Version 1.16.0

  Crossing Lines

  Sunday, December 4th - Saturday, December 17th

  The first real snow came on December 4th.

  I woke up to a world transformed. Everything soft and white and sparkling. For a moment, lying in bed watching the flakes drift past my window, I felt like I was inside a snow globe. Like someone had picked up my life, shaken it, and set it back down somewhere gentler.

  My phone buzzed.

  Scott: Look outside. It's doing the thing.

  Me: The thing?

  Scott: The snowy thing. The magical winter wonderland thing. I'm told this is romantic.

  Me: It's 7am on a Sunday.

  Scott: Perfect time for romance. Want to get breakfast? There's a diner near me that does pancakes the size of your head.

  I should have said no. I should have been responsible, stayed home, continued the job search that had become increasingly depressing. But the snow was falling and Scott was offering head-sized pancakes, and sometimes you just have to say yes to things.

  Me: Give me 30 minutes.

  * * *

  The diner was called "Dot's," and it looked like it hadn't been updated since 1972. Red vinyl booths, formica tables, a jukebox in the corner playing oldies at a volume that suggested the owner was slightly deaf. It was perfect.

  "How did you find this place?" I asked, sliding into a booth across from Scott.

  "I told you. I explore." He was already studying the menu with intense focus. "The pancakes are called 'Dot's Big Stack' and they come with a warning that they're 'not responsible for food comas.' I feel like that's a challenge."

  "Everything is a challenge to you."

  "Life is more interesting that way."

  A waitress appeared. Middle-aged, tired-looking, with a name tag that read "Barb" and an expression that said she'd seen every type of person walk through those doors and wasn't impressed by any of them.

  "Coffee?"

  "Please," we said in unison.

  She poured without asking how we took it, left two menus, and disappeared.

  "I like her energy," Scott said. "No nonsense. Just coffee."

  "The coffee is terrible."

  "The worst." He took a sip and made a face. "Perfect diner coffee."

  We ordered pancakes, the Big Stack, because Scott absolutely needed to prove something, and sat in comfortable silence while the snow continued to fall outside. The diner was nearly empty, just us and an old man at the counter reading a newspaper like it was still 1985.

  "Can I ask you something?" Scott said.

  "That depends on the question."

  "What do you want? Like, big picture. Life goals. The stuff you dream about when you're not worried about jobs and family and all the day-to-day chaos."

  I blinked. It wasn't the question I'd expected. "That's... a lot for breakfast."

  "Pancakes create a space for deep thoughts. It's science."

  I laughed despite myself. "I don't know. I used to think I knew. Good career. Nice apartment. Maybe travel, someday. But now..." I trailed off, thinking about the code. About the powers I'd never asked for. About the person I was becoming, whatever that meant. "I'm not sure anymore. The old goals don't fit."

  "What does fit?"

  "I don't know yet. That's the problem."

  Scott nodded like this was a perfectly reasonable answer. "I get that. After my dad died, all my plans felt... wrong. Like they belonged to a different version of me. It took a while to figure out what the new version wanted."

  "What does the new version want?"

  He was quiet for a moment. "Connection, I think. The old me was very focused on achievement. Proving myself. Being the best at my job." He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. "The new me cares more about people. About being present. About not wasting time on things that don't matter."

  "That sounds healthy."

  "It took a lot of therapy to get here." He smiled, but there was something serious underneath. "What I'm saying is, it's okay not to know. The figuring out part is important."

  The pancakes arrived. They were, in fact, enormous. Scott's expression of delighted horror was worth the early wake-up.

  "This is obscene," he said.

  "You challenged Dot's. Dot's responded."

  "I'm going to die. This is how I die. Drowning in pancake."

  "At least it's a delicious death."

  We ate until we couldn't move, then sat in the booth and groaned at each other while the snow piled up outside.

  "Best breakfast ever," Scott declared.

  "You say that about everything."

  "Everything with you is the best version. That's just facts."

  Something warm bloomed in my chest. I looked at him across the table, this ridiculous man who'd spilled coffee on me and then kept showing up, kept being present, kept making me feel like maybe things could be okay.

  "Scott," I said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Nothing. Just... Scott."

  He smiled like he understood exactly what I meant.

  * * *

  December 8th

  I got a job interview.

  Not at a design firm. That industry still felt too close to Holloway, too contaminated by everything that had happened. This was for a small marketing agency that specialized in nonprofit clients. The pay was less than I was used to, and the work would be different from what I'd done before, but something about the description had caught my attention.

  Looking for a creative professional who wants their work to matter. We help organizations tell their stories and connect with the people who need them.

  I'd applied on a whim, expecting nothing. But here I was, scheduling an interview for December 15th.

  Me: I have a job interview.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Scott: !!! That's amazing! Tell me everything.

