The shrill sound of her ringtone slices through the thick fog in Elena Hartley's head. It takes her a second, maybe more, to understand where she is. The light streaming through the half-open curtains is unfamiliar softer than her own bedroom's, but the headache pounding through her skull demands more immediate attention.
Her fingers grope around the bed, searching for the phone that seems to be screaming from a corner it has no business being in. She finds it wedged between the couch cushion and Iris's throw blanket, just as the call cuts off.
Another groan escapes her lips. She presses the screen with squinted eyes, still too dazed to focus.
Seven missed calls.
All from Monica, her team supervisor at the library.
"Elena!" Monica's voice bursts through as she returns the call, clearly already mid-rant. "Where are you? Are you okay? The manager's been asking. You were supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago! I tried Iris but she said she's in the shower. I....".
"I overslept," Elena croaks, her voice dry like gravel. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"You better," Monica snaps. "And splash some water on your face. You sound like you died and came back."
The call ends before she can reply.
Her heart sinks, guilt quickly replacing the remains of sleep. Groaning again, she throws off the blanket and scrambles to her feet, her socks slipping slightly on the hardwood floor. Her body protests every movement, with her back sore, her legs stiff, and her temples still throbbing.
Bits and flashes of the previous night return in splintered fragments. A girls' night with Iris, comprising of cheap wine, old rom-coms, a half-hearted attempt at dancing in the living room, and… shots? God, there were shots.
She finds her shoes near the entryway and shoves them on without bothering to fix the laces. Her coat is half-hung on the back of a chair. Her bag is missing entirely.
It takes five minutes to brush her teeth with a spare toothbrush in Iris's bathroom, splash her face with cold water, and pin her curls into a loose, shaky bun. Her makeup is a smudge of last night's eyeliner and the faintest tint of gloss. She doesn't have time to care.
By the time she bursts out of Iris's apartment, her stomach flips again, this time, not from alcohol, but panic. The bus stop is a block away, just down the hill, and past the intersection that splits the old cobblestone street and the busier stretch of road near town center.
The air is crisp, the snow a patchy layer beneath her feet. It's the kind of snow that's thinning with the promise of spring, slushy at the edges, uneven where footprints have sunk deep. She pulls her coat tighter around herself, shivering as the breeze cuts through her leggings.
Her legs move on autopilot, barely steady, and her vision swims as she stumbles across the crosswalk. Her hands grasp at the air for balance, the world tilting and straightening again.
Across the street, just behind the wide glass windows of Hale's Wellness Pharmacy, Nathaniel Hale pauses mid-sentence. He's restocking the display shelves when his gaze catches something, rather, someone out the window.
There, wobbling near the curb like a newborn deer, is a woman with a tousled bun and panic in her steps. Her gait is fast but uncertain, and she seems to be talking to herself as she scans the intersection. She sways slightly, a hand gripping the edge of the streetlight pole for balance.
Nathaniel's mouth lifts at one corner.
She's clearly hung-over. Possibly late. Likely regretting all of last night.
Still, something about her amuses him. Maybe it's the frantic energy. Maybe it's the determined set of her jaw as she tries to flag the incoming bus while holding her head like it's about to split open.
He doesn't think much of it until she spins around and disappears into the pharmacy a moment later.
- - - -
Nathaniel Hale has always found comfort in the quiet rhythms of his mornings. The gentle chime of the doorbell, the soft hum of fluorescent lights, the shuffle of feet on linoleum, and the constant, calming motion of sorting pills into tiny, precise compartments. The morning rush is just slowing down, and for once, no one's asking questions they could've goggled.
Behind the polished wooden counter of Hale's Wellness Pharmacy, he moves methodically. White coat pressed, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the lean stretch of his forearms, he's restocking a tray of flu tablets when something unusual catches his eye through the large front windows.
A woman is sprinting, if you could call that frantic wobble a sprint, toward the intersection. She's dressed like someone who barely escaped a fashion disaster: oversized coat askew, one boot half-zipped, curls tumbling out of a barely-there bun. Her bag keeps sliding off her shoulder as she waves wildly for the bus that's just now turning the corner.
Nate pauses and watch as the scene unfolds in front of him.
