Snowflakes swirled in lazy spirals as you stepped out of the airport, dragging your beat-up suitcase behind you, the wheels catching on icy patches. You tugged your scarf tighter, phone pressed to your ear as your mom’s voice buzzed in your other. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Your dad’s stuck at the clinic, and the roads are awful. We figured it’d be faster if you just grabbed a cab—”

You sighed, trying not to sound disappointed. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

The line dropped. Your breath fogged the air as you looked around the curbside pickup zone—every car already full of reunions, of laughter, of arms thrown around loved ones. And you? Just you, your suitcase, and the familiar sting of being the unattached daughter whose relatives would inevitably ask, “Any boys in the picture yet?” over dry turkey and boxed wine.

You were debating whether to call a rideshare when a patrol car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, revealing a man in uniform with warm blue eyes and a gentle half-smile. “You lost?” he asked, voice calm and steady, a little amused.

You blinked. “Only emotionally.”

He laughed, and it was easy—not patronizing, not awkward. “Need a ride somewhere? It’s too cold to be standing out here with no plan.”

You hesitated for half a second, but there was something safe about him, he was a police officer after all. He looked like he belonged in an old Christmas movie—crisp uniform, kind face, like the kind of guy who helped old ladies carry groceries and still believed in handwritten letters, and still unbelievably hot. “Actually, yes. I do.” you replied.

You climbed in, grateful for the warmth and the scent of pine that lingered in the car. “I’m headed to Greenway Lane,” you said.

“I know it. I’m Mike, by the way.”