  Me: Marketing agency. Nonprofit focus. It's small but the work sounds meaningful.

  Scott: That sounds perfect for you.

  Me: It's a step down from where I was.

  Scott: It's a step toward something new. That's not the same as down.

  I stared at the text for a long moment. He was right, of course. But there was a part of me, the part that had always measured worth in promotions and salary increases, that whispered it was a failure. That I should be aiming higher. That settling for less meant admitting defeat.

  The voice sounded a lot like my mother.

  Me: Thank you. For saying that.

  Scott: I mean it. You're going to crush this interview. They'd be lucky to have you.

  * * *

  December 10th

  We went Christmas shopping together. This was, perhaps, a relationship milestone I wasn't prepared for.

  "Okay," Scott said, as we stood at the entrance to the mall. "I need to get something for my mom, my sister, my sister's husband, their two kids, and possibly their dog."

  "The dog gets a present?"

  "Biscuit is family. She would be offended if I didn't include her."

  "What kind of dog?"

  "Golden retriever. Very spoiled. Very judgy." He pulled out his phone. "I have a list. My sister sent suggestions, which means she sent a detailed ranking system of acceptable gifts sorted by price point and 'thoughtfulness score.'"

  "Thoughtfulness score?"

  "She's an engineer. She quantifies everything." He showed me the spreadsheet. It was color-coded. "Green means 'will definitely like.' Yellow means 'acceptable.' Red means 'do not under any circumstances.'"

  "What's in red?"

  "Candles. Apparently I gave her a candle three years in a row and she 'can't take it anymore.'" He said it with air quotes. "I thought she liked candles."

  "Nobody likes getting the same gift three times."

  "Noted for the future."

  We wandered through the mall, which was packed with the kind of frantic holiday energy that made me want to run screaming in the opposite direction. But Scott was good at navigating crowds. Calm, unhurried, somehow finding paths through the chaos that I never would have seen.

  "What about you?" he asked, as we paused outside a bookstore. "Who's on your list?"

  I thought about it. The list was short. Painfully short. "Kate. If she's speaking to me by Christmas. My mom, I guess, though I don't know why I bother. And... you."

  He blinked. "Me?"

  "Is that weird? We've been dating for like six weeks. Is it too soon for Christmas gifts?"

  "No, it's not weird. I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost flustered. "I already got you something. I was worried it was too much."

  "You already got me something?"

  "Weeks ago. I saw it and thought of you and just... bought it. Impulse purchase." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "It might be weird. You can tell me if it's weird."

  "Now I'm curious."

  "You'll find out on Christmas."

  "Scott."

  "Nope. You have to wait." He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bookstore. "Come on. Help me find something that isn't a candle."

  * * *

  We spent three hours in the mall. Scott found gifts for everyone on his list: a cookbook for his mom, a puzzle set for his niece and nephew, a very nice bottle of bourbon for his brother-in-law, and a squeaky toy shaped like a taco for Biscuit the dog. His sister got a hardcover collection of essays about women in engineering, which he'd found after I suggested checking the "science writing" section.

  "You're good at this," he said, as we loaded bags into his car.

  "At shopping?"

  "At paying attention. You remembered my niece and nephew's hobbies. That was one comment, weeks ago."

  "I remember things." I shrugged. "Details. It's a designer thing."

  "It's a you thing."

  He was looking at me with that expression again. The one that made my chest tight and my thoughts scatter. We were standing in a parking garage, surrounded by concrete and exhaust fumes, and somehow it felt like a moment.

  "Scott..."

  "Sam, I really want to kiss you right now."

  The words hung in the air. My heart was pounding.

  "Then why don't you?"

  He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the way his breath made small clouds in the cold air. His hand came up to cup my face, gentle, questioning.

  "Is this okay?"

  "Yes."

  He kissed me.

  It was soft at first. Tentative. Like he was asking permission with every point of contact. Then I pulled him closer, and the kiss deepened, and the parking garage disappeared and there was nothing but warmth and want and the feeling of finally, finally, finally.

  Something shifted. I felt it before I understood it; a surge of heat that started in my chest and radiated outward. The code flickered at the edges of my vision, responding to the emotion I couldn't contain. I tried to push it down, but I was too distracted, too caught up in the moment to focus properly.

  When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

  "Wow," Scott said.

  "Yeah."

  "Is it just me, or did it get really warm in here?"

  I blinked. He was right. The parking garage had been cold when we walked in. December cold, the kind that made your breath visible. But now the air around us felt almost balmy. Like someone had cranked up an invisible heater.

  "Must be all the cars," I said quickly. "Engine heat. You know."

  Scott looked around, frowning slightly. There were maybe four other cars on this level, none of them running.

  "I guess." He didn't sound convinced, but he also didn't push. "Weird."

