Emma had never thought of herself as the type to fall into routine with a man. Work had always been her rhythm, her excuse, her shield. But now—now her days seemed to have a new thread woven through them. His thread.
Week One – Carpool and Coffee
It started with carpool. Every morning, Adrian would be walking the trail, and Emma would roll her window down with a grin.
"Get in," she'd say.
He always hesitated, like he still wasn't used to being wanted this way, then climbed in with a muttered thanks.
Some mornings they stopped at McDonald's for drive-thru coffee. Some mornings she packed sandwiches, tossing him one before he could protest. Once, he surprised her by bringing fresh mangoes in a brown paper bag.
"I thought scientists ate granola bars," she teased.
"I thought doctors slept," he shot back.
It became their language—teasing, sharing, stealing glances over paper cups.
Week Two – Lunches and Laughter
By the second week, he no longer waited to be asked. At noon he'd appear in her office, leaning against the doorframe with his crooked smile.
"Lunch?"
They tried the cafeteria once, but the stares were unbearable. So they started escaping—to a small carinderia by the plaza, to Julie's for ensaymada, to the hospital gardens where the nurses pretended not to spy.
Emma laughed more in those days than she had in years. Adrian had a dry wit, quiet until it slipped out and caught her off guard. Once, she nearly choked on rice when he deadpanned about how hospital gowns were designed by sadists.
She began to notice the little things—the way his eyes crinkled when he really smiled, how he always pulled her chair out without thinking, how he never let her carry heavy bags.
Week Three – Evenings
By the third week, the routine stretched into evenings.
He walked her home from the hospital once or twice, their steps falling into an easy cadence. Sometimes he lingered on her porch, fixing a loose hinge, changing a light bulb, laughing when she accused him of making excuses to stay.
One night, they sat on her porch drinking instant coffee, the stars clear above. She told him about her patients, about the terror and joy of childbirth. He listened, head tilted, eyes intent. When she finally said, "Sometimes I wonder if I gave too much of my life to this," he reached for her hand and squeezed gently.
"You didn't give it away," he said softly. "You gave it to the right people. That matters."
Her throat tightened, and she kissed him first that night—just a brush, tentative but real. He kissed her back, longer, until she pulled away breathless.
Week Four – Crossing the Line
By the fourth week, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them. People whispered in the hospital corridors, but Emma stopped caring. She had never cared less in her life.
One Friday evening, she offered to drive him all the way back to his hut instead of dropping him at the trailhead. He hesitated, then agreed.
The path was quiet, the hut glowing faintly with lamplight. He looked at her, as if asking permission for something he couldn't name. She leaned over, kissed him, and this time didn't pull away.
The kiss deepened, slow and hungry. His hands trembled against her face, hers clutched at his shirt. When he finally whispered her name, raw and reverent, she knew she didn't want to stop.
They didn't.
Later, lying against him, her head on his chest, Emma felt more alive than she had in years. She was a little surprised, yes—at his strength, at his size, at how completely he seemed to overwhelm and cherish her at once. But she was also laughing inside, a kind of giddy awe.
"Was that…?" she began.
He tilted her chin, kissed her nose. "More than you expected?"
She blushed and buried her face against him. "Something like that."
He chuckled low, holding her tighter. For the first time in decades, he let himself believe in simple happiness.
The Routine Settles
And so the weeks passed. Morning car rides. McDonald's coffee. Lunches outside hospital walls. Evenings on her porch. Nights that sometimes ended with kisses, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with silence that spoke louder than both.
Emma had chosen him. And with every day, every touch, every glance, Adrian chose her right back.
Neither spoke of what lay hidden in the forest. Not yet.
But both knew the time was coming.