The bus doesn't stop. She stands frozen for a moment, one arm falling limply to her side, her breath visible in the cold air. She mutters something and begins pacing by the curb.
He lets out the smallest laugh under his breath.
"Someone had a night," mumbles Mrs. Duval, his older assistant, passing behind him with a clipboard. Nate hums in agreement but says nothing more. He can't seem to take his eyes off her.
A few minutes later, the door chimes and she steps in.
She looks just as disheveled up close, cheeks flushed from cold and embarrassment, mascara slightly smudged beneath one eye. Her curls fall stubbornly around her face, and she's breathing just a little too hard, like she ran the whole way here on the last thread of her nerves.
"Hi, um…" she begins, voice softer than he expects. "Do you have anything for hangovers? Like something quick? I.... I might be dying."
Nate straightens, amused. "Just a mild hangover, or one that feels like your skull's trying to escape your head?"
She laughs, a little breathless. "Somewhere between those two."
He nods, gestures for her to wait a second, and disappears briefly behind the back shelf. When he returns, he's holding a small combo pack, comprising of electrolytes, ibuprofen, and activated charcoal capsules. Along with it, he sets a bottle of cold water on the counter and a rubber band from the drawer beneath the register.
"You look like your hair's going to start eating your face," he says mildly, pushing the items forward.
The woman stares for a second, surprised by the gesture.
"That's… really kind. Thank you."
"No problem." He leans on the counter, watching her fumble with the bottle cap and tip two pills into her palm. "Rough morning?"
"You have no idea," she mutters, then glances up. "Well… maybe you do."
He doesn't reply to that, just watches as she downs the pills and the water in several grateful gulps. The silence between them is gentle, not awkward. He notes the faint pink of her fingertips, the trembling curve of her mouth. Her energy is frantic, but underneath it, there's something soft and strangely familiar.
She's not just a hungover stranger.
There's a story behind those eyes.
As she tucks her curls away with the rubber band, she finally reaches for her bag then pauses. Her expression shifts from relief to horror.
"Oh, no…" she says, digging through the side pockets, then opening the flap and checking again. "Please don't hate me, I think I left my wallet at my friend's place. I was crashing there last night."
Nate blinks. "You're fine."
"No, really, can I… I'll come back, or send it to your account or...."
He waves her off gently. "It's not a big deal. Just pay me back next time."
She stares at him. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
She gives a sheepish smile. "I promise I'm not scamming you. I'm just… I had a night."
He nods again, lips twitching. "I figured."
With a murmured "thank you," she turns to leave, but stops near the door. Through the glass, he sees her hover by the curb again, arms wrapped tightly around herself, bouncing slightly on her heels. She looks… hesitant.
He watches for a few seconds. Then, something, whether it was just instinct or curiosity or even just a sheer impulse nudges him forward.
Nate steps out into the cold with his hands in the pockets of his coat, as he closes the distance between the shop and the intersection.
"Hey!" he calls.
She spins around, startled.
He walks toward her, pulling out his wallet.
"You mentioned your friend's place was far," he says. "Here." He hands her two folded bills. "Enough to get you to work, and maybe breakfast if you need it."
Her brows lift. "You're… really generous for someone who doesn't know me."
"I'm not that generous," he replies with a small shrug. "Just don't like watching people freeze to death on a Monday morning."
She stares at the bills for a beat, then looks up at him. "Okay, but now I really owe you."
"Yeah. I'll start charging interest soon."
She laughs. "Can I have your number? You know, in case I actually don't find my wallet, and I disappear into the void like a con artist."
He hesitates, then nods, reciting the digits slowly.
She pulls her phone from her coat, thumbs fumbling over the screen just as the bus turns the corner behind her.
"I've got it, thanks!" she says breathlessly, eyes still on the phone. "I'll text you as soon as I get to work..."
But the bus pulls up, air brakes hissing, and she rushes on before she finishes typing.
Nate stands there for a moment, watching the bus doors close behind her, the number he just gave her hanging in the air between them like a secret only one of them caught properly.
He lets out a slow breath, the snow around his boots whispering beneath his weight.
Inside the store, Mrs. Duval peeks out the window, raising an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?"
Nate shakes his head. "Nope."
Then, softer, almost to himself:
"Not yet."