o12. dec.

They meet a second time in the midst of another cold winter, when the air is again thick with falling snowflakes, the neighborhood children's laughter, and an icy chill easily diminished by a cup of hot tea.

This time, they do not meet by pure chance, nor by coincidence, but there are some who would still call such a thing "destiny," and it is your choice if you believe it to be.

She is dressed in her doctor's coat under her warm, scarlet coat, the pink of her tresses billowing about her face in the frozen wind. As she climbs the hospital steps, her eyes pull to a man in a dark gray sweater just stepping out from its entrance, and she misses the opportunity to catch a glimpse of his face since it is mostly covered by a thick, navy scarf, but she thinks nothing of it—because in her heart, she knows he is smiling.

Her knee-high boots leave imprints against the snow peppering the staircase while she runs to meet him, and after a half dozen or so steps, she is finally in front of him again, after months of cold teardrops falling onto lifeless hands that could not wipe them away.

And this time, he is watching her, gaze so heavy she cannot find the strength to look away. The girl's cheeks—already rosy from the cold—redden further, but she does not turn away when he opens his arms just wide enough for her small frame to enter them, stepping toward him steadily, surely until the distance between their hearts is shorter than it has ever been in days before. She presses her face to his chest and thinks she hears him let out a shadow-laugh at her silence.

He soon releases her so suddenly she gasps but keeps two firm hands at the bends of her elbows to keep her from falling back. A smirk floods his face at her expression. "So, did you miss me?" he says, almost teasingly.

She exhales a sharp 'ha' and lifts a fist to softly punch his forearm. "Only a little," she tells him, quietly, leaning back into his arms as he chuckles.

"That's my girl."

After a few moments, she looks up at him, tugging at the frays of his scarf so that he lowers his head to her. She glimpses the rosiness of his cheeks, identical to her own, but blinks away the embarrassment long enough to press her mouth to his cheek. "I love you, probably," she whispers.

A syllable that sounds rather like 'tch' escapes his mouth, but he still leans down to catch the corner of her lips.

Then he takes hold of her hand, and a small smile comes alight on her features at the gesture because it feels like a greeting, like the beginning of a new chapter to their growing story, and she can't help but hope that it is.

.

.

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fin.