The evening dragged on with stubborn slowness. Outside the windows of The Goose and Scepter Grill and Lounge, downtown churned with life—traffic snarled, headlights crawled, and people from every walk of life hurried past, minds consumed with last‑minute Christmas errands. One shopping day left until Christmas.

The front door chimed open every few minutes. Chase sat alone with his steak and potatoes, idly pushing his fork through the food. He had been hungry when he arrived, but the longer he waited, the more his appetite dissolved beneath the weight of his thoughts. The next two days loomed over him. This Christmas would be his first alone. His father—the last of his family—had died over the summer, and Chase had only recently begun to accept that reality.

His romantic life was equally barren. He hadn’t had a meaningful relationship in more than five years. Caring for his father had consumed everything—time, energy, hope. Lung cancer had taken him, and the treatments had been as brutal as the disease itself. After the first round, his father never regained real strength.

In the chaos of those years, Chase’s career had crumbled. Now he was trying to rebuild it, though the climb felt impossibly steep. He knew he’d have to face it eventually, but for now he was surviving on his father’s life‑insurance payout. Five hundred thousand dollars sounded like a lot until it wasn’t. Paying off his modest two‑hundred‑thousand‑dollar mortgage and his car had helped, but it hadn’t left much.

Finances, though, were the last thing on his mind tonight. He couldn’t bring himself to care. His thoughts circled only two things—pity and loneliness. Those twin burdens gnawed at him, carving restless hollows in his mind.

He twirled his fork through the potatoes, debating the shape of his evening. Should he find a hookup just to quiet the ache for human touch? Did he even have the heart for that anymore? The idea made him wince. He’d had plenty of hookups in the past, but it had been a long time. His father had fallen ill three years ago, and at first the decline was slow. His dad could still manage on his own, mostly. He stayed in his apartment for the first few months. But Chase saw the signs. Finding him still in bed at two in the afternoon. Noticing untouched pills sitting in the weekly planner on the dining table. Seeing him wear the same clothes for days.

Chase began stopping by daily—first to check on medication, then to help with showers, clean clothes, brushing teeth. It became a ritual. Before work at first. Then after work. Eventually at lunch too. By then, his father needed round‑the‑clock care.

And that was when Chase’s job finally began to fall apart. Neither he nor his father could afford assisted living or an in‑home care agency, and with no one else to lean on, the responsibility fell entirely on Chase.

His father received a monthly Social Security check and had a small amount of savings. Chase had never lived extravagantly; his only real expenses were his mortgage, his car, and the basics of day‑to‑day life. When his father moved in, at least the burden of rent disappeared. And since driving was no longer an option, Chase sold his father’s car to help cover groceries and utilities. Still, Chase had no income of his own. He lived off his father’s Social Security, guilt gnawing at him every time he used it. But there was no alternative. There was no one else to stay with his father.

Most days blurred together—YouTube videos, television, and the constant rhythm of caregiving. Changing his father. Administering medication. Feedings at nine, one, and five. Pushing fluids throughout the day. Bed baths every night. Turning him every couple of hours, just as the hospice nurse instructed, to prevent bedsores.

He had no one to talk to. His father was completely unresponsive, breathing but vacant, and when his eyes did open, they drifted past Chase as though he weren’t even there. Watching that hollow gaze broke him in ways he couldn’t articulate—an experience thousands endure every day, but one that still felt uniquely cruel in the quiet of his own home.

Chase looked up from his plate and settled back in his chair, slipping into one of his favorite pastimes: people‑watching. He wasn’t nosy or meddlesome—he simply found people endlessly fascinating. His introversion kept him tucked inside his shell, but it also gave him an advantage. He noticed things others missed. He could read people or at least imagine the stories they carried as they drifted past.

A woman in a red coat and a large burgundy scarf draped elegantly over her shoulders strode by. Chase imagined she was a dance instructor just released for Christmas break, already anticipating a week of hosting and parties she adored every year. Her smile was bright, reaching all the way to her eyes—genuine, warm, unforced. As she approached a table where a tall, thin man in a dark trench coat sat with two children—a boy of ten and a girl of six—her hand lifted in greeting. All three waved back with unfiltered excitement. Her family, clearly. Chase pictured her driving a sleek black BMW and living in a posh neighborhood on the outskirts of town.

Then an elderly couple whisked past. They didn’t radiate the same joy. Chase imagined the man as grumpy, the type who barked at his wife over small things. The woman carried a heaviness in her face; her wrinkles looked like they held entire chapters of her life. He pictured them retired—she a former teacher, he an engineer—with a comfortable nest egg and a tidy financial life. He could see it in the way they carried themselves.

As they passed, the woman clipped the back of Chase’s chair with her hip. She shot him a sharp look and muttered something under her breath. Chase flinched—not from the bump, but from the flicker of worry that he couldn’t hide. A tightness. A bracing. He kept his gaze fixed on his food, as if refusing to witness whatever might follow.

At their table, the woman’s companion pulled out her chair with gentle precision. She sat heavily and immediately launched into a tirade about his driving. Chase watched them with a strained sort of focus, like someone waiting for a storm to break. But the man only nodded, smoothing his napkin across his lap, patient and wordless.

