And Luna was gone.
By the time I talked to her on the phone, her walls had gone up. Had I wanted to plead with her to stay? To wait for me? Damn straight. But I’d also remembered how badly she’d wanted to make her own choices.
It wasn’t my place to come in and complicate things further.
No matter how badly I’d wanted to.
So I didn’t chase her. Didn’t make any big declarations or grand gestures.
And so, here I sat, six weeks and two days later, alone.
Fuck Las Vegas.
I reached for my laptop and opened my email.
The top message was a reminder from hospital admin—something about new documentation requirements for ER intakes, effective immediately. No context, just a PDF attachment and a bunch of acronyms I didn’t care enough to decipher.
The next was a follow-up about trauma room staffing, sent by someone who hadn’t stepped inside Trauma 3 since before the pandemic.
And then…more of the same.
I let out a breath and clicked out of the tab and over to YouTube.
And clicked on her channel.
It had a new name: Cooking with Color. Simple and earthy. Luna. A banner that looked like driftwood with her name in block letters, a grainy photo of teenage Luna and her grandmother, kneading dough together.
There was a new upload.
Welcome to the Cottage.
I clicked mute on the TV before playing it. Because…
Just because.
“I wasn’t going to post anything yet,” she said, laughing as the camera bumped slightly. It wasn’t polished—just Luna holding her phone, walking backward through a cozy living room with light floors and a row of windows framing the beach behind her.
Her coffee-colored curls were a little messy, like she’d just pushed them out of her face, and her eyes—God, her eyes—still had that spark. Like she knew something you didn’t. Like you’d be lucky if she let you in on it.
She looked good. Really good.
And yeah, maybe part of me was a little jealous—how did she manage to look so damn alive while I was up here trying not to drown in red tape and my own indecision?
But mostly, I was just glad to see her.
Even like this, on a screen, it was like getting a hit of something warm—a transfusion. God, I missed her.
She moved into the kitchen, and my heart squeezed.
A part of me had half-expected to forget her. We had, after all, made that ridiculous agreement to limit our relationship to a fling.
It didn’t feel like a fling then, and it still didn’t, now that it was over.
“New floors, updated appliances, some paint in the kitchen. And this massive island. I am so excited to get cooking in here!”
She opened a sky-blue cabinet door with delicate little flowers painted around the handle. “Soft-close. I feel so adult,” she joked. “Anyway, for those of you who are new here—hi, welcome. You might know me from Instagram or TikTok. If you’re one of those people who followed me after that video, thanks for coming.”
I smiled.
