Page 58 of Doctor One Night

I’m standing on the balcony, the warm evening air brushing against my skin as I look out over the city. From the 20th floor, Birmingham sprawls out beneath me, a mix of twinkling lights and the quiet hum of the night. I never get tired of the view. There’s something about seeing the city from up here that helps me clear my head, especially after a long day.

The grill beside me sizzles softly, the steaks nearly done, their smoky aroma mixing with the distinct scent of the city air.

I’m lost in thought when I hear the soft buzz from the intercom inside. It’s Frankie. She texted me a little while ago, and on a whim, I invited her over for dinner. I had two steaks already on the grill and figured, why not? But now, with her about to walk through the door, I am suddenly and surprisingly nervous.

I push the anxiety aside, wiping my hands on a towel before heading inside to the door. The condo is dimly lit, the only genuine light coming from the kitchen and the few candles I’ve set out, their warm glow reflecting off the clean, minimalist surfaces.

Whatever this is with Frankie is anything but my normal preference of orderly and organized, like I keep my place. But I'm still drawn to her.

When I open the door, Frankie is standing there, looking as effortlessly beautiful as ever. Her auburn hair catches the low light, and she smiles warmly, but I sense she is a little uncertain about things, too. There’s also something else—a natural ease between us that’s hard to ignore, even with everything that’s happened.

“Hey,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. “Come on in to my humble abode.”

“Hello to you,” she replies, stepping through the door and looking around. “This place is… wow. This view is insane, Hunter.”

I close the door behind her, a slight awkwardness lingering between us as she takes in the space. “Thanks. The space is small but I bought it for the view.”

She glances around, her eyes tracing the sleek lines of the furniture, the carefully chosen artwork on the walls. “It’s really nice. Very you.”

I chuckle, leading her further inside. “What, you mean controlling and type-A?”

She laughs softly, a sound that eases the last bit of tension in the air. “Something like that.”

We walk through the living area, and I give her a quick tour. The space is efficient—everything has its place, from the state-of-the-art kitchen with its quartz countertops to the plush leather couch that faces the fireplace and a massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A few abstract paintings bring some color, but overall, the space maintains a muted ambiance with cool tones and clean lines.

“Very nice. So different from my pre-World War II house with its creaky floors and old windows.”

“I like your place,” I say genuinely. She's right, it is different, but it is inviting and warm. It feels like home.

“And this is the gym,” I say, opening the door. This is my pride and joy of my house and I’m sure she can see by how well-appointed it is.

Frankie steps inside, and I can see her eyes widen as she takes in the view. The gym is small but fully equipped—weights, a treadmill, a stationary bike, and a few other essentials. But the real showstopper is the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city, the skyline stretching out before us like something out of a movie.

“Wow,” she breathes, walking over to the windows. “This is incredible. I can see why the view sold you.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” I say, watching her as she looks out at the city. “Helps keep me motivated to work out when I’ve got a view like this.”

She turns back to me, her expression softening. “You’ve got a really great place, Hunter.”

“Thanks,” I reply, as a little of that nervousness eases away. “It’s home.”

We stand there for a moment, the city lights twinkling outside as the last bit of awkwardness dissipates. I can see the candlelight flickering in the living room, the low lighting casting everything in a warm, inviting glow. It feels ordinary, somehow, to have her here, in this space that’s usually just mine.

“Shit,” I say, breaking the silence. “I need to get the steaks off.”

As I turn off the gas and close the grill I nod toward the kitchen letting her know I’m done. “I roasted a couple of potatoes and some asparagus. Nothing like a good 'ol hearty meat and two sides, huh?”

“My mouth is watering just thinking about it. Thank you for having me over.”

She follows walks toward the balcony, and I notice how we’ve slipped back into that easy company we’ve always kept, even with everything that’s happened. I walk inside with my masterpieces, adding the rest to the plate and setting them down on the kitchen island.

“Red or white?”

“Honestly, I love them both. Chef's suggestion.”

“Red, it is.” I uncork the wine and pour each of us a glass.

We sit down to eat, and as we start talking—about the trial, about the day, about anything and everything. It’s only a few minutes before I realize how much this is lacking in my life. Not just the conversation but the connection. The ease.

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