Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas

Burst pipes. One bed. Feelings I did not sign up for. And a vet with very large… hands. Merry Christmas to me.

I probably should’ve asked more questions before accepting a temporary Christmas nursing contract to “get my life back on track.” Like: Is the local vet my unresolved romantic trauma in human form? Spoiler: he is.
He’s also my former video-chat almost-boyfriend—the one I ghosted seven years ago, right after finishing chemo, when my body felt borrowed and my heart felt like an organ I hadn’t relearned how to use yet.
And now we’re sharing a honeymoon suite. (Me, him, my Emotional Support Pickle, and the vibrator named after him. Do not ask.)
Dr. Adam Large Hands, Larger Heart, Largest…Brain Harrison has my Great Dane swooning, my dachshund wearing a Santa hat, and me… laughing. Unclenching. Melting.
I should remember: it’s safer to freeze than to fall. (Shoutout to Dr. Jerk du Soleil, my ex, for turning me into Ice Queen Foster, ruler of emotional Antarctica.)
Adam’s leaving tomorrow. I’m leaving after Christmas.
One night won’t turn me into a messy puddle of emotions.
…Right?
It’s temporary. Unless it isn’t.