The Two

The Two

Sarah was exhausted—deeply, bone-heavy exhausted—after another brutal day at the hospital. Being a nurse meant long hours, but recently the shifts had blended into each other until she couldn’t remember when she’d last slept properly. Today was worse than usual: a staff shortage had forced her to stay after a full night shift, adding hours she didn’t have the strength for. By the time she reached the door of her small one-bedroom apartment, she was moving on autopilot, guided only by muscle memory and the faint promise of rest.

As she stepped inside, the silence hit her like a soft wave. She dropped her keys onto the counter and headed straight for the kitchen—her ritual after surviving long hours. Maybe there was something to snack on. Something easy. Something that didn’t require thought.

But when she opened the fridge, a lonely, wrinkled apple stared back at her. Rotten.

She stared at it for a beat before muttering a curse under her breath. Grocery shopping—she had completely forgotten. She closed the fridge and moved to the coffee machine, flicking it on with a tired flick of her finger. If she couldn’t eat right away, caffeine would at least keep her brain functioning long enough to order food.

The smell of espresso filled the kitchen, warm and familiar. It grounded her. She took the first sip, feeling the slight bitterness on her tongue, letting it wake the parts of her still half-asleep.

With her other hand, she pulled out her phone and opened her usual food delivery app. But the endless list of restaurants made her eyes blur. Scrolling felt like work. Choosing felt like pressure she didn’t need. She sighed, realizing she’d spend half an hour deciding—time she could use sleeping.

No. Easier solution: the nearby supermarket. She’d grab two ready-made sandwiches—one for tonight, one for breakfast—and go straight to bed. Proper grocery shopping could happen after her half-shift tomorrow.

She threw on comfy sneakers, grabbed her sling tote bag, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and shrugged into a blazer. She didn’t bother checking the mirror. She knew she looked tired. She felt it in her bones.

When she turned on her car engine, she noticed the fuel gauge—practically empty. “Of course,” she sighed. She’d fill the tank on the way back.

Sarah parked at the supermarket, pulled her tote bag from the passenger seat, and headed inside. Habit made her grab a trolley, even though she didn’t need one. She immediately shrugged. Whatever. It didn’t matter.

She went straight to the ready-made food section. She was reaching for a sandwich when she heard a man’s voice nearby.

“Buddy, don’t run from me. Your mum said bring you back by seven. Bedtime’s at seven, remember?”

She turned her head. A man in a white shirt and black track pants was crouched down, talking to a small boy wearing a bright red Spider-Man costume. The man had one hand gently resting on the boy’s curly hair.

He looked up—and their eyes met.

“He’s a mighty little spider man,” Sarah said softly with a smile.

The man held her gaze for a second. He didn’t speak, but a faint, polite smile touched his lips.

Sarah nodded and pushed her trolley away, feeling strangely aware of him.

She tried focusing on yogurt next. Jane from work had eaten a granola-blueberry yogurt today and Sarah had been craving the same ever since. She reached to the back of the shelf—her grandmother had drilled that habit into her: “freshest at the back”.

She was checking dates when she heard a familiar child’s voice behind her.

“Adam, I want chocolate pudding. Look! It’s here!”

“Sure, Sammy,” came the deeper reply.

Adam.

Sarah quickly took the yogurt and escaped toward the cheese section, pretending to care deeply about parmesan. But then she heard them again in the cold cuts aisle, and—she didn’t know why—she drifted there too.

“Sammy, I need smoked salmon,” Adam said.

“Ewww,” the boy declared. “Did someone smoke it in a pipe?”

Sarah bit back a laugh and grabbed the nearest mortadella pack. She walked away before she accidentally smiled at Adam again. This was ridiculous.

But something made her drift toward the aisle with sanitary pads—just to see if he would appear again. She felt a little foolish. A little curious. A little… something.

And then—

“Sam, I need to buy some tissue boxes—hurry after me.”

There he was. Again. Standing in front of her. Staring at her with slightly narrowed, confused eyes—as though he too had noticed the strange coincidences.

“Um… excuse me,” he said. “Do you know where the tissue boxes are?”

Sarah’s breath hitched. His eyes—swamp-colored, warm, surprisingly gentle—were more striking up close.

“It’s the next aisle,” she said, looking away quickly.

“I’m Adam,” he said after a beat. “And this is my nephew, Sam. My sister needed help today, so it’s uncle duty for me.”

“I’m Sarah,” she replied. “It’s nice of you to help out.”

“Nice to meet you, Sarah,” Adam said, right before Sammy tugged aggressively at his sleeve.

“Adam, pleeease buy ice lolly. Don’t tell Mom!”

Adam crouched down to talk to him, and Sarah used the moment to politely escape. She went to pay, feeling her cheeks warm.

“What am I doing?” she muttered, smiling despite herself. “Flirting with Uncle Adam in a supermarket?”

She loaded her groceries into her sling bag and headed to her car, tossing the items onto the back seat instead of the trunk.