The woman dropped her purse beside her chair. The strap slipped unnoticed into the aisle. A passing patron caught their foot in it, yanking the purse across the floor and scattering its contents—lipstick, compact, wallet—like a burst of color against the tile.

The woman gasped, then snapped at the stranger as they knelt to help. She bent down at the same time, and their foreheads collided with a dull thud. She yelped, shoved the stranger away, and rubbed her brow while scooping her things back into the purse.

“Just get away from me,” she hissed.

Chase let out a breath he’d been holding. His shoulders eased. Whatever he’d been expecting… thankfully, it could have been much worse. And honestly, she seemed to have earned that one.

The door chimed, snapping Chase’s attention toward the entrance. A man—Twenty-five, maybe twenty‑seven—stepped inside. He was dressed with meticulous precision: a dark suit vest over a crisp white button‑up, an expensive silk tie tucked neatly into the vest and perfectly pressed pleated slacks. His hair was styled with deliberate care, his dark beard trimmed to a clean, sharp line. He was fit, but not in a showy way—just enough to suggest discipline.

The shoes caught his eye: a pair of Berluti Oxfords, their deep, hand‑finished patina catching the warm restaurant lighting. Shoes like that weren’t just bought—they were chosen.

The man moved with an easy, unforced confidence, arms relaxed at his sides as he approached the hostess. His gaze swept the room with quiet awareness while she took his information, as if he was cataloging the space without meaning to.

Chase imagined him as an investment banker. Or maybe a high‑powered attorney. Then, inexplicably, the word cardiologist drifted through his mind. He wasn’t sure why that one stuck, but it did.

As the man waited for the hostess to seat him, his eyes met Chase’s. The connection hit Chase like a jolt. They held each other’s gaze far longer than he was comfortable with, yet he couldn’t look away. Something fluttered low in his stomach, a strange, unsteady warmth, and he cleared his throat just as the hostess walked by.

A musky, woodsy scent drifted passed as he walked to his table—rich, grounding, almost intoxicating. For a moment, Chase felt transported into the deep quietness of a forest, wrapped in the essence of this stranger.

The man offered him a small smile, and the subtle nod strangers give when acknowledging something they can’t quite name. When he reached his table, the hostess tried to pull out the chair that would place his back toward Chase, but he gently declined. Instead, he chose the seat facing Chase directly. A detail Chase thought odd.

A prickle of discomfort slid through Chase, mingling with something else—something curious, something he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Intrigue settled in his chest like a slow‑burning ember.

Chase shifted in his seat and took a long sip of his Cabernet. Across the room, the man opened his menu and scanned it, though every so often his eyes drifted over the top edge and met Chase’s. Each glance sent a jolt through Chase’s chest. Desperate to look occupied, he stabbed his fork toward a piece of steak—only to miss. Instead of spearing it, he struck the plate at an angle, hurling the chunk of meat into the air. It arced gracefully before landing on the floor beside the next table. The couple that sat there was not amused.

Panic surged. Chase snatched his napkin, scooped up the rogue piece of beef, and dropped back into his seat, mortified. He smoothed his slacks with trembling hands and set his fork down as if nothing had happened.

Was that… a chuckle? Did that man actually laugh at him? God, I hope he’s not mocking me. That wouldn’t be good for him. I need to leave before something happens. But Chase couldn’t leave. He was glued to his seat for some reason.

Without turning his head, Chase let his eyes drift to the edge of his vision. The man was watching him openly now, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, a faint shudder of laughter rolling through his shoulders. But the laughter wasn’t judgmental or cruel. It was warm. It was genuinely amused, friendly.

Chase, however, felt nothing but humiliation. He wanted to crawl under the table and live there forever.

He reached for his glass again, hoping a sip of Cabernet might steady him. But his trembling fingers grazed the rim instead of gripping it, and the glass toppled. Wine splashed across the table, soaked into his chair, and cascaded onto the floor. His horror solidified into something cold and paralyzing.

He lunged for his napkin, but in the frantic sweep of his hand, he clipped the edge of his plate. The entire thing launched off the table like a frisbee. Food scattered in every direction—potatoes splattering across his pant legs and the carpet, his remaining steak skidding past his shoes and coming to rest two tables away, near the man who had been watching him with those laughing eyes.

Only now, the laughter was gone. Concern softened the man’s expression, his brows lifting slightly as if he were witnessing a small tragedy unfold. He took no pleasure in Chase’s humiliation.

Chase froze, hands suspended uselessly in the air, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan. The restaurant had gone quiet around him—or maybe that was just his shame roaring in his ears. Everyone was watching him.

Then the man stood. Everyone’s eyes followed him.

He rose slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a startled animal. Stepping around his table, he bent down and retrieved the runaway steak with a napkin. When he straightened, he looked directly at Chase—really looked at him—with an expression that held equal parts sympathy and something Chase couldn’t quite name.

Is he… is he actually coming over here? Oh my god, he is.

“Rough night?” the man asked gently, his voice low and warm, carrying just enough humor to soften the blow without adding to the humiliation.

Chase swallowed hard, wishing the floor would open and swallow him whole.

The man set the steak back onto the plate in front of Chase and offered a soft smile.

“Would you care to join me for dinner?” the man asked, his expression brightening with hopeful warmth.