. I shoved that pillow off and got out of bed. There were lives to save. Another day, another night, another shift in the ED.
First day back after vacation, and the walls of the hospital already felt like they were closing in.
The moment I stepped through the staff entrance, the familiar scent of antiseptic hit me like a punch to the gut. Monitors beeped in rapid rhythm, gurneys squeaked along polished floors, and someone somewhere shouted for a crash cart.
Home sweet home.
A few heads turned as I passed the nurses’ station. The newer ones offered soft smiles, subtle glances that lingered just a little too long. One even straightened her scrubs and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as I walked by, eyes raking over me like I was on the menu.
I didn’t slow down.
Let them look. I had shit to do—and none of it involved making small talk or entertaining flirtations I didn’t want.
My name was already on three cases. Two consults. One post-op check. The trauma board was a mess, the breakroom coffee was burnt, and someone had the audacity to use my favorite pen.
I powered through the first two hours on muscle memory. Consult, cut, close. Another wrist to set, another abdominal scan to read, another page from upstairs. It should’ve grounded me—usually it did. But my mind kept drifting.
Back to the island.
Back to her.
To the taste of salt on her skin. The sound she made when I slid inside her. The way she whispered Dom like it meant something.
“Mortoli,” a voice snapped from behind.
I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“Seth,” I said, glancing back.
There he stood—arms crossed, self-satisfied as ever. His white coat was spotless, his smirk polished. “Your name’s been off the trauma board too long. Thought maybe you forgot how to hold a scalpel.”
“I didn’t realize skill expired with vacation days,” I muttered.
He fell in beside me, his smugness practically leaving a slime trail. “Some of us stayed behind and saved lives. Admins noticed. Big case last week. Kid coded twice, I brought him back.”
“Great,” I said flatly. “Someone bake you a cake?”
He chuckled. “Just thought you’d want to keep up. Would hate for you to fall behind now. Especially with the admin role opening up.”
I shot him a look. “You mean the one I’m still leading for?”
His grin tightened. “Not for long.”
I walked away before I said something that’d get me written up.
The rest of the day bled by in a blur. Patients in, patients out. Bones snapped, sutures stitched. Nurses whispered behind clipboards. Another attending asked if I was okay—apparently, I wasn’t my usual self.
No shit.
Because behind every heartbeat, every diagnosis, every rush of adrenaline, one thought refused to leave me.
Ella.
Where the hell had she gone?
And why couldn’t I stop hoping I’d find her somehow.
New York City was unlike how the TV shows and films made it seem. People didn’t incidentally run into each other all the time. You might see the same people in a diner every day, or see the same people in your neighborhood, but in a city of nearly nine million people, you were highly unlikely to run into your holiday hookup.
And if I ran into her, what would I say? Long time no see? Why’d you leave without so much as a word to me? Would you like to get a cup of coffee sometime? When can I fuck you again? The possibilities were endless, and none of it mattered because I’d never get to ask my questions. Whatever was between us was only for that night.
After a long day, the fatigue of mental and physical demands weighed heavily on me. I wasn’t ready to be back at work and needed a release, a moment to disconnect. From myself as much as from the hospital.
I found my way to a familiar upscale bar, the kind where the clink of glasses punctuated sophisticated conversations. Stockbrokers and lawyers usually crammed the spot, but tonight, it was only half full for some reason.
Maybe today was a holiday and the world forgot to tell me. It was like that in the ED until holiday injuries started to pour in. I checked my phone to see if I’d missed another holiday. No—but it was one of the days the stock market was closed, so I assumed everyone else in here was a lawyer.
The bar was dimly lit, with plush leather seats and dark wood paneling, exuding an air of exclusivity. Ordering a Halekulani—the drink that Ella had introduced my shirt to—felt like a salute to her memory.
As I sipped the sweet, complex cocktail, I could almost taste the salty air of the tropics. I shouldn’t have ordered it. The drink only made me miss her more. But sometimes, a little pain made a memory bittersweet instead of just bitter.
A heavy perfume wafted over me, and a feminine voice said, “I couldn’t help but notice you seem all alone. Care to change that?”
I glanced to my left to find a classically beautiful woman standing there. She was tall with sleek gold-toned brunette hair and a graceful manner that matched the bar’s upscale vibe. Her dress was elegant, a simple black number that hinted at curves without revealing much. Thin. Painfully so. In this city, she was as likely to be a model as an accountant.
She was all sharp angles and gloss.
Not like Ella.
Ella was warmth. Ella was weight and softness, laughter and poetry.
This woman was a glossy magazine spread. Ella was art.
I took in the polished exterior and the expectant tilt of her head. Something about her reminded me of the women I used to pursue—confident, near my age, perfectly put together. But tonight, her presence was an unwelcome interruption to my thoughts. I preferred my melancholy over her company.
‘Thank you, but I’m not interested,’ I said firmly, my tone leaving no room for further discussion.
She wasn’t Ella. She didn’t have Ella’s wild laugh or the soft curves I couldn’t stop imagining beneath my hands. This woman was sleek and polished. Ella had been messy and alive—real.
No one else stood a chance tonight.
She lingered a beat longer than necessary, eyes scanning mine for some sign of regret. Maybe she expected me to cave, to flash a smile and ask what she was drinking. But I didn’t. I kept my expression flat, my body still. Eventually, her heels clicked back toward her table, sharper than before. Annoyed, maybe. Surprised. Either way, she was gone.
I turned back to my whiskey, let the sounds of the bar dull to a low, ambient thrum. Laughter in the far booth, glasses clinking at the bar. A game played silently on the mounted TV above the shelves.
The drink was smoother than I expected. A slow burn down my throat that didn’t match the one gnawing in my chest.
I’d gone to the island to get some perspective, to breathe away from the fluorescent hell of the hospital and the daily pissing match with Seth Bowan. But here I was, back in the ring, day one post-vacation, wondering why the hell I cared about climbing a ladder that felt more like a noose.
Maybe it was just the mood. Long day. Long year.
Or maybe it was Leo.
I took another sip, jaw tight. I hadn’t spoken to my son since before the trip—not really. Our last conversation had ended with me snapping and him slamming the door behind him. Typical. He needed help, and I’d run out of ways to say it. Out of ways to fix it.
I’d considered extreme measures more than once—those shadowy intervention outfits that specialized in dragging addicts into recovery centers. But I couldn’t do it. Not like that. Leo didn’t need a cage; he needed a reason to change. And I didn’t know if he still saw me as one.
My reflection stared back at me from the amber liquid in my glass—calm, composed, nothing like how I felt inside.
Because even now, even here, in the low light of a bar meant for forgetting things, she was there.
Ella.
The way her voice had curled around a line of poetry. The way her skin had tasted under my hands. The way she made me feel young and raw and completely fucking unprepared for what came next.
If she’d lived anywhere else—if she’d just been a passing spark on a distant island—I could have let her go.
But she was here.
In my city.
In my head.
And if I didn’t see her again soon, I was going to come undone.