When she started her car, she noticed movement to her right. Adam was unloading groceries into a white SUV while stealing glances at her. He lifted a hand to wave. She waved back. Sammy wagged his legs happily from the baby seat of the trolley.

She drove away with an involuntary smile tugging at her lips.

At home, she shoved groceries into the fridge, ate her sandwich, showered, and collapsed into bed by seven. The time made her smile—Sammy’s bedtime. Her mind drifted replaying the strange, warm coincidence of meeting Adam.

She fell asleep easily.

The next morning, sunlight filtered past her curtains, soft and gold. Sarah stretched, feeling more rested than she had in days. Before she could sit up fully, her phone buzzed with dozens of messages—overnight accident, new trauma cases, staff scrambling.

“Perfect,” she muttered.

After getting ready, she grabbed the yogurt she’d bought last night and headed out the door—only to sit in her car and be struck by panic.

The fuel light was blinking red.

“Oh god.” She had forgotten.

But she tried anyway. She pulled onto the highway, hoping to make it to the nearest gas station, when her car sputtered. Then jerked. Then slowed.

“Not now,” she begged.

She pulled over just as the engine gave up. She turned on the hazard lights and called Michael—the one friend who always helped.

But he texted instead. In a meeting. Will call later.

Great.

She began Googling roadside assistance numbers, rubbing her forehead when she heard the distant wail of sirens.

“Oh thank God,” she whispered. Help.

The police car pulled up behind hers. A door opened. Footsteps approached.

She rolled down her window.

And froze.

There he was—Adam.

In full uniform.

Looking both surprised and amused.

“What a coincidence, Sarah,” he said, his voice warm with recognition.

“It definitely is,” she managed, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

He glanced at her dashboard. “Ran out of gas?”

She laughed softly. “Yeah… I kind of forgot.”

“It happens,” he said. “I’ll call for roadside assistance. Don’t worry.”

He stepped away to radio in, and Sarah took a deep breath. Why did seeing him make her feel strangely relieved?

Minutes later, he returned.

“Help’s on the way,” he said. “I’ll stay with you until they come.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem. Nurses deserve a break from the universe once in a while.”

She laughed.

They talked lightly—jobs, early mornings, bad luck—until the tow truck arrived. As the driver filled her tank with emergency fuel, Adam pulled out a card.

“I’d really like to see you again,” he said simply. “Coffee? After a shift?”

Her heartbeat quickened.

She took the card. “I’d like that.”

“Drive safe, Nurse Sarah.”

“I will.”

The hospital was chaos when she arrived—stretchers everywhere, alarms beeping, nurses running.

“Where have you been?” Jane shouted.

“Car. No fuel. Police helped,” Sarah said, catching her breath.

Jane groaned sympathetically. “Of course.”

By 1 p.m., Sarah was overwhelmed. She hid in the bathroom for a moment’s peace, saw missed calls from Michael, replied quickly, then touched the pocket where Adam’s card was.

She added his number and texted:

*Hi Adam, it’s Sarah. I finish around 7—hopefully :) *

Moments later, Jane called again: back to trauma. No rest.

At 6:30, her phone rang—Adam.

“Hello, officer,” she answered.

“Hello, nurse,” he replied. “Can you make it at 7?”

“I think yes. Barely.”

He chuckled. “Food or coffee?”

“Food. Heavy greasy food.”

“Perfect. I’ll send you the location.”

After her shift, she drove to the diner Adam recommended. He greeted her outside, offering his arm. She took it, surprising herself.

Inside, the owner—Bill—teased Adam, and the easy familiarity made Sarah smile.

When Adam jokingly rubbed his forehead from nerves, Sarah asked, “Does your head hurt?”

“No. Just… stunned I’m sitting with a beautiful girl.”

Her cheeks warmed. She hid behind the menu.

They ordered burgers, fries, milkshakes. They talked, laughed, relaxed into each other as though they’d known each other far longer than 24 hours.

After dinner, Adam walked her to her car.

“Did I… mess anything up?” he asked nervously.

Instead of answering, she rose on her toes and kissed him—softly, gently. He smelled of coffee, sandalwood, and a faint trace of cigarettes. His arms wrapped around her, warm and reassuring.

“I should go,” she whispered.

“That’s sad,” he murmured.

They reluctantly let go.

“Goodnight, Adam.”

“Goodnight, Sarah.”

That night, Sarah lay in bed smiling into the dark. For the first time in years, she felt hope—real, quiet hope. Something new was beginning, naturally and without force. And she wasn’t afraid.

Adam unlocked the door of his studio apartment, the small space that had once belonged to his grandmother. He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, the ghost of a smile softening his features.

Sarah.

She had looked at him in a way no one had in a long time. Seen him—not just the uniform, not just the man trying to be composed, but him.

The warmth stayed with him… until the quiet invited memories he hated. The schoolyard. The bullying. The names. The photo.

It always returned at night.

And tonight, just as the ache crept in, he whispered her name once more—like a soft shield.

Sarah.

And for the first time in years, the ache eased.