Chapter 1: A Shared Birthday
The rooftop garden always smelled like wet earth and rosemary after sunset. Azry leaned against the cold wrought-iron railing, his knuckles white where they gripped the metal. Below him, the city was a sprawl of sodium-orange lights and moving dots of traffic, the usual hum muted to a vague whisper up here. He could still feel the phantom press of his wedding band, a tight, persistent circle against his skin.
“Figured I’d find you hijacking the herbs again.”
He didn’t turn, but a fraction of the day’s tension left his shoulders. Only one person’s footsteps sounded like that here—a quick, confident clip that slowed to a shuffle on the gravel path. Dee.
“They’re communal property,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. “The basil was looking peaky. It needed rescue.”
She came to stand beside him, not touching the railing, her arms crossed over her scrubs. He caught her scent—the hospital’s cheap citrus soap undercut by the singular, clean note of her shampoo. She’d taken her ponytail out; her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the faint gleam of the string lights overhead.
“You missed the morbidity and mortality conference. Stevens was looking for you.”
“Let him look.”
A quiet chuckle escaped her. “Wow. Rebellious. You eat a bad tuna sandwich or something?”
“Or something.”
He finally glanced at her. The pale crescent moon lit the elegant line of her profile, the intelligent focus of her hazel eyes as she studied the skyline. Ten-hour shift, and she still looked so present. So alive. He looked away.
“I brought you something,” he said abruptly. He reached into the deep pocket of his white coat and pulled out a small, lopsided cupcake in a pleated paper wrapper. It was vanilla, with a single white candle pushed into its pale frosting. He set it carefully on the broad concrete ledge between them.
Dee stared at it, then at him. “What’s this?”
“It’s February 23rd. My birthday.” The words felt strange in his mouth, unfamiliar and childish.
“You’re kidding.” Her brow furrowed. “You never said. All these years working together, you never said a word.”
He shrugged, fishing a lighter from his pocket. The flame sputtered to life with a sharp click, and he touched it to the wick. A tiny, steady glow bloomed between them, painting their faces in warm, dancing light. “Never really saw the point. It was just another day. My parents… they weren’t big on celebrations. And Sarah… she thinks birthdays are for kids.” He heard the flatness in his own voice. “But you remembered my admission date for the residency program last year. You brought me that terrible coffee from the kiosk downstairs.”
“It was terrible,” she smiled softly. “You drank it anyway.”
“I did.”
The silence that fell wasn’t empty. It was full of the rustle of sage in the breeze, the distant whine of an ambulance siren three blocks over, the soft, almost imperceptible sound of her breathing. He watched the candle flame reflected twice in the dark pools of her pupils.
“So this is a birthday cupcake,” she said, her voice low.
“The cafeteria was closing. It was the last one.”
“It’s perfect.” She didn’t touch it. “Make a wish, Azry.”
He looked at her. Really looked. At the faint smile lines at the corners of her eyes, earned from genuine laughter, not stress. At the way a strand of hair clung to her cheek, stirred by the night air. He didn’t look away when her eyes met his, and he saw her breath catch, just slightly.
He leaned forward and blew out the candle.
Smoke curled up in a thin, grey wisp, carrying the scent of burnt wax into the jasmine-scented air.
“What did you wish for?” she whispered. The space between them on the ledge felt charged, a geographic fact he was intensely aware of.
“Can’t tell you.” His own voice was a whisper now too. “Or it won’t come true.”
A stronger gust of wind came across the rooftop, making the string lights sway and the herbs shiver. Dee wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to offer her his coat. He didn’t move.
“You’ve never celebrated? Not even once?”
“Not like this. Not with just… one person. Just talking.” He picked at the edge of the cupcake wrapper. “It’s nicer.”
“We should split it.” She reached for it at the same moment he did. Their fingers brushed. A static spark jumped, and they both flinched back, laughing—a short, nervous sound that hung in the air.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“My fault.” She flexed her hand, then decisively picked up the cupcake. She broke it cleanly in two, the frosting smushing between her fingers. She handed him the slightly larger half. “Happy birthday, Azry.”
He took it. Their fingers didn’t touch this time. He took a bite. It was dry, too sweet, probably baked yesterday. It was the best thing he’d tasted in years.
“Thank you, Dee.”
She ate her piece, looking out over the city, licking a spot of frosting from her thumb. The simple, unconscious act made his stomach tighten. He forced himself to stare straight ahead.
“Sarah’s at her mother’s for the week,” he said, the statement dropping into the quiet like a stone. He didn’t know why he said it. It wasn’t an invitation. It was just a fact, a piece of the emptiness waiting for him in his apartment.
Dee was still for a long moment. “Must be quiet.”
“It is.”
“Do you like the quiet?”
He thought about it. The quiet in his home was a heavy, suffocating thing. The quiet up here with her was different. It felt like possibility. “I’m not sure anymore.”
She turned to face him fully then, leaning her hip against the ledge. The flickering lights painted gold streaks in her dark hair. “You’re a good man, Azry. One of the best doctors I know. You deserve a birthday. You deserve…” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly, as if stopping herself.
“I deserve what?” The question was out before he could stop it, raw and too direct.
She held his gaze, her expression softening into something perilously close to pity. He hated pity. But this didn’t feel like that. It felt like recognition. “You deserve to have someone ask you what you want. And mean it.”
The air vanished from his lungs. The city below seemed to recede, the sounds fading to nothing. There was only the garden, the moon, and the devastatingly beautiful woman in front of him who saw the cracks in his facade and didn’t look away.
He took a half-step toward her. An inch. A breach of every protocol he’d set for himself. He saw her eyes widen, but she didn’t retreat. Her lips parted, just slightly.
His pager went off.
The sharp, insistent beep-beep-beep was a violent slash through the moment. They both jerked back as if scalded. Azry fumbled for the device on his belt, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at the screen, the numbers and letters swimming before his eyes.
“Code Blue, ICU,” he said, his professional voice slamming back into place like a shield. “It’s my patient.”
Dee nodded, already pushing off the ledge, her clinician’s mask falling seamlessly into place. “Go. I’ll close up here.”
He was already moving, his legs carrying him automatically toward the stairwell door. But he stopped, hand on the cold metal handle. He looked back at her, standing alone by the ledge, the two halves of the cupcake wrapper glowing white in the dim light.
“Dee.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay. For a minute. Just… stay.”
He didn’t wait for her answer. He yanked the door open and plunged into the bright, sterile fluorescence of the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, the taste of vanilla and regret sharp on his tongue.