  "Very weird." I grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the car. "We should go before it gets cold again."

  The temperature was already dropping as we walked away. I could feel it returning to normal, the code settling back into its usual patterns now that my heart rate was stabilizing. I'd done that. I'd accidentally turned a parking garage into a sauna because a cute boy kissed me.

  Great. Just great. Add "emotionally triggered climate control" to my list of abilities I couldn't explain.

  "I've been wanting to do that for weeks," Scott said, once we were in the car.

  "Why didn't you?"

  "I didn't want to rush you. You've been through a lot. I wanted to make sure you were ready."

  Something in my chest cracked open. The kindness of him. The patience. The way he put my comfort ahead of his own wants.

  "I'm ready," I said. "I've been ready."

  He kissed me again. This time, I kept a tighter grip on the code. The last thing I needed was to accidentally melt his dashboard.

  * * *

  December 15th

  The interview went well.

  Really well, actually. The agency was small, just eight people in a converted loft space downtown, but the energy was good. The creative director, a woman named Valerie with silver streaks in her hair and the most impressive earring collection I'd ever seen, had looked at my portfolio with genuine interest.

  "This is beautiful work," she said, flipping through my samples. "Why'd you leave Holloway?"

  I'd prepared for this question. "Creative differences. And some company issues that made it clear it wasn't the right fit anymore."

  "The Harrison thing?"

  "Among others."

  She nodded like this was a perfectly acceptable answer. "Well, we're not Holloway. We're tiny, we're scrappy, and we care more about impact than profit margins. The pay isn't great, but the work matters. Does that interest you?"

  "More than I can say."

  She smiled. "I like you, Sam. Let me talk to the team and we'll be in touch by the end of the week."

  I walked out of that interview feeling lighter than I had in months.

  * * *

  Scott: How did it go??

  Me: Really well, I think. They said they'd let me know by Friday.

  Scott: That's amazing! We should celebrate.

  Me: It's not official yet.

  Scott: We're celebrating the interview going well. We can celebrate again when you get the job.

  Me: When?

  Scott: When. I have faith.

  * * *

  December 17th

  The email came on Saturday morning.

  Dear Samantha,

  We were impressed by your portfolio and our conversation. After discussing with the team, we'd like to offer you the position of Senior Designer at Compass Creative. Please see the attached offer letter for details on compensation and benefits.

  We hope you'll join our team. Let us know by December 23rd.

  Best, Valerie Chen Creative Director

  I read it three times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

  Then I called Scott.

  "I got the job."

  "SAM!" His excitement was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "I knew it! I knew you would! This is incredible!"

  "The salary is lower than Holloway."

  "Who cares? You said the work matters. That's worth more than money."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes." His voice softened. "Sam, you've been miserable about the job search for weeks. And now you have something that actually excites you. That's not nothing."

  He was right. The thought of going back to Holloway-style corporate work had felt like putting on a costume that didn't fit anymore. This was different. This was new.

  "We need to celebrate properly," Scott said. "Dinner tonight? I'll cook."

  "You cook?"

  "I have hidden depths."

  "I'll bring wine."

  "Bring yourself. That's all I need."

  I hung up and sat with the email for a long moment. A new job. A new direction. A boyfriend who made me feel like things were possible.

  Maybe the universe was finally cutting me a break.

  * * *

  That night, Scott made pasta, simple but perfectly executed. We ate at his small kitchen table with candles and wine and Eduardo watching from his shelf.

  "To new beginnings," Scott said, raising his glass.

  "To new beginnings."

  We clinked glasses. The wine was good. The pasta was good. Everything felt good.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "For what?"

  "For believing in me. When I wasn't sure I believed in myself." I set down my glass. "These past few weeks... you've made everything feel less impossible."

  "Sam." He reached across the table and took my hand. "You did this. The interview, the job, all of it. I just showed up."

  "You showed up. That's not nothing."

  We looked at each other across the candlelight. The moment felt significant. Heavy with things unsaid.

  "There's something I should tell you," I said, before I could lose my nerve. "About why things fell apart with Kate. About what I actually did."

  "You don't have to..."

  "I want to. I want you to know." I took a breath. "After Christmas, okay? I want to get through the holidays first. But then I want to tell you everything."

  "Everything?"

  "Everything."

  He studied my face for a moment. "Okay. After Christmas. I'll be here."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  He kissed me then, soft and sweet, and I let myself believe that maybe telling him wouldn't ruin everything. That maybe he would understand.

  Maybe.

  * * *

  December 17th

  I got the job. I'm going to tell Scott the truth.

  Both of those sentences feel equally terrifying.

  He kissed me in a parking garage. He made me pasta. He looks at me like I'm something worth looking at.

  What happens when he finds out what I really am?

  I guess I'll find out after Christmas